Fulgrim (43 page)

Then Saul Tarvitz had arrived with an incredible tale of betrayal and imminent attack.

Many had scoffed at Tarvitz’s warning, but Solomon had immediately known the truth of it, and had fought to make his brothers realise their danger. As the monstrous scale of the betrayal sank in, the Sons of Horus, World Eaters and Emperor’s Children had raced to find shelter before the deadly viral payload struck the world intended to be their tomb.

Solomon had watched in horror as the first streaks of light lit up the sky and the detonations covered the skies in thick starbursts of deadly viral agents. The screaming of the city as it died haunted him still, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror that must have filled the minds of those who watched as the Life Eater devoured the flesh of their loved ones, before reducing them to disintegrated hunks of rotted, dead matter. Solomon knew how deadly the Life Eater was, and he knew that within hours the entire planet would be a charnel house.

Then the firestorm had come and razed the surface bare of any signs of its former inhabitants, burning them to ashen flakes on the wind as it destroyed all in its path and howled across the surface of Isstvan III in a seething tide of flame. He shut his eyes as he remembered the underground bunker that had sheltered both himself and Gaius Caphen from the viral attack finally yielding to the molten heat of the firestorm. The roar of the fire had been like that of some ancient dragon of legend come to devour him, and the agony as his armour melted in the heat and seared his flesh was still fresh in his consciousness.

Trapped beneath the rubble, they had called for help, but no one had come, and Solomon had wondered whether they were the only survivors of the Warmaster’s treachery. On the third day, Gaius Caphen had died, his injuries finally claiming him as sunlight filtered into their prison of rubble.

Eventually Solomon had been found by one of the Sons of Horus, a warrior named Nero Vipus; barely breathing, but clinging to life with the tenacity of one who refuses to die until he has had his vengeance.

The first month of the battles that followed the failed viral attack had passed in a blur of agony and nightmares, his life hanging in the balance until Saul Tarvitz had come to him and promised that he would make the traitors pay for their betrayal.

Seeing the fires of ambition finally lit within the young warrior had galvanised Solomon, and his recovery had been nothing short of miraculous. An Apothecary named Vaddon had found time, between treating the wounded, to bring him back from the brink, and as the war ground onwards, Solomon found his strength returning to the point where he was able to fight once more.

Taking the armour of the dead, Solomon had risen, phoenix-like, from what many had considered to be his deathbed, and had fought on with all the ferocity and courage for which he was renowned. Saul Tarvitz had immediately offered to transfer command to him, but he had refused, knowing that the surviving warriors of all the Legions looked to Tarvitz for leadership. To usurp that would be pointless, especially now that their heroic defiance of betrayal was almost at an end.

The massed forces of the Warmaster had driven them back into the heart of the palace, and the Sons of Horus had committed their best warriors to the assault. Solomon knew the end was not far off and had no wish to deprive Tarvitz of the glory of his last stand.

To Solomon’s surprise, Tarvitz had not been the only warrior to excel in the crucible of this desperate combat, but the swordsman Lucius had also performed wonders, taking the head of Chaplain Charmosian in a duel atop the traitor’s Land Raider for all to see.

As gratifying as it was to see these warriors come into their own, it was but a shadow compared to the anguish of Caphen’s death and the revulsion he felt at what had become of their former battle-brothers. How could it have come to this, that warriors who had once stood shoulder to shoulder in forging the Emperor’s realm could be locked in a bloody fight to the death?

What had happened to drive them to this?

It was beyond his understanding, and the aching hollowness inside him could not be filled with the deaths of his enemies. The dream of a galaxy for mankind to inherit was dying with this treachery, and the golden future that awaited them was slipping out of reach forever. Solomon grieved for the future of grim darkness that was being hammered out on the anvil of Isstvan III, and hoped that those who would come after them would forgive them for what they had allowed to happen.

He hoped the future would remember the warriors around him for the heroes they were, but most of all, he hoped that Nathaniel Garro’s
Eisenstein
could escape this trap and take word of the Warmaster’s treachery to the Emperor. Tarvitz had told of his honour brother and how he had seized the frigate and sworn to return with the loyalist Legions to crush Horus utterly.

That hope, that tiny flickering ember of belief in salvation, had kept the warriors defending the shattered ruins of the Precentor’s Palace fighting long after logic and reason would have otherwise dictated. Solomon loved each and every one of them for their heroism.

The distant thump of a bombardment drifted from the western reaches of the city where the scattered remnants of the Death Guard hunkered down in the face of near constant shelling from the traitor forces.

Solomon limped through the eastern reaches of the palace, the once mighty colonnades little more than a series of empty, mosaic floored chambers whose furnishings had long since been dragged out to form ad hoc barricades. The domes of the chambers had miraculously remained intact despite the months of shelling, the blackened walls and scorched frescoes an infinitely sad reminder that this had once been an Imperial world.

When he heard the sounds, they were faint at first, barely registering over the ever present crackle of flames and relentless booms of explosions. The clash of blades quickly penetrated the dull miasma of war, and Solomon picked up his pace as he realised that the eastern approaches to the palace must be under attack.

Solomon ran as fast as his injuries would allow him, the pain of his burnt flesh acute, rendering his every footfall agonising. The sound of battle grew more strident and he could pick out the sharp clang of sword blades, though he dimly registered that there was no gunfire, no explosions.

The sounds came from ahead. Solomon skidded into a brightly lit dome, sunlight catching on the blades of the warriors who battled within. Captain Lucius commanded this sector of the defences with around thirty warriors, and Solomon saw the lithe figure of the swordsman at the centre of a tremendous battle.

Bodies littered the floor and a struggling mass of Emperor’s Children filled the dome, surrounding Lucius as he fought for his life.

‘Lucius!’ cried Solomon raising his weapon and rushing to the swordsman’s aid.

A flash of steel licked out and a warrior fell, cloven from neck to groin by the energised edge of Lucius’s blade.

‘They’re breaking in, Solomon!’ shouted Lucius gleefully, taking the head from another of his attackers with a deadly high cut.

‘Not while I have my strength they won’t!’ bellowed Solomon, swinging his blade at the nearest of the attackers. His blow smashed the traitor to the ground in a welter of blood and shattered armour.

‘Kill them all!’ shouted Lucius.

‘Y
OU DARE RETURN
to me in failure?’ bellowed Horus, the bridge of the
Vengeful Spirit
shaking with the fury of his voice. His face twisted in anger, and Fulgrim smiled as he watched the Warmaster struggle to hold his Cthonic fury in check. The
Vengeful Spirit
had changed a great deal since Fulgrim had last stood in the Warmaster’s inner sanctum, its once open and brightly lit hubbub replaced with something far darker.

‘Do you even understand what I am trying to do here?’ continued Horus. ‘What I have started at Isstvan will consume the whole galaxy, and if it is flawed from the outset then the Emperor will break us!’

Fulgrim allowed a smile of delicious insouciance to surface on his face, the excitement of finally arriving at Isstvan III, and the scale of the carnage wrought below, stimulating his taste for the excessive. Though the
Pride of the Emperor
had but recently arrived, Fulgrim had been careful to appear before the Warmaster as magnificent as ever, his exquisite armour worked with fresh layers of vivid purples and gold, with many new embellishments and finery added to complement the bright colours. His long white hair was pulled back, and his pale cheeks were marked with the beginnings of tattoos that Serena d’Angelus had designed for him.

‘Ferrus Manus is a dull fool who would not listen to reason,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Even the mention of the Mechanicum’s pledge did not—’

‘You swore to me that you could sway him! The Iron Hands were essential to my plans. I planned Isstvan III with your assurance that Ferrus Manus would join us. Now I find that I have yet another enemy to contend with. A great many of our Astartes will die because of this, Fulgrim.’

‘What would you have had me do, Warmaster?’ smiled Fulgrim, being sure to twist his words with a sly mocking tone. ‘His will was stronger than I anticipated.’

‘Or you simply had an inflated opinion of your own abilities.’

‘Would you have had me kill our brother, Warmaster?’ asked Fulgrim, hoping that Horus would not ask such a thing of him, but knowing that it was what he wanted to hear. ‘For I will if that is what you desire of me.’

‘Perhaps I do,’ replied Horus unmoved. ‘It would be better than leaving him to roam free to destroy our plans. As it is, he could reach the Emperor or one of the other primarchs and bring them all down on our heads before we are ready.’

‘Then if you are quite finished with me, I shall return to my Legion,’ said Fulgrim, turning away with a flourish calculated to infuriate the Warmaster. He was not to be disappointed, and felt his heart pound as Horus said, ‘No, you will not. I have another task for you. I am sending you to Isstvan V. With all that has happened, the Emperor’s response is likely to arrive more quickly than anticipated and we must be prepared for it. Take a detail of Emperor’s Children to the alien fortresses there and prepare it for the final phase of the Isstvan operation.’

Fulgrim recoiled and turned back to his brother, the disgust at such a menial role horrifying and repugnant. The exquisite sensations flooding his body at his baiting of the Warmaster faded and left him hollow inside. ‘You would consign me to the role of castellan, as some housekeeper making your property ready for your grand entrance? Why not send for Perturabo? This kind of thing is more to his liking.’

‘Perturabo has his own role to play,’ said Horus. ‘Even now, he prepares to lay waste to his home world in my name. We shall be hearing more of our bitter brother very soon, have no fear of that.’

‘Then give this task to Mortarion!’ spat Fulgrim. ‘His grimy footsloggers will relish an opportunity to muddy their hands for you! My Legion was the chosen of the Emperor in the years when he still deserved our service. I am the most glorious of his heroes and the right hand of this new Crusade. This is… this is a betrayal of the very principles for which I chose to join you, Horus!’

‘Betrayal?’ said Horus, his voice low and dangerous. ‘A strong word, Fulgrim. Betrayal is what the Emperor forced upon us when he abandoned the galaxy to pursue his quest for godhood and gave over the conquests of our Crusade to scriveners and bureaucrats. Is that the charge you would level at me, to my face, on the bridge of my own ship?’

Fulgrim stepped back, his anger fading as he felt Horus’s rage wash over him, relishing the crawling sensations that filled him at the excitement of the confrontation. ‘Perhaps I do, Horus. Perhaps someone needs to tell you a few home truths, now that your precious Mournival is no more.’

‘That sword,’ said Horus, indicating the venom sheened weapon that Fulgrim had been given at their last meeting. ‘I gave you that blade as a symbol of my trust in you, Fulgrim. We alone know the true power that lies within it. That weapon almost killed me, and yet I gave it away. Do you think I would give such a weapon to one I do not trust?’

‘No, Warmaster,’ said Fulgrim.

‘Exactly. The Isstvan V phase of my plan is the most critical,’ said Horus, and Fulgrim could feel the Warmaster’s superlative diplomatic skills coming to the fore as the dangerous embers of his ego were fanned.

‘Even more so than what is happening below us. I can entrust it to no other. You must go to Isstvan V, my brother. All depends on your success.’

Fulgrim let the violent potential crackling between them continue for a long, frightening moment, before laughing. ‘And now you flatter me, hoping my ego will coerce me into obeying your orders.’

‘Is it working?’ asked Horus.

‘Yes,’ admitted Fulgrim. ‘Very well, the Warmaster’s will be done. I will go to Isstvan V.’

‘Eidolon will stay in command of the Emperor’s Children until we join you,’ said Horus, and Fulgrim nodded.

‘He will relish the chance to prove himself further,’ said Fulgrim.

‘Now leave me, Fulgrim,’ said Horus. ‘You have work to do.’

Fulgrim turned smartly and marched from the Warmaster’s presence, his breathing coming in shallow bursts as he replayed the violent potential of the near confrontation and allowed the memory of his brother’s anger once more to stimulate his senses.

The feeling was sublime, and he imagined greater and headier delights ahead when the Isstvan V portion of the Warmaster’s plan came to fruition: such horrors, such death, such delights.

S
OLOMON DROVE HIS
roaring blade through the chest plate of the warrior before him, twisting the weapon savagely as it tore through the layers of ceramite, flesh and bone. Blood sprayed from the ghastly wound and the traitor crashed to the tiled floor. He spun painfully to find another opponent, but the only figure left standing was Lucius, his scarred face flushed with the energy of the battle. Solomon checked to make sure there were no survivors before finally lowering his sword and acknowledging the pain of his many wounds.