Fulgrim

SIXTEEN Called to Account Scars My Fear is to Fail

Ormond Braxton chafed at being made to wait outside the golden doors of the primarch's chambers. He would have expected better manners from a primarch than to make a high-ranking emissary of the Administration of Terra wait for so long. He had boarded the Pride of the Emperor three days ago, and such delays were the kind of thing he inflicted on others to demonstrate his superior rank.

Finally his petition for an audience had been approved and his menials had bathed him before Ful-grim's servants arrived to apply perfumed oils to his skin, prior to bringing him before the primarch. The scent of the oils was pleasing enough, though somewhat powerful for his ascetic tendencies. Sweat glistened on his bald pate and mingled with the oils to produce stinging droplets that irritated his eyes and caught in the back of his throat.

A pair of elaborately armoured warriors stood to attention at the golden doors to Fulgrim's staterooms, beyond which Braxton could hear the deafening din of what he supposed was music, but sounded like an unmitigated racket to his ears. A pair of marble sculptures of wild curves and angles stood to either side of the guards, though what they were supposed to represent eluded Braxton's understanding.

He adjusted his administrator robes around his shoulders while letting his attention drift to the paintings that filled this great, terrazzo floored hallway. The golden frames were elaborate to the point of ridiculousness, and the garish colours that filled them quite defied any aesthetic appreciation, though he admitted that his understanding of art was limited.

Ormond Braxton had represented the Terran forces in the negotiations that had seen much of the solar system brought into compliance. He had been part of the delegation trained at the School of Iterators and Evander Tobias and Kyril Sindermann were his close acquaintances. His exceptional skills as a negotiator and civil servant in the Terran Administrative Corps had ensured his selection for this mission, as it called for delicate diplomacy and tact. Only one of such stature could petition a primarch, especially for such a task as was to be appointed him.

At last the doors to Fulgrim's staterooms were flung open and booming peals of music spilled into the hall before the primarch's chambers. The guards snapped to attention, and Braxton drew himself up to his full height as he prepared to enter into the presence of the Primarch of the Emperor's Children.

He awaited some signal that he was to go in, but nothing was forthcoming, and so he hesitantly stepped forward. The guards made no motion to stop him, so he carried on, his unease increasing as the doors swung closed behind him without apparent aid.

The music was deafening. Dozens of phonocasters were scattered around, blaring a multitude of what appeared to be different kinds of music. Paintings of all manner of vileness hung from the walls, some depicting acts of violent barbarity and others, of unspeakably vile conduct that was beyond pornography. Braxton felt his trepidation grow as he heard arguing voices from the central stateroom beyond.

'My Lord Fulgrim?' he inquired. 'Are you there? It is Administrator Ormond Braxton. I have come to see you from the Council of Terra.'

Instantly the voices ceased and the phonocasters fell silent.

Braxton glanced around him to see if he was alone, reckoning that the staterooms surrounding the central chamber were empty of life as far as he could see.

'You may enter!' called a powerful, musical voice from ahead. Braxton gingerly made his way towards the sound, fully expecting to see the primarch and one of his loyal captains, though the argumentative tone of the voices still puzzled him.

He stepped into the primarch's central stateroom and pulled up short at the sight confronting him.

Fulgrim, for the mighty physique could belong to none other, swept around his chambers, naked but for a purple loincloth, and brandishing a gleaming silver sword. His flesh was like hard marble, pale and veined with dark lines, and his face had a manic look to it, like that of a man in the grip of a chemical stimulant. The stateroom itself was a mess, with pieces of broken marble strewn around and the walls chipped and stained with paint. A giant canvas stood at the far end of the chamber, though its angle prevented Braxton from seeing what manner of image was painted upon it.

The odour of uneaten food hung heavy in the air, and not even the perfumed oils could mask the stench of rotten meat.

'Emissary Braxton!' cried Fulgrim. 'How good of you to come.'

Braxton covered his surprise at the state of the primarch and his stateroom, and inclined his head. 'It is my honour to attend upon you, my lord.'

'Nonsense,' exclaimed Fulgrim. 'I have been unforgivably rude in keeping you waiting, but I have been locked in counsel with my most trusted advisors in the weeks since our departure from the Perdus Region.'

The primarch towered over Braxton and he felt the sheer physical intimidation of such a magnificent being threaten to overwhelm him, but he dug deep into his reserves of calm and found his voice once more.

'I come with tidings from Terra, and would deliver them to you, my lord.'

'Of course, of course,' said Fulgrim, 'but first, my dear Braxton, would you do me an enormous favour?'

'I would be honoured to serve, my lord,' said Braxton, noticing that Fulgrim's hands were discoloured as though from a fire. What heat could wound such as a primarch, he wondered?

'What manner of favour would you have me do?'

Fulgrim spun his sword and put his hand on Braxton's shoulder, guiding him towards the vast canvas set up at the end of the stateroom. Fulgrim's pace practically forced Braxton to run, even though his generously fleshed form was unsuited to such a speed. He mopped his brow with a scented handkerchief as Fulgrim proudly stood him before the canvas and said, 'What do you think of this, then? The likeness is quite uncanny isn't it?'

Braxton stared in open mouthed horror at the image slathered on the canvas, a truly repellent portrait of an armoured warrior, thickly painted with all manner of garish colours, crude brushstrokes and loathsome stench. The vastness of the image only served to heighten the horror of what it portrayed, for the subject was none other than the Primarch of the Emperor's Children, so loathsomely delineated as to be insulting and degrading to one so awe inspiring.

Though he was no student of art, even Braxton recognised this as a vulgar atrocity, an affront to the being it purported to represent. He glanced over at Fulgrim to see if this was some elaborate jest, but the primarch's face was rapt and unswerving in his adoration of the vile picture.

'You're lost for words, I can see,' said Fulgrim. 'I'm not surprised. It is, after all, by Serena d'Angelus, and only recently finished. You are honoured to see it before its public unveiling at the first performance of Mistress Kynska's Maraviglia in the newly refurbished La Fenice. That will be a night to remember, I can tell you!'

Braxton nodded, too afraid of what he might say were he to open his mouth. The horror of the picture was too much to bear, its colours nauseating in a way that went beyond its simple crudity, and the stench of its surface was making his gorge rise.

He moved away from the picture, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth and nose, as Fulgrim trailed behind him, idly swinging his sword in lazy circles.

'My lord, if I may?' said Braxton.

'What? Oh, yes, of course,' said Fulgrim, as though listening to another voice entirely. 'You said something about news from Terra, didn't you?'

Recovering himself, Braxton said, 'Yes, my lord, from the mouth of the Sigillite himself.'

'So what does old Malcador have to say for himself?' asked Fulgrim, and Braxton was shocked at the informality and lack of respect inherent in the primarch's tone.

'Firstly, I bring word of Lord Magnus of Prospero. It has come to the attention of the Emperor, beloved by all, that, contrary to the dictates of the Council of Nikaea, Lord Magnus has continued his researches into the mysteries of the immaterium.'

Fulgrim nodded to himself as he began pacing once more and said, 'I knew he would, but the others were too blind to see it. Even with the new chaplains in place, I suspected Magnus would backslide. He does love his mysteries.'

'Quite,' agreed Braxton. 'The Sigillite has despatched the Wolves of Fenris to bring Magnus back to Terra to await the Emperor's judgement upon him.'

Fulgrim paused, turned to face the vile painting once more and shook his head as though disagreeing with some unseen interrogator.

'Then Magnus is to be… what? Charged with a crime?' asked Fulgrim heatedly, as though his anger at the messenger would somehow change the facts.

'I do not know any more, my lord,' replied Braxton, 'simply that he is to return to Terra with Leman Russ of the Space Wolves.'

Fulgrim nodded, though he was clearly unhappy at such a development, and said, 'You said "firstly". What other news do you bring?'

Braxton knew he would have to choose his words carefully, for there was more that would yet displease the primarch. 'I bring news concerning the conduct within one of your brother primarch's Legions.'

Fulgrim ceased his pacing and looked up in sudden interest. 'It is Horus's Legion?'

Braxton covered his irritation and nodded. 'It is. Have you already heard my news?'

Fulgrim shook his head. 'No, I was just guessing. Go on and tell me your news, but be aware that Horus is my sworn brother and I will brook no disrespect of him.'

'Of course not,' confirmed Braxton. 'At present, the 63rd Expedition makes war against a civilisation calling itself the Auretian Technocracy. Horus came in the name of peace, but the misguided—'

'The Warmaster,' put in Fulgrim, and Braxton cursed himself for making such an elementary error. The Astartes detested mortals showing a lack of respect for their position.

'My apologies,' continued Braxton smoothly. 'The rulers of these planets attempted to assassinate the Warmaster and thus he declared a legal war upon them to bring their worlds to compliance. In this matter he has been aided by Lord Angron of the VII Legion.'

Fulgrim laughed. 'Then I don't hold out much hope for there being much left of this Technocracy at the end of the war.'

'Quite,' said Braxton. 'Lord Angron's… excesses, shall we say, are not unknown to the Council of Terra, but we have received some unsettling reports from Lord Commander Hektor Varvarus, commander of the Army units within the 63rd Expedition.'

'Reports of what?' demanded Fulgrim. Braxton was unnerved to see that the primarch's previous manic distraction appeared to have quite vanished.

'Reports of a massacre perpetrated by Astartes against Imperial civilians, my lord.'

'Nonsense,' snapped Fulgrim. 'Angron may be many things, but massacring Imperial citizens seems a little out of character even for him, wouldn't you say?'

'Reports have reached Terra regarding Lord Angron's conduct in the war, it's true,' said Braxton, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. 'Though it is not of him that I speak.'

'Horus?' asked Fulgrim, his voice hoarse, and Braxton saw what in a mortal he would have regarded as fear in his dark eyes. 'What has happened?'

Braxton paused before continuing. He noted that there was no denial, as there had been when Fulgrim had thought if Angron accused.

'It appears that the Warmaster was grievously wounded on the planet of Davin, and some of his warriors were somewhat over-zealous when bringing him back on board the Vengeful Spirit!

'Over-zealous?' barked Fulgrim. 'Speak plainly, man. What does that mean?'

'A sizeable crowd had gathered on the embarkation decks of the Warmaster's flagship, and when the Astartes came back on board they smote the crowd in their haste to reach the medicae decks. Some twenty-one people are dead and many more grievously injured.'

'And you blame Horus for this?'

'It is not my place to assign blame, my lord,' said Braxton. 'I am merely informing you of the facts.'

Fulgrim rounded on him suddenly. Braxton felt his bladder loosen, and a warmth trickle down his leg, as the wild-eyed Primarch of the Emperor's Children towered over him with his sword suddenly raised above his head as if to strike him down.

'Facts?' snarled Fulgrim. 'What does a foppish scribe such as you know of the facts of war? War is hard, fast and cruel. Horus knows this and he fights accordingly. If people are stupid enough to get in the way of that, then their own foolishness is to blame.'

Ormond Braxton had seen much in the way of egotism in his time within the civil administration of Terra, but he had never been faced with such barefaced arrogance and callous dismissal of human life.

'My lord,' gasped Braxton. 'People are dead, killed by the Astartes. Such things will not just go away. Those responsible must be called to account or the ideals of the Great Crusade will stand for nothing.'

Fulgrim lowered his sword, appearing only now to notice its presence. He shook his head and smiled, his ephemeral anger vanishing in the space of a moment. 'You are right, of course, my dear Braxton. I apologise for my uncivil behaviour and beg of your pardon. I am much vexed by the pain of wounds suffered battling an alien monstrosity in our previous campaign, and my temper is a fragile thing as a result.'

'No pardon is necessary, my lord,' said Braxton slowly. 'I understand your brotherhood with the Warmaster and it is for that very reason that I am despatched to you. The Council of Terra wishes you to travel to Aureus and meet with the Warmaster to ensure that the principles that underpin the Great Crusade are being adhered to.'

Fulgrim snorted in derision and turned away. 'So now we must fight with an eye forever over our shoulder? Are we not trusted to make war? You civilians want your conquests, but you do not care for how they are won, do you? War is brutality, and the more brutal it is, the sooner it is over, but that's not good enough for you is it? In your eyes, wars must be fought according to an imperfect set of rules imposed by those who have never seen a shot fired in anger or risked their own blood alongside their brothers. Know this, Braxton, every petty, restrictive rule you civilians impose on our method of war means that more of my warriors die!'

Braxton was shocked by Fulgrim's bitterness, but hid his surprise. 'What response should I take back to the Council of Terra, my lord?'

Again Fulgrim's anger seemed to melt away in the face of reason, and the mighty primarch laughed humourlessly. 'Tell them, Master Braxton, that I shall lead my warriors to join the 63rd Expedition, that I will examine how my brother makes war, and that I shall be sure to tell you all about it.'

The sarcasm was heavy in Fulgrim's tone, but Braxton ignored it and bowed. 'Then, my lord, if I may take my leave?'

Fulgrim waved his hand dismissively and nodded. 'Yes, go. Return to your courtiers and scriveners, and tell them that the Lord Fulgrim will do their bidding.'

Braxton bowed once more and backed away from the barely dressed primarch. When he had retteated a sufficient distance, he turned and made his way through the golden doors that led to normality.

Behind him, he could hear voices arguing, and he risked a glance over his shoulder in an attempt to identify with whom Fulgrim spoke. He felt a shiver Uavel the length of his spine as he saw that Fulgrim was alone.

He was speaking to the loathsome painting.

'What are you doing?' asked a voice behind her and she froze. Serena clutched the knife to her breast as her mind raced to identify the questioner. In her fevered thoughts, she imagined that it was Ostian, come once again to save her, but when the question was asked again, she blinked and dropped the knife as she recognised that the speaker was the Astartes warrior, Lucius.

Her breathing was heavy and her blood was pounding as she looked down at the corpse lying next to the unfinished picture of the swordsman. She couldn't recall the dead man's name, an irony she found amusing given her official title as remembrancer, but he had been a talented composer once. Now he was raw material for her work, his blood pumping enthusiastically onto the floor from his opened throat.

The metallic smell of his blood filled her nostrils as she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and turn her around. She looked up into Lucius's boyish face, his handsome features marred forever by the crooked twist of his nose where it had been broken in some combat. She reached up with a bloodied hand to touch his face, and his eyes followed her fingers as they traced the line of his jaw.

'What happened here?' asked Lucius, nodding towards the corpse. 'That man is dead.'

'Yes,' said Serena, slumping to the floor. 'I killed him.'

'Why?' asked Lucius. Even in her fugue state Serena detected an interest beyond that which would normally be aroused by such a discovery. What remained of the rational part of her mind understood the precariousness of the situation and she covered her face with her hands and began to weep uncontrollably, hoping the onset of tears would trigger the male comfort reaction.

Lucius let her weep and she cried, 'He tried to rape me!'

'Rape you?' asked Lucius, aghast. 'What?'

'He tried to force himself upon me and I killed him… I… I fought him, but he was too strong. He… hit me and I reached out to grab the first thing I could find to use as a weapon… I suppose I must have picked up my knife and…'

'And you killed him,' finished Lucius.

Serena looked up through her tears, hearing no condemnation in Lucius's tone. 'Yes, I killed him.'

'Then the bastard got what he deserved,' said Lucius, pulling Serena to her feet. 'He tried to violate you and you defended yourself, yes?'

Serena nodded, the exhilaration of lying to this warrior who could snap her neck with his fingers sending warm rushes of pleasure through her entire body.

'I met him in La Venice, and he said he wanted to see some of my work,' she gasped, already knowing that Lucius would not arrest her or otherwise call her to account for the killing. 'It was foolish, I know, but he seemed genuinely interested. When we returned to my studio…'

'He turned on you.'

'Yes,' nodded Serena, 'and now he's dead. 'Oh, Lucius, what am I going to do?'

'Don't worry,' said Lucius, 'this won't need to go any further. I'll have some servitors dispose of his remains and this can all be forgotten about.'

Serena threw herself against Lucius in gratitude and let her tears come once more, feeling nothing but contempt for this man and his belief that such a traumatic event, had it been real, could be forgotten about so easily.

She pushed herself from his breastplate and bent to pick up her knife. The blade was still wet with blood and the cold steel glittered invitingly in the light.

Without conscious thought, she reached up and sliced the blade across her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from her pallid skin.

Lucius watched her impassively and asked, 'What did you do that for?'

'So that I don't forget what happened,' she said, handing him the knife and rolling up her sleeves to show the many scars and fresh cuts in the flesh of her arms. 'Pain is my way of remembering all that has gone before. If I hold onto that pain, then I will never allow it to be forgotten.'

Lucius nodded and reached up to slowly run his fingertips over the crooked line of his nose. Serena could see the anger and hurt pride within him at the marring of his perfect features. A strange sensation of power filled her, as though her words carried more than meaning in their sounds, an influence beyond understanding. She felt this power flow through her and into the very air, filling the space between them with unknown potential.

'What happened to your face?' asked Serena, unwilling to lose this remarkable sensation.

'A barbaric son of a bitch named Loken broke it when he cheated in a fair fight.'

'He wounded you, didn't he?' she asked, the sound of her words flowing like honey in his ears. 'More than just physically, I mean?'

'Yes,' said Lucius, his voice hollow. 'He destroyed my perfection.'

'You'd want to hurt him, wouldn't you?'

'I'll see him dead soon,' swore Lucius.

Serena smiled, reaching out and placing her hands on his. 'Yes, I know you will.'

He gripped the knife tightly and she lifted his unresisting hand to his face.

'Yes,' she said with a nod, 'your perfect face is already gone forever. Do it.'

He returned her nod and with a quick flick of his wrist, cut deeply into the flawless skin of his cheek. He flinched at the pain, but lifted the dripping knife to cut an identical line across the opposite cheek.

'Now you will never forget this Loken,' she said.

Fulgrim paced the confines of his staterooms, marching from room to room as he pondered the words of Emissary Braxton. He had tried to conceal his unease at the news he had been brought, but he suspected that the man had seen through his facade of indifference. He swung the silver sword in a glittering arc, its blade cutting the air with a sound like ripping cloth.

Try as he might to forget them, the words of the eldar farseer kept returning, and though he had tried to purge the alien's lies from his head, they would not leave him alone. Braxton's news of the Council of Terra's desire for him to investigate Horus and Angron's conduct only heightened his fear that the farseer had spoken the truth.

'It cannot be true!' shouted Fulgrim. 'Horus would never betray the Emperor!'

Are you so sure? asked the voice, and Fulgrim felt the familiar jolt of unease as it spoke.

He could no longer delude himself that this was simply the voice of his own conscience, but was something else entirely. Since the portrait had been delivered to his stateroom, the honest counsellor in his head had by some unknown means relocated itself within the thick paints of the canvas, reshaping the image to suit its vocabulary.

Fulgrim marvelled at his ability to simply accept this development, and each time the hideousness of the notion surfaced in his mind, it was quashed by a feeling of elation and attraction that melted his concerns like snow before the spring sun.

He turned slowly towards the magnificent picture Serena d'Angelus had painted for him, its splendour matched only by his amazement at what it had become in the days since it had been delivered to his staterooms.

Fulgrim made his way through the rain of his quarters and stared into the image of his own face on the canvas. The giant in purple armour stared at him from the picture, its features, refined and regal, the mirror of his own. The eyes sparkled as though recalling some long forgotten joke, the lips curled in the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite, and the brow furrowed as though plotting some scheme of great cunning.

Even as he stared into his own features the mouth twisted and pulled at the canvas as it formed new words.

What if the alien spoke true? If Horus has indeed forsaken the Emperor, where would you stand in such a contest?

Fulgrim felt clammy sweat coat his naked flesh, repulsed by the creeping horror of the picture, yet unaccountably drawn once again to hear its words, as though they possessed some silken, siren-like attraction to him. As much as he wanted to slice his blade through the painting, he could not bear to see it destroyed.

He is the most worthy of you, said the painting, its mouth contorting under the effort of speech. If Horus were to turn his face from the Emperor, where would you stand?

'The question is immaterial,' snapped Fulgrim. 'The situation would never arise.'

Think you so? laughed the painting. Even now Horus plants the seeds of his rebellion.

Fulgrim clenched his jaw and aimed his sword at the image of himself on the canvas. 'I will not believe you?' he shouted. 'You cannot know these things.'

But I do.

'How?' begged Fulgrim. 'You are not me, you cannot be me.'

No, agreed his twin, I am not. Call me… the spirit of perfection that will guide you in the coming days.

'Horus seeks war with the Emperor?' asked Fulgrim, almost unable to speak the words such was the horror of what they represented.

He does not seek it, but it is forced upon him. The Emperor plans to abandon you all, Fulgrim. His perfection is naught but a sham! He has used you all to conquer the galaxy for him, and now seeks to ascend to godhood on the blood you have shed.

'No!' cried Fulgrim. 'I won't believe this. The Emperor is human intelligence raised above all error and imperfection, and extended to all possible truth.'

Your belief is irrelevant. It is already happening. Grand things are necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care. If Horus, can see this, how is it that you, most perfect of primarchs, cannot?

'Because you are lying!' bellowed Fulgrim, smashing his fist into one of the green marble pillars that supported the domed roof of his staterooms. Powdered stone exploded from the column, and it collapsed in a cracked pile of splintered rock.

You waste time in denial, Fulgrim. You are already on the road to joining your brother.

'I will support Horus in all things,' gasped Fulgrim, 'but turn against the Emperor… that is too far!'

You will never know what is too far until you go beyond it. I know you, Fulgrim, and have tasted the forbidden desires you hold chained within the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul. Better to murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an unacted upon desire.

'No,' said Fulgrim, raising his bloodied hand to his temple. 'I won't listen to you.'

Expose yourself to your deepest fear, Fulgrim. After that, fear has no power and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes. You will be free.

'Free?' cried Fulgrim. 'Betrayal is not freedom, it is damnation.'

Damnation? No! It is liberty and unfettered freedom to explore all that is and all that can be! Horus has seen beyond the veil of this mortal flesh you call life and learnt the truth of your existence. He is privy to the secrets of the Ancients, and only he can help you towards perfection.

'Perfection?' whispered Fulgrim.

Yes, perfection. The Emperor is imperfect, for if he were perfect, then such things could not happen. Perfection is slow death. Only change is constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix from which you arise! Ask yourself this: what is it you fear?

Fulgrim stared into the eyes of the portrait, eyes that were his own but for the awful knowledge within them. With a clarity borne of perfect understanding, Fulgrim knew the answer to the question his reflection had posed him.

'My fear is to fail,' said Fulgrim.

The cold lights of the apothecarion were bright and hostile, staring down at Marius as he lay naked on the surgical slab. His limbs were immobile, held static by gleaming steel restraints and chemical inhibitors. The feeling of vulnerability was acute, but he had vowed to obey his primarch's orders, no matter what they were, and Lord Eidolon had assured him that this was what Lord Fulgrim desired.

'Are you ready?' asked Fabius, the silver steel arms of the Apothecary's chirurgeon machine looming over him like a great spider.

Marius tried to nod, but his muscles would not obey him.

'I am,' he said, fighting to say even that.

'Excellent,' said Fabius. His narrow dark eyes bored into Marius and examined his flesh, as a butcher might examine a choice cut of meat, or a sculptor a fresh block of virgin stone.

'Lord Commander Eidolon said you would make me better than before.'

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

SEVENTEEN Nothing Against Your Conscience

The 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 dAngelus'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.'

Fulgrim 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. Ful grim 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 Moumival 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.

Horus'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 outsuetched, 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 brisded 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.

'You have recovered well from your wounds,' noted Fulgrim, catching the furtive glance shared between the Warmaster and Erebus. Precious little information had been released from the 63rd Expedition regarding the Davin campaign, certainly nothing to indicate that Horus had been wounded, but the Warmaster's reaction proved that at least part of the farseer's tale was true.

'You heard about that,' said Horus, taking a slice of apple into his mouth and wiping the juice from his chin with the back of his hand.

'I did,' nodded Fulgrim. Horus shrugged.

'I attempted to prevent word of it reaching the other expeditions for fear of the damage it might do to morale. It was nothing, a minor wound to the shoulder.'

Fulgrim smelled a lie and said, 'Really? I heard that you were dying.'

The Warmaster's eyes narrowed. 'Who told you that?'

'It doesn't matter,' said Fulgrim. 'What's important is that you survived.'

'Yes, I survived and now I am stronger than ever, revitalised even.'

Fulgrim raised his glass and said, 'Then let us give thanks for such a speedy recovery.'

Horus drank to mask his annoyance, and Fulgrim let a small smile creep across his face at the thrill of antagonising so powerful a being as the Warmaster.

'So,' began Horus, changing the subject, 'you have been sent to check up on me, is that it? Is my competence as Warmaster in question?'

Fulgrim shook his head. 'No, my brother, though there are those who question your means of advancing the Great Crusade. Civilians light years from the battles we fight in their name dare question how you make war, and seek to exploit our brotherhood by tasking me to bring your war dogs to heel.'

'By war dogs, I assume you mean Angron?'

Fulgrim nodded and took a drink of the bitter wine. 'It cannot have escaped your notice that he is a far from subtle weapon. Personally, I do not favour his employment in theatres of war where anything less that total destruction is called for, but I recognise that there are times for subtlety and times for raw aggression. Is this war such a time?'

'It is,' promised Horus. 'Angron bloodies himself for me, and at this moment I need him drenched in blood.'

'Why?'

'I'm sure you remember what Angron was like after Ullanor, Fulgrim?' asked Horus. 'He raged against my appointment like a caged animal. His every utterance was calculated to belittle me in the eyes of those who thought my being named Warmaster an insult to their pride.'

'Angron thinks with his sword arm, not his head,' said Fulgrim. 'I remember that it took all my skill in diplomacy to calm the thunder in his heart and smooth his raffled pride, but he accepted your role. Grudgingly, it has to be said, but he accepted it.'

'Grudgingly is not good enough,' stated Horus flatly. 'If I am to be Warmaster, I must have utter devotion and total obedience from all those I command in the days of blood to come. I am giving Angron what he wants, allowing him to affirm his loyalty to me in the only way he knows how. Where others would pull tight the chain that binds him, I allow him his head.'

'And his loyalty to you is forged anew in blood,' said Fulgrim.

'Just so,' agreed Horus.

'I believe that is what the Council of Terra objects to.'

'I am the Warmaster and I make use of the tools available to me, moulding them to fit my purpose,' said Horus. 'Our brother Angron is raw and bloody, but he has his place in my designs. That place requires that his loyalty, first and foremost, is to me.'

Fulgrim watched the Warmaster's eyes as he spoke, seeing a passionate fervour he had not seen in many decades. His brother spoke of magniloquent designs and the fact that he required utter devotion from his followers. Was this the treachery the farseer had spoken of?

As Angron's loyalty was being won, was Horus swaying others to his cause? Fulgrim stole a glance at Erebus, seeing that he too was enraptured by the Warmaster's words, and wondered who laid first claim to the loyalties of the Word Bearers' primarch.

Patience… in time these truths will be known, said the voice in his head. You have always looked up to Horus. Trust him now, for your destiny is linked inextricably with his.

He caught a sudden, startled furrowing of Erebus's brow and experienced a moment's panic as he wondered if the Word Bearer had heard the voice too.

Fulgrim pushed aside such concerns and nodded at Horus's words. 'I understand perfectly,' he said.

'I see,' said Horus, 'and the Council's concern is simply with Angron's bloodlust?'

'Not entirely,' he replied. 'As I said, the Wolf of Fenris has been despatched to Prospero in order to bring Magnus back to Terra, though for what purpose I do not know.'

'He has been practising sorcery,' said Erebus. Fulgrim felt a spike of anger enter his heart at the warrior's temerity in addressing a primarch without a direct question being asked of him.

'Who are you to speak without leave in the presence of your betters?' he demanded, turning to Horus and waving a dismissive hand at the Word Bearer. 'Who is this warrior anyway and tell me why he joins our private discussions?'

'Erebus is… an advisor to me,' said Horus. 'A valued counsellor and aide.'

'Your Mournival is not enough for you?' asked Fulgrim.

'Times have changed, my brother and I have set plans in motion for which the counsel of the Mournival is not appropriate, matters to which they cannot yet be made privy. Well, not all of them at any rate,' he added with a pained smile.

'What matters?' asked Fulgrim, but Horus shook his head.

'In time, my brother, in time,' promised Horus, rising from behind his desk and circling it to stand before the mural of the Emperor. 'Tell me more of Magnus and his transgressions.'

Fulgrim shrugged. 'You now know as much as I, Horus. All I was given to understand I have now told you.'

'Nothing of substance as to how Magnus is to travel to Terra? As a penitent or a supplicant?'

'I do not know,' admitted Fulgrim. 'Though to send one who dislikes Magnus as much as the Wolf to fetch him home suggests that he does not travel to Terra to be honoured.'

'It does not,' agreed Horus, and Fulgrim could see a glimmer of relief ghost across his brother's face. Had Magnus, like Eldrad Ulthran, seen a glimpse of the future and attempted to give warning of an imminent betrayal? If so, the Warmaster would need to deal with him before his return to Terra.

With the matter of the Lord of Prospero dispensed with to his apparent satisfaction, the Warmaster nodded in the direction of the mural and said, 'You said you remembered this being made.'

Fulgrim nodded, and the Warmaster continued. 'So do I, vividly. You and I, we had just felled the last of the Omakkad Princes aboard their observatory world, and the Emperor decided that such a victory should be remembered.'

'While the Emperor smote the last of their princes, you slew their king and took his head for the Museum of Conquest,' said Fulgrim.

'As you say,' nodded Horus, tapping a finger against the painting. 'I slew their king, and yet it is the Emperor who holds the constellations of the galaxy in his grip. Where are the murals that show the honours you and I won that day, my friend?'

'Jealousy?' chuckled Fulgrim. 'I knew you thought highly of yourself, but I never expected to see such vanity.'

Horus shook his head. 'No, my brother, it is not vanity to wish your deeds and achievements recognised. Who among us has a greater tally of victory than I? Who among us was chosen to act as Warmaster? Only I was judged worthy, and yet the only honours I possess are those I fashion for myself.'

'In time, when the Crusade is over, you will be lauded for your actions,' said Fulgrim.

'Time?' snapped Horus. 'Time is the one thing we do not have. In essence, we may be aware that the galaxy revolves in the heavens, but we do not perceive it, and the ground upon which we walk seems not to move. Mortal men can live out their lives undisturbed by such lofty concepts, but they will never achieve greatness by inaction and ignorance. So it is with time, my brother. Unless we stop and take its measure, the opportunity for perfect glory will slip away from us before we even realise that it was there.'

The words of the eldar seer echoed in his head as though shouted in his ear.

He will lead his armies against your Emperor.

Horus locked his gaze with him, and Fulgrim felt the fires of his brother's purpose surge like an electric current in the room, feeding the flames of his own obsessive need for perfection. As horrified as he was by the things he was hearing, he could not deny a powerful force of attraction swelling within him at the thought of joining his brother.

He saw the rampant ambition and yearning for power that drove Horus, and understood that his brother desired to hold the stars in his grip, as the Emperor did upon the mural.

Everything you have been told is true.

Fulgrim leaned back in his chair and drained the last of his wine.

'Tell me of this perfect glory,' he said.

Horus and Erebus spoke for three days, telling Fulgrim of what had befallen the 63rd Expedition on Davin, of the treachery of Eugan Temba, the assault on the crashed Glory of Terra, and the necrotic possession that had taken his flesh. Horus spoke of a weapon known as the anathame, which was brought to his staterooms by Fulgrim's Apothecary after he had handed Fabius his seal to have it removed from the Vengeful Spirit's medicae deck.

Fulgrim saw that the sword was a crude thing, its blade like stone-worked obsidian, a dull grey filled with a glittering sheen like diamond flint. Its hilt was made of gold and was of superior workmanship to the blade, though still primitive in comparison to Fireblade, or even the silver sword of the Laer.

Horus then told him the truth of his injury, how he had, indeed, almost died but for the diligence and devotion of his Legion's quiet order. Of his time in the Delphos, the massive temple structure on Davin, he said little, save that his eyes had been opened to great truths and the monstrous deception that had been perpetrated upon them.

All through this retelling, Fulgrim had felt a creeping horror steal across him, a formless dread of the words that were undermining the very bedrock of his beliefs. He had heard the warning of the eldar seer, but until this moment, he had not believed that such a thing could be true. He wanted to deny the Warmaster's words, but each time he tried to speak a powerful force within him urged him to keep his counsel, to listen to his brother's words.

'The Emperor has lied to us, Fulgrim,' said Horus, and Fulgrim felt a knot of hurt anger uncoil in his gut at such an utterance. 'He means to abandon us to the wilderness of the galaxy while he ascends to godhood.'

Fulgrim felt as though his muscles were locked in a steel vice, for surely he should have flown at Horus to strike him down for such a treacherous utterance. Instead, he sat stunned as he felt his limbs tremble, and his entire world collapsed. How could Horus, most worthy of primarchs be saying such things?

No matter that he had heard them before from different mouths, the substance of their reality had been meaningless until now. To see Horus's lips form words of rebellion kept him rooted to his chair in horrified disbelief. Horus was his most trusted friend, and long ago they had sworn in blood never to speak an untruth to one another. With such an oath between them, Fulgrim had to believe that either his father or his brother had lied to him.

You have no choice! Join with Horus or all you have striven for will have been in vain.

'No,' he managed to whisper, tears welling in his eyes. The anticipation of this moment had fired his senses, but the reality of it was proving to be very different indeed.

'Yes,' said Horus, his expression pained, but determined. 'We believed the Emperor to be the ultimate embodiment of perfection, Fulgrim, but we were wrong. He is not perfect, he is just a man, and we strove to emulate his lie.'

'All my life I wanted to be like him,' said Fulgrim.

'As did we all, my brother,' said Horus. 'It pains me to say these things to you, but they must be said, for a time of war is coming, nothing can prevent that, and I need my closest brothers beside me when the time comes to purge our Legions of those who will not follow us.'

Fulgrim looked up through tear-rimmed eyes and said, 'You are wrong, Horus. You must be wrong. How could an imperfect being have wrought the likes of us?'

'Us?' said Horus. 'We are but the instruments of his will to achieve dominance of the galaxy before his ascension. When the wars are over, we will be cast aside, for we are flawed creations, fashioned from the wide womb of uncreated night. Even before our births, the Emperor cast us aside when he could have saved us. You remember the nightmare of Chemos, the wasteland it was when you fell to its blasted hinterlands? The pain you suffered there, the pain we all suffered on the planets where we grew to manhood? All of that could have been avoided. He could have stopped it all, but he cared so little for us that he simply let it happen. I saw it happen, my brother, I saw it all.'

'How?' gasped Fulgrim. 'How could you have seen such things?'

'In my near death state I was granted an epiphany of hindsight,' said Horus. 'Whether I saw the past or simply had my earliest memories unlocked I do not know, but what I experienced was as real to me as you are.'

The grey meat of Fulgrim's brain was filling fit to burst as he sought to process all that Horus was telling him.

'Even in my moments of blackest doubt, all that sustained me was the utter certainty of my ultimate achievement of perfection,' said Fulgrim. 'The Emperor was the shining paragon of that dream's attainment, and to have that taken away from me…'

'Doubt is not a pleasant condition,' nodded Horus, 'but certainty is absurd when it is built on a lie.'

Fulgrim felt his mind reel that he even entertained the possibility that Horus could be right, his words unravelling all that he had ever been and all he had ever hoped to achieve. His past was gone, destroyed to feed his father's lie, and all that was left to him was his future.

'The Emperor is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh,' said Horus. 'To him we are tools to be used until blunted and then cast aside. Why else would he leave us and the Crusade to retreat to his dungeons beneath Terra? His apotheosis is already underway and it is up to us to stop it.'

'I dreamed of one day being like him,' whispered Fulgrim, 'of standing at his shoulder and feeling his pride and love for me.'

Horus stepped forward, kneeling before him and taking his hands. 'All men dream, Fulgrim, but not all men dream equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity. For men like us, the dreamers of the day, our dreams are ones of hope, of improvement, of change. Perhaps we were once simply weapons, warriors who knew nothing beyond the art of death, but we have grown, my brother! We are so much more than that now, but the Emperor does not see it. Fie would abandon his greatest achievements to the darkness of a hostile universe. I know this for a fact, Fulgrim, for I did not simply receive this wisdom, I discovered it for myself after a journey that no one could take for me or spare me.'

'I cannot hear this, Horus,' cried Fulgrim, surging to his feet as his flesh threw off the paralysis that had thus far held him immobile. He marched towards the mural of the Emperor and shouted. 'You have no idea what you are asking me to do!'

'On the contrary,' replied Horus, rising to follow him. 'I know exactly what I am asking you to do. I am asking you to stand with me to defend our birthright. This galaxy is ours by right of conquest and blood, but it is to be given away to grubby politicians and clerks. I know you have seen this, and it must make your blood boil as it does mine. Where were those civilians when it was our warriors dying by the thousand? Where were they when we crossed the span of the galaxy to bring illumination to the lost fragments of humanity? I'll tell you where! They huddled in their dark and dusty halls, and penned diatribes like this!'

Horus reached down to his desk, snatched up a handful of papers and thrust them into Fulgrim's hands.

'What are these?' he asked.

'Lies,' said Horus. 'They call it the Lectitio Divinitatus, and it is spreading through the fleets like a virus. It is a cult that deifies the Emperor and openly worships him as a god! Can you believe it? After all we have done to bring the light of science and reason to these pathetic mortals, they invent a false god and turn to him for guidance.'

'A god?'

'Aye, Fulgrim, a god,' said Horus, his anger spilling out in a surge of violence. The Warmaster roared and hammered his fist into the mural, his gauntlet smashing the painted face of the Emperor to shards of cracked stone. Ruptured blocks fell from the wall to crash upon the metal deck, and Fulgrim released the papers he held, watching them flutter to the floor amid the ruin of the mural.

Fulgrim cried out as his world shattered into shards as fragmented as the rubble of the mural, his love for the Emperor torn from his breast and held up for the dirty, useless thing it was.

Horus came to him and cupped his face in his hands, staring into his eyes with an intensity that was almost fanatical.

'I need you, my brother,' pleaded Horus. 'I cannot do this without you, but you must do nothing against your conscience. My brother, my phoenix, my hope, wing your way through the darkness and defy fortune's spite. Revive from the ashes and rise!'

Fulgrim met his brother's stare. 'What would you have me do?'

EIGHTEEN Deep Orbital Excision Separate Ways

The flight deck of Deep Orbital DS191 was a tangled mess of twisted metal and flames. The greenskins had occupied the orbiting defence platform for some time, and their unique brand of engineering had already begun to take root. Great idols of fanged iron behemoths squatted amid piles of wreckage, and machines that looked like crude fighter planes lay scattered and broken throughout the deck.

Solomon took cover from the chattering hail of gunfire spraying from the rude barricade that had been thrown together, ''constructed'' was too elegant a word for what the greenskins had built, at the end of the flight deck.

Hundreds of roaring aliens had fired randomly, or waved enormous cleavers at the thirty warriors of the Second when they landed on the flight deck from their Thunderhawks. As part of the Emperor's Children's assault, missiles had punched holes through the hull of the orbital with the intent of explosively decompressing the flight deck and allowing Solomon's Astartes to make an uncontested boarding at this supposedly unoccupied section.

The plan had proceeded without any problems until the tide of wreckage had plugged the holes and hundreds of bellowing, fang-toothed greenskin brutes had charged from the shattered wreckage of their fighters and bombers to attack with mindless ferocity. Wild gunfire ripped through the flight deck. Corkscrewing rockets burst amongst the Astartes, and crude powder charges exploded as hurled grenades burst among the charging Emperor's Children.

'Whoever said that the greenskins were primitive obviously never had to fight them,' shouted Gaius Caphen, as another greasy explosion of flame and black smoke erupted nearby, hurling spars of twisted metal into the air.

Solomon had to agree, having fought the greenskin savages on many occasions. It seemed as though there was no star system throughout the galaxy that had not been infested by the vermin of the greenskins.

'Any sign of our reinforcements?' he shouted.

'Not yet,' returned Caphen. 'We're supposed to be getting extra squads from the First and Third, but nothing so far.'

Solomon ducked as a rocket skidded from the knotted pile of metal he sheltered behind, with a deafening clang, and ricocheted straight up, before detonating in a shower of flame and smoke. Burning shrapnel fell in a patter of scorching scads of metal.

'Don't worry!' cried Solomon. 'Julius and Marius won't let us down.'

At least they better not, he thought grimly, as he bleakly considered the possibility of being overrun. With the unexpected counter-attack by the aliens, he and his warriors would be trapped on the flight deck unless they could fight their way through hundreds of shouting enemy warriors. Solomon wouldn't have given the matter a second thought against any other foe, but the greenskin warriors were monstrous brutes whose strength was very nearly the equal of an Astartes warrior. Their central nervous systems were so primitive that they took a great deal of punishment before they lay down and stopped fighting.

A greenskin warrior was not the equal of an Astartes by any means, but they had enough raw aggression to make up for it, and they had numbers on their side.

The Callinedes system was an Imperial collection of worlds under threat from the greenskins, and to begin the liberation of those worlds that had already fallen, the defence orbitals had to be won back.

This was the first stage in the Imperial relief of Callinedes, and would see the reuniting of the Emperor's Children and the Iron Hands as they assaulted the enemy strongholds on Callinedes IV.

Solomon risked a quick glance over the lip of the smoking metal, as he heard a strident bellow sounding from behind the spars of metal and wreckage that the greenskins were using for cover. Solomon had no knowledge of the greenskin language (or even if they had anything that could be described as language), but the warrior in him recognised the barbaric cadences of a war speech. Whatever passed for greenskin leadership was clearly readying their warriors for an attack. Tribal fetishes and glyph poles hung with grisly trophies bobbed behind the rusted metal and Solomon knew they were in the fight of their lives.

'Come on, damn you,' he whispered. Without support from Julius or Marius, he would need to order a retreat to the assault craft and concede defeat, a prospect that had little appeal to his warrior code. 'Any word yet?'

'Nothing yet,' hissed Caphen. 'They're not coming are they?'

'They'll come,' promised Solomon as the chanting bellows from ahead suddenly swelled in volume and the crash of metal and iron-shod boots erupted from beyond.

Gaius Caphen and Solomon shared a moment of perfect understanding, and rose to their feet with their bolters at the ready.

'Looks like they're going up the centre!' shouted Caphen.

'Bastards!' yelled Solomon. 'That's my plan! Second, open fire!'

A torrent of bolter fire reached out to the greenskins, and the front line was scythed down by rippling series of explosions. Sharp, hard detonations echoed from the metal walls of the flight deck as the Astartes fired volley after volley into the charging enemy, but no matter how many fell, it only seemed to spur the survivors to a greater frenzy.

The aliens came in a tide of green flesh, rusted armour and battered leather. Red eyes like furnace coals glittered with feral intelligence, and they bellowed their uncouth war cries like wild beasts. They fired noisy, blazing weapons from the hip or brandished mighty, toothed blades with smoke belching motors. Some wore armour attached with thick leather straps, or simply nailed to their thick hides, while others wore great, horned helmets fringed with thick furs.

A huge brute in wheezing, mechanical exo-armour led the charge, bolter shells sparking and ricocheting from his protective suit. Solomon could see the rippling heat haze of a protective energy field sheathing the monstrous chieftain, though how such a primitive race could manufacture or maintain such technology baffled him.

The bolters of the Second wreaked fearful havoc amongst the aliens, blasting sprays of stinking red blood from great, bloodied craters in green flesh, or blowing limbs clean off in explosions of gore.

'Ready swords!' shouted Solomon as he saw that no matter how great the carnage worked upon the charge, it wouldn't be nearly enough.

He put aside his bolter and drew his sword and pistol as the first greenskin warrior smashed its way through the rusted girders, not even bothering to go around. Solomon swayed aside from a blow that would have hacked him in two, and swung his sword in a double-handed grip for his opponent's neck. His sword bit the full breadth of his hand into the greenskin's neck, but instead of dropping dead, the greenskin bellowed and savagely clubbed him to the ground.

Solomon rolled to avoid a stamping foot that would surely have crushed his skull, and lashed out once more. This time, his blade hacked through the beast's ankle, and it collapsed in a thrashing pile of limbs. Still it tried to kill him, but Solomon quickly picked himself up and stomped his boot down on the greenskin's throat, before putting a pair of bolt shells through its skull.

Gaius Caphen struggled with a greenskin a head taller than him, its great, motorised axe slashing for his head with every stroke. Solomon shot it in the face and ducked as yet another greenskin came at him. All shape to the battle was lost as each warrior fought his own private war, all skill reduced to survival and killing.

It couldn't end this way. A lifetime of glory and honour couldn't end at the hands of the greenskins. He had fought side by side with some of the Imperium's greatest heroes, and there was no way he was going to die fighting a foe as inglorious as these brutes.

Unfortunately, he thought wryly, they didn't seem to know that.

Where in the name of Terra were Julius and Marius?

He saw a pair of his warriors borne to the deck by a pack of howling greenskins, a roaring axe hacking their Mark IV plate to splintered ruins. Another was ripped almost in two by a close range burst from a monstrous rotary cannon that was carried by a greenskin as though it weighed no more than a pistol.

Even as he watched these tragedies play out, a rusted cleaver smote him in the chest and hurled him backwards. His armour split under the impact and he coughed blood, looking up into the snarling, fanged gorge of the greenskin leader. The hissing, wheezing armour enlarged its burly physique, its muscles powered by mighty pistons and roaring bellows.

Solomon rolled aside as the cleaver arced towards him, crying out as splintered ends of bone ground together in his chest. Momentary pain paralysed him, but even as he awaited another attack, he heard the sound of massed bolter fire and the high-pitched whine of a hundred chainswords.

The greenskin before him looked up in response to the sound, and Solomon did not waste his opportunity, unloading his weapon full in its face, pulping its thickly-boned skull in a torrent of explosive shells.

Its metal exo-skeleton kept it on its feet, but suddenly the greenskin force was in disarray as newly arrived Emperor's Children tore into the battle, delivering point blank shots from bolt pistols, or cutting limbs and heads from bodies with precisely aimed sword blows.

In moments, the fighting was done as the last pockets of greenskin warriors were isolated into smaller and smaller knots of resistance, and were mercilessly gunned down by the new arrivals. Solomon watched the extermination with cold admiration, for the killings were achieved with a perfection he had not seen in some time.

Gaius Caphen, bloodied and battered, but alive, helped him to his feet, and Solomon smiled despite the pain in his cracked ribs.

'I told you Julius and Marius wouldn't let us down,' he said.

Caphen shook his head as the captains who led the relief force marched over towards them. 'That's not who came.'

Solomon looked up in confusion as the nearest warrior removed his helm.

'I heard you could use some help, and thought we'd lend a hand,' said Saul Tarvitz. Behind Tarvitz, Solomon saw the unmistakable swagger of the swordsman, Lucius.

'What about the Third and the First?' he hissed, the fact that his battle-brothers had forsaken the Second more painful than any wound.

Tarvitz shrugged apologetically. 'I don't know. We were beginning our push to the main control centre and heard your request for support.'

'It's a good thing we did,' said Lucius, his scarred face twisted in amusement. 'Looks like you needed the help.'

Solomon felt like punching the arrogant bastard, but held his tongue, for the swordsman was right. Without their aid, he and his warriors would have been slaughtered.

'I'm grateful, Captain Tarvitz,' he said, ignoring Lucius.

Tarvitz bowed and said, 'The honour is mine, Captain Demeter, but I must regretfully take my leave of you. We must move on our primary objective.'

'Yes,' said Solomon, waving him away. 'Go. Do the Legion proud.'

Tarvitz threw him a quick martial salute and turned away, sliding his helmet back on and issuing orders to his warriors. Lucius gave him a mock bow and saluted him with the energised edge of his blade before joining his fellow captain.

Julius and Marius had not come.

'Where were you?' he whispered, but no one answered him.

'My lord!' cried Vespasian, marching into Fulgrim's staterooms without pause or ceremony. The lord commander was arrayed in his battle armour, the smooth plates oiled and polished to a reflective finish. His face was flushed and his stride urgent as he made his way through the mess of broken marble and half-finished canvases, towards where Fulgrim sat in contemplation before a pair of statues carved to represent the captains of two of his battle companies.

Fulgrim looked up as he approached, and Vespasian was struck again by the change that had come over his primarch since they had taken their leave of the 63rd Expedition. The four week journey to the Callinedes system had been one of the strangest times Vespasian could remember, his primarch sullen and withdrawn and the soul of the Legion in turmoil. As more and more of Apothecary Fabius's chemicals were introduced to the Legion's blood, only a blind man could fail to see the decline in the Legion's moral fibre. With Fulgrim's and Eidolon's sanction, few of the Legion's captains were willing to resist the slide into decadent arrogance.

Only a very few of Vespasian's companies still held to the ideals that had founded the Legion, and he was at a loss as to know how to stop the rot. With the orders coming directly from Fulgrim and Eidolon, the rigid command structure of the Emperor's Children allowed little, if any, room for leeway in the interpretation of their orders.

Vespasian had requested an audience with Fulgrim all through the journey to the Callinedes system, and though his exalted rank would normally entitle him to such a meeting without question, his requests had been denied. As he had watched the battle hololiths from the Heliopolis, and seen Solomon Demeter's company abandoned, he had decided to take matters into his own hands.

'Vespasian?' said Fulgrim, his pale features energised as he returned his gaze to the statues before him. 'How goes the battle?'

Vespasian controlled his temper and forced himself to be calm. 'The battle will be won soon, my lord, but—'

'Good,' interrupted Fulgrim. Vespasian now saw that his lord and master had three swords laid out before him. Fireblade lay pointed at a statue of Marius Vairosean, the damnable silver sword of the Laer pointed at one of Julius Kaesoron. A weapon with a glittering grey blade and golden hilt lay in a shattered pile of marble sitting between the two statues, and Vespasian could see from the remains of a carved face that the statue had once been of Solomon Demeter.

'My lord,' pressed Vespasian, 'why were Captains Vairosean and Kaesoron held back from supporting Captain Demeter? But for the intervention of Tarvitz and Lucius, Solomon's men would be dead.'

'Tarvitz and Lucius saved Captain Demeter?' asked Fulgrim, and Vespasian was shocked to see a hint of annoyance surface on Fulgrim's face. 'How… courageous of them.'

'They shouldn't have needed to,' said Vespasian. 'Julius and Marius were supposed to support the Second, but they were held back. Why?'

'Are you questioning me, Vespasian?' asked Fulgrim. 'I am enacting the Warmaster's will. Do you dare to suggest that you know better than he how we should prosecute this foe?'

Vespasian was stunned at Fulgrim's pronouncement and said, 'With all due respect, my lord, the Warmaster is not here. How can he know how best to prosecute the greenskins?'

Fulgrim smiled, and lifting the grey sheened sword from the remains of Solomon's statue he said, 'Because he knows that this battle is not about the greenskins.'

'Then what is it about, my lord?' demanded Vespasian. 'I should dearly wish to know.'

'It is about righting a monstrous wrong that has been done to us, and purging our ranks of those without the strength to do what must be done. The Warmaster moves on the Isstvan system and on its bloody fields a reckoning will take place.'

'The Isstvan system?' asked Vespasian. 'I don't understand. Why is the Warmaster moving on the Isstvan system?'

'Because it is there that we will cross the Rubicon, my dear Vespasian,' said Fulgrim, his voice choked with emotion. 'There, we will take the first steps on the new path the Warmaster forges: a path that will lead to the establishment of a new and glorious order of perfection and wonder.'

Vespasian fought to keep up with Fulgrim's rapid delivery and confused ramblings. His eyes flickered to the sword in the primarch's hand, feeling a dreadful threat from the blade, as though the weapon itself were a sentient thing and desired his death. He shook off such superstitious nonsense and said, 'Permission to speak freely, my lord?'

'Always, Vespasian,' said Fulgrim. 'You must always speak freely, for where is the pleasure to be had in our facility for locution if we restrain ourselves from freedom? Tell me, have you heard of a philosopher of Old Earth called Cornelius Blayke?'

'No, my lord, but—'

'Oh, you must read him, Vespasian,' said Fulgrim, guiding him towards a great canvas at the end of the stateroom. 'Julius introduced me to his works, and I can barely conceive of how I endured this long without them. Evander Tobias thinks highly of him, though an old man such as he is beyond making use of such raptures as may be found locked within the pages of Blayke's work.'

'My lord, please!'

Fulgrim held up a hand to silence him as they arrived at the canvas, and the primarch turned him around to face it. 'Hush, Vespasian, there is something I wish you to see.'

Vespasian's questions fled from his mind at the horror of the picture before him, the image of his primarch distorted and leering, the flesh pulled tight over protruding bones and the mouth twisted with the anticipation of imminent violence and violation. The figure's armour was a loathsome parody of the proud, noble form of Mark IV plate, its every surface covered with bizarre symbols that appeared to writhe on the canvas, as though the thick layers of stinking paint had been applied over a host of living worms.

It was in the eyes, however, that Vespasian saw the greatest evil. They burned with the light of secret knowledge, and of things done in the name of experience that it would sear his soul to know but a fraction of. No vileness was beyond this apparition, no depths too low to embrace, and no practice too vile to be indulged in.

As he stared into the lidless eyes of the image, they fixed upon him, and he felt the painting's leprous visage peel back the layers of his soul as it hunted for the darkness within him that it would bring forth and nurture. The sense of violation was horrific. He dropped to his knees as he fought to avert his gaze from the burning cruelty of the painting, and the terrifying void that existed beyond its eyes. He saw the birth and death of universes in the wheeling stars of its eyes, and the futility of his feeble race in denying their every whim.

The painting's lips bulged, twisting in a rictus grin.

Give in to me… it seemed to say… Expose your deepest desires to me.

Vespasian felt every corner of his being dredged for darkness and spite, bitterness and bile, but his soul soared as he sensed the growing frustration of the violator as it found nothing to sink its claws into. Its anger grew, and as it did, so too did his strength. He tore his eyes from the painting, feeling its anger at the purity of his desires. He tried to reach for his sword to destroy this creation of evil, but the painting's monstrous will held his power of action locked in the prison of his flesh.

He harbours nothing, said the horrifying painting in disgust. He is worthless. Kill him.

'Vespasian,' said Fulgrim above him, and he had the vivid sensation that the primarch was not talking to him, but was addressing the sword itself.

He fought in vain to turn his head, feeling the sharp prick of the sword point laid against his neck. He tried to cry out, to warn Fulgrim of what he had seen, but his throat felt as though bands of iron had clamped around it, his muscles locked to immobility by the power of the image before him.

'Energy is an eternal delight,' whispered Fulgrim, 'and he who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence. You could have stood at my right hand, Vespasian, but you have shown that you are a pestilence within the ranks of the Emperor's Children. You must be cut out.'

Vespasian felt the pressure on the back of his neck grow stronger, the tip of the sword breaking skin and warm blood trickling down his neck.

'Don't do this,' he managed to hiss.

Fulgrim paid his words no heed and, with one smooth motion, drove the blade of the anathame downwards through Vespasian's spine, and into his chest cavity until the golden quillons rested to either side of the nape of his neck.

The cargo decks of the deep orbital had been cleared of the greenskin dead by the Legion's menials, for a portion of the Callinedes battle force to assemble and hear the words of their beloved primarch. Fulgrim marched behind a line of heralds, chosen from among the young initiates who were soon to complete their training as Emperor's Children. The trumpeters fanned out before him, playing a blaring fanfare to announce his arrival, and a thunderous roar of applause swelled from the assembled warriors as they welcomed him.

Arrayed in his battle armour, the Primarch of the Emperor's Children knew he was a truly magnificent sight. His face was pale and sculpted, framed by the flowing mane of his albino white hair. He wore the golden-hilted sword that he had used to slay Vespasian, belted at his hip, eager to display the bond of brotherhood that existed between him and the Warmaster.

Lord Commander Eidolon, Apothecary Fabius and Chaplain Charmosian, the senior officers of his inner circle, flanked him. They had been instrumental in spreading the clarity of the Warmaster's vision to the warriors of the Legion. The massive Dreadnought body of Ancient Rylanor, the Emperor's Children's Ancient of Rites, also accompanied him, through tradition rather than loyalty to the Legion's new vision.

Fulgrim waited graciously for the applause to die down before speaking, letting his dark eyes linger upon those he knew would follow him and ignoring those he knew would not.

'My brothers!' called Fulgrim, his voice lilting and golden. 'This day you have shown the accursed greenskin what it means to stand against the Children of me Emperor!'

More applause rolled around the cargo decks, but he spoke over it, his voice easily cutting through the clamour of his warriors.

'Commander Eidolon has wrought you into a weapon against which the greenskins had no defence. Perfection, strength, resolve: these qualities are the cutting edge of the Legion and you have shown them all here today. This orbital is in Imperial hands once more, as are the others the greenskins had occupied in the futile hope offending off our invasion.

'The time has come to press home this attack against the greenskins and liberate the Callinedes system! My brother primarch, Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands, and I, shall see to it that not a single alien stands upon land claimed in the name of the Crusade.'

Fulgrim could taste the expectation in the air and savoured the anticipation of his next words, knowing that they carried death for some and glory for others. The Legion awaited his orders, most of them unaware of the magnitude of what he was to command, or that the fate of the galaxy hung in the balance.

'Most of you, my brothers, will not be there,' said Fulgrim. He could feel the crushing weight of disappointment settle upon his warriors, and had to fight to control the wild laughter that threatened to bubble up, as they cried out at what was to be a death sentence for many of them.

'The Legion will be divided,' continued Fulgrim, raising his hands to stem the cries of woe and lamentation his words provoked. 'I will lead a small force to join Ferrus Manus and his Iron Hands at Callinedes IV. The rest of the Legion will rendezvous with the Warmaster's 63rd Expedition at the Isstvan system. These are the orders of the Warmaster and your primarch. Lord Commander Eidolon will lead you to Isstvan, and he will act in my stead until I can join you once more.'

'Commander, if you please,' said Fulgrim, gesturing Eidolon to step forwards.

Eidolon nodded and said, 'The Warmaster has called upon us to aid his Legion in battle once more. He recognises our skills and we welcome this chance to prove our superiority. We are to halt a rebellion in the Isstvan system, but we are not to fight alone. As well as his own Legion, the Warmaster has seen fit to deploy the Death Guard and the World Eaters.'

A muttered gasp spread around the cargo bay at the mention of such brutal Legions.

Eidolon chuckled. 'I see some of you remember fighting alongside our brother Astartes. We all know what a grim and artless business war becomes in the hands of such men, so I say this is the perfect opportunity to show the Warmaster how the Emperor's chosen fight!'

The Legion cheered once more, and Fulgrim's amusement turned instantly to sorrow as he understood that, but for Vespasian's stubbornness, a great many of these warriors would have made a fine addition to the army of the Warmaster's new crusade.

With such warriors fighting for the Warmaster, what heights of perfection would have been beyond them? Vespasian's refusal to allow his men to sample the heady delights of Fabius's chemical stimulants, or to undergo enhancing surgeries, had condemned the warriors once under his command to death in the Warmaster's trap of Isstvan III. He realised he should have disposed of Vespasian much sooner, and the mixture of guilt and excitement at the deaths he had set in motion was a potent cocktail of sensations.

'The Warmaster has requested our presence immediately,' shouted Eidolon through the cheering. 'Though Isstvan is not far distant, the conditions in the Warp have become more difficult, so we must make all haste. The strike cruiser Andronius will leave for Isstvan in four hours. When we arrive, it will be as ambassadors for our Legion, and when the battle is done the Warmaster will have witnessed war at its most magnificent.'

Eidolon saluted and Fulgrim led the applause before turning and taking his leave.

Now he had to deliver on the second part of his pledge to the Warmaster.

Now he had to convince Ferrus Manus to join their great endeavour.

NINETEEN An Error of Judgement

The beat of hammers and the pounding of distant forges echoed through the Anvilarium of the Fist of Iron, but Gabriel Santar, First Captain of the Iron Hands, barely heard them. The Morlock Terminators stood sentinel around the edge of the chamber, the mightiest of them protecting the gates of the primarch's inner sanctum, the Iron Forge. Rendered ghostly by the hissing clouds of steam that billowed from the deck, the fearsome visage of the Morlocks put Santar in mind of the vengeful predators that howled across the frozen tundra of Medusa for which they were named.

His heart beat in time with the mighty hammers far below, the thought of once again standing in the presence of two of the mightiest beings in the galaxy filling him with pride, honour and, if he was honest, not a little trepidation.

Ferrus Manus stood beside him, resplendent in his gleaming, black battle armour and wearing a glistening cloak of mail that shone like spun silver. His high gorget of dark iron obscured the lower part of his face, but Santar knew his primarch well enough to know that he was smiling at the thought of a reunion with his brother.

'It will do my heart proud to see Fulgrim again, Santar,' said Ferrus, and Santar risked a sidelong glance at the primarch of the X Legion, hearing a note of wariness in his master's voice that echoed his own feelings on the matter.

'My lord?' he asked. 'Is something the matter?'

Ferrus Manus turned his flinty eyes on Santar and said, 'No, not exactly, my friend, but you were there when we parted from the Emperor's Children after the victory over the Diasporex. You know that our Legions did not part as brothers in arms should.'

Santar nodded, remembering well the ceremony of parting on the upper embarkation deck of the Pride of the Emperor. The ceremony was to be held aboard Fulgrim's flagship, for the Fist of Iron had suffered horrendous damage when it had intercepted the Diasporex cruisers closing on the Firebird, and the Primarch of the Emperor's Children had deemed it unfit for a ceremony of such magnitude.

Though such a proclamation had incensed its captain and crew, Ferrus Manus had laughed off his brother's hasty words and agreed to come aboard the Pride of the Emperor.

Surrounded by the Morlocks, Ferrus Manus and Santar had marched through the ranks of elaborately armoured Phoenix Guard towards the waiting forms of the Phoenician and his battle captains. The march had felt like they were running a gauntlet of enemy warriors instead of the praetorians of their closest brothers.

In Santar's eyes, the ceremony had been concluded with unseemly haste, Fulgrim taking his brother in an embrace that was as awkward as their first had been joyous. Ferrus Manus must surely have noticed the change in his brother's mien, but he had said nothing of it upon their return to the Fist of Iron. A tightening of the primarch's jaw as he watched the 28th Expedition translate into the churning maelstrom of the warp had been the only indication that he felt slighted by his brother's coldness.

'You think Fulgrim still feels affronted by what happened at the Carollis Star?'

Ferrus did not answer immediately, and Santar knew that was exactly what was bothering his primarch. 'We saved him and his precious Firebird from being blown to bits,' continued Santar. 'Fulgrim should be grateful.'

Ferrus chuckled and said, 'You don't know my brother then. That he needed saving at all is unthinkable to him, for it suggests that he acted in a manner less than perfect. Be sure not to mention it around him, Gabriel. I'm serious.'

Santar shook his head, his lip curled in a sneer. 'Too damn superior the lot of them, did you see the way their first captain sized me up when we first boarded the Pride of the Emperor? You didn't have to be old Cistor to feel the condescension coming from them. They think they're better than us. You can see it in every one of their faces.'

Ferrus Manus turned to face him, and the full power of his silver eyes bored in on Santar, their cold depths chilling in their controlled anger. Santar knew he'd gone too far, and he cursed the fire within him that surged in him at the thought of any insult done to his Legion.

'My apologies, lord,' he said. 'I spoke out of turn.'

As quickly as Ferrus's ire had risen at his fiery words, it subsided, and he leaned down close to Santar, his voice little more than a whisper. 'Yes you did, but you spoke from the heart, and that is why I value you. It's true that this rendezvous is unexpected, for I did not request the presence of the Emperor's Children to aid us. The 52nd Expedition needs no assistance in defeating the greenskins.'

'Then why are they here?' asked Santar.

'I do not know, though I welcome the chance to see my brother again and heal any rifts between us.'

'Perhaps he feels the same and comes to make amends.'

'I doubt it,' said Ferrus Manus. 'It is not in Fulgrim's nature to admit when he is wrong.'

The great black iron gates of the Anvilarium swung open, and Fulgrim marched towards them with his flowing, fur-lined cape billowing in the heated gusts of air from the forges below. He stood for a moment at the chamber's threshold, knowing that to step across this line was to set foot on a road that might see him sundered forever from his closest brother. He saw Ferrus Manus with his first captain and chief astropath flanking him, the grim form of his Morlock bodyguards placed around the chamber's perimeter.

Julius Kaesoron, resplendent in his Terminator armour, and a full ten of the Phoenix Guard accompanied him to mark the gravity of the moment. When Fulgrim sensed the moment was right, he stepped into the dry heat of the Anvilarium and marched to stand before his brother primarch. Julius Kaesoron remained at his side, as the Phoenix Guard moved to join the Morlocks at the chamber's edge so that there was a purple and gold armoured twin for each of the steel-skinned Terminators.

The risk of approaching Ferrus Manus like this was great, but the rewards to be reaped upon the inevitable success of the Warmaster's ambition outweighed any doubts he might once have had.

The Warmaster had already begun the process of winning the other primarchs to his cause, and Fulgrim had promised that he could bring him Ferrus Manus without a shot being fired. Such was their shared history and bonds of brotherhood that Fulgrim knew Ferrus Manus could not fail to see the justice of their cause. The veil of lies had been lifted from Fulgrim's eyes, and it was his duty to reveal that lie to his closest brother.

'Ferrus,' he said, opening his arms to his brother, 'it gladdens my heart to see you again.'

Ferrus Manus embraced him, and Fulgrim felt his love for his brother swell in his breast as the primarch of the Iron Hands thumped his silver hands against his fur cape.

'It is an unexpected joy to see you, my brother,' said Ferrus, stepping back and looking him up and down. 'What brings you to the Callinedes system? Are we not prosecuting the foe quickly enough for the Warmaster?'

'On the contrary,' beamed Fulgrim, 'the Warmaster himself sends his compliments and bids me honour you for the speed of your conquests.'

He bit back a smile as he felt the pride of achievement fill every warrior of the Iron Hands in the Anvilarium. Of course the Warmaster had said no such thing, but a little flattery never failed to win over hearts and minds at such times.

'You hear that, my brothers!' shouted Ferrus Manus. 'The Warmaster honours us! Glory to the Tenth Legion!'

'Glory to the Tenth Legion!' bellowed the Iron Hands, and Fulgrim felt like laughing at such primitive displays of pleasure. He could show these dull warriors the true meaning of pleasure, but that would come later.

Ferrus clapped his silver hand on Fulgrim's shoulder and said, 'But come, brother. Aside from passing on the Warmaster's honour, what brings you here?'

Fulgrim smiled and placed his hand on Fireblade's golden pommel. He had deemed it impolitic to come before Ferrus without the sword his brother had forged beneath Mount Narodnya over two centuries ago, but he felt the absence of his silver blade keenly. Ferrus saw the gesture and reached behind him to lift Forgebreaker, the great hammer that Fulgrim had crafted.

The two primarchs smiled, and once again their brotherhood was obvious to all.

'You are right, Ferrus, there is more that I would speak of, but it is for your ears alone,' said Fulgrim. 'It concerns the very future of the Great Crusade.'

Suddenly serious, Ferrus nodded and said, 'Then we shall talk in the Iron Forge.'

Marius stood rigidly to attention on the bridge of the Pride of the Emperor, his flesh alive with sensation as he watched the drifting slab of steel and bronze that was the Fist of Iron through the viewing bay. The ship was an ugly beast, decided Marius, its hull still scarred and unpainted after the damage done to it during the battle of the Carollis Star. What kind of Legion would travel in a vessel so unfitted to the glory of the warriors it carried? What manner of leader did not have the pride to embellish his fleet so that it displayed the perfection of the Legion it represented?

Marius felt his choler rise and straggled to control it as he found himself crushing the brass rails around the command pulpit. His anger stimulated the newly rewired pleasure centres of his brain, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that he forced himself to be calm.

He had explicit orders from his primarch, orders that might be the difference between life and death for all those aboard the Fist of Iron, and it would be the death of them all were he to fail when called upon. Fulgrim had specifically selected him for this role, for he knew there was no warrior more reliable than Marius in the Emperor's Children, who would not hesitate or suffer any conflict of conscience at doing what might have to be done.

Ever since going under the knives of Apothecary Fabius, Marius had felt as though his skin were a prison for the universe of sensation that seethed in the meat and bone of his body. Every emotion brought an ecstasy of joy, and every hurt a spasm of pleasure. Julius had instructed him on the teachings of Cornelius Blayke, and he had passed that knowledge throughout his company. Every one of his officers and many of the fighting Astartes had been sent to the Andronius for chemical and surgical enhancement. The demands on Apothecary Fabius had been so great that he had even established an entirely new corps of augmentative chirurgeons to meet the Legion's requirements for enhancements.

With the Legion's surprise attack on Deep Orbital DS191, the Iron Hands had welcomed them with open arms, renewing the oaths of brotherhood that had been sworn amid the corpses of the Diasporex fleet. The piquet vessels of the Iron Hands had stood down, and, discreetly and without provocation, the Pride of the Emperor and her escorts drifted amongst the ships of the 52nd Expedition.

With one command, he could visit unimaginable destruction upon the Iron Hands. The thought made him sweat, and his every nerve ending leapt to the surface of his skin, singing with sensation.

If Fulgrim's mission was successful, such drastic action would not be necessary.

Despite himself, Marius realised that he hoped his primarch's mission would fail.

Ferrus Manus kept his most prized relics and personal creations within the Iron Forge. Its gleaming walls were fashioned from smooth, glassy basalt and hung with all manner of wondrous weapons, armour and machinery crafted by the primarch's silver hands. A vast anvil of iron and gold sat in the centre of the forge, and Ferrus Manus had long ago declared that none save his brother primarchs were permitted to enter this most private sanctum. Fulgrim himself had only set foot in it once before.

Vulkan of the XVIII Legion had once declared it a magical place, using the language of the ancients to describe the magnificence it contained. To honour Ferrus's skill, Vulkan had presented him with a Firedrake banner, which hving next to a wondrously crafted gun with a top loading magazine and perforated barrel formed in the shape of a snarling dragon. Its brass and silver body conxprised the finest workmanship Fulgrim had ever seen, and he paused before it, its lines and curves so beautiful that to simply label it a weapon was to deny that it was in fact a work of art.

'I made that for Vulkan two hundred years ago,' said Ferrus, 'before he led his Legion into the Mordant Stars.'

'So why is it still here?'

'You know what Vulkan's like, he loves to work the metal and doesn't trust anything that hasn't had the beat of a hammer laid upon it or the fire of the forge in its heart.'

Ferrus held up his shimmering, mercurial hands and said, 'I don't think he liked the fact that I could shape metal without heat or hammer. He returned it to me a century ago, saying that it should remain here with its creator. I think Nocturne's superstitions aren't as forgotten as our brother would have us believe.'

Fulgrim reached up to touch the weapon, but curled his fingers into a fist before they touched the warm metal. To touch such a perfect weapon without firing it would be wrong.

'I understand that there is a certain attraction in a handsomely made weapon, but to apply such artistry to a thing designed to kill seems… extravagant,' said Fulgrim.

'Really?' chuckled Ferrus, hefting Forgebreaker and pointing it at Fireblade sheathed at Fulgrim's hip. 'Then what were we doing in the Urals?'

Fulgrim drew his sword and turned it in his hands so that it caught the light and threw dazzling red reflections around the forge.

'That was a contest,' smiled Fulgrim. 'I didn't know you then, and I wasn't going to have you outdo me, was I?'

Ferrus circled the Iron Forge, pointing his warhammer at the magnificent creations he had wrought, and which hung upon the wall. 'There is nothing in weapons, machinery, or engineering devices that obliges them to be ugly,' said Ferrus. 'Ugliness is a measure of imperfection. You of all people should appreciate that.'

'Then you must be perfectly imperfect,' said Fulgrim, his smile robbing the comment of malice.

'I'll leave being pretty to you and Sanguinius, my brother. I'll stick to fighting. Now come on, what's this all about? You speak of the future of the Great Crusade and then want to talk of weapons and old times? What's going on?'

Fulgrim tensed, suddenly anxious at what he was to ask of his brother. He had hoped to approach the matter circuitously, feeling out his brother's position and the likelihood of him joining them willingly, but with typical Medusan directness, Ferrus Manus had come right out and demanded to know his purpose.

How artless and blunt.

'When did you last see the Emperor?' asked Fulgrim.

'The Emperor? What has that to do with anything?'

'Indulge me. When was it?'

'A long time ago,' admitted Ferrus. 'Orina Septimus. On the crystal headlands above the acid oceans.'

'I last saw him on Ullanor at the Warmaster's coronation,' said Fulgrim, moving towards the great anvil and trailing his fingers along the cold metal. 'I wept when he told us that he believed the time had come for him to leave the crusading work to his sons, and that he was returning to Terra to undertake a still higher calling.'

'The Great Triumph,' nodded Ferrus sadly. 'I was on campaign in the Kaelor Nebula and too far distant to attend personally. It is the one regret I have, not being able to say my farewells to our father.'

'I was there,' said Fulgrim, his voice choked with emotion. 'I stood on the dais next to Horus and Dorn when the Emperor told us he was leaving, and it was the second most heartbreaking moment of my life. We begged him to stay, to see out what he had begun, but he turned his back on us. He would not even say what this great work was, only that were he not to return to Terra then all that we had won would crumble and fall into ruins.'

Ferrus Manus looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. 'You talk as if he abandoned us.'

'That was how it felt,' said Fulgrim, his tone bitter. 'How it still feels.'

'You said yourself that our father was returning to Terra to preserve all that we have fought and bled for. Do you really think he would not have wanted to see the final victory of the Crusade?'

'I don't know,' said Fulgrim angrily. 'He could have stayed, what difference would a few years make? What could be so important that he had to leave us there and then?'

Ferrus took a step towards him, and Fulgrim saw the reflection of his hurt anger in the mirrored eyes of his brother, the betrayal of everything he and the Emperor's Children had fought for over the last two hundred years.

'I do not understand what you imply Fulgrim,' said Ferrus, his words trailing off as the import of Fulgrim's earlier words came to him. 'What did you mean when you said it was the second most heartbreaking moment of your life? What could be greater than that?'

Fulgrim took a deep breath, knowing that he would have to come flat out and say what he had come to say.

'What could be greater than that? When Horus told me the truth of how the Emperor had betrayed us and planned to cast us aside in his quest for godhood,' said Fulgrim, relishing the horrified expression of surprise and fury on his brother's face.

'Fulgrim!' shouted Ferrus. 'What in Terra is wrong with you? Betrayed us? Godhood? What are you talking about?'

Fulgrim took quick steps to stand before Ferrus Manus, his voice passionate now that he had taken the final step and confessed his true reasons for coming here. 'Horus has seen the truth of things, my brother. The Emperor has already abandoned us and even now plots his apotheosis. He lied to us all, Ferrus. We were nothing more than tools to win back the galaxy in preparation for his ascension! The perfect being he pretended to be was a filthy lie!'

Ferrus pushed him off and backed away, his ruddy, craggy features pale and horrified. Knowing he had to press on, Fulgrim said, 'Others have already seen this truth and are moving to join Horus. We will strike before the Emperor is even aware that his designs have been unmasked. Horus will reclaim the galaxy in the name of those whose blood was spent to conquer it!'

Fulgrim wanted to laugh as the words spilled from him, the thrill of finally unburdening himself almost too great to stand. The breath heaved in his lungs, and he could not tell whether the thundering he could hear was the blood surging in his skull or the hammers of far away forges.

Ferrus Manus shook his head, and Fulgrim despaired as he saw his brother's horror turning to fury. 'This is the new direction of the Crusade you spoke of?'

'Yes!' cried Fulgrim. 'It will be a glorious age of perfection, my brother. What we have won is already being given away to imperfect mortals who will waste the glories we won for them. What we have earned in blood and tears will be ours again, can't you see that?'

'All I see is betrayal, Fulgrim!' roared Ferrus Manus. 'You are not talking about claiming back what we have won: you are talking about betraying everything we stand for!'

'My brother,' implored Fulgrim, 'please! You must listen to me. The Mechanicum has already pledged its support to the Warmaster, as have many of our brothers! War is coming, war that will engulf this galaxy in flames. When it is over, there will be no mercy for those on the wrong side.'

He saw the colour flood back into his brother's face, a raw and bellicose red that he knew all too well. 'Terms, I beg you for the sake of our brotherhood to join us!'

'Brotherhood?' bellowed Ferrus. 'Our brotherhood died when you decided to turn traitor!'

Fulgrim backed away from his brother as he saw the murderous intent in his blazing silver eyes. 'Lorgar and Angron are ready to strike, and Mortarion will soon be with us. You must join me or you will be destroyed!'

'No,' snarled Ferrus Manus, hefting Forgebreaker to his shoulder. 'It is you who will be destroyed.'

'Ferrus, no!' pleaded Fulgrim. 'Think about this. Would I come to you like this if I did not believe that it was the right thing to do?'

'I don't know what's happened to you, Fulgrim, but this is treachery and there is only one fate for traitors.'

'So… you are going to kill me?'

Ferrus hesitated, and Fulgrim saw his shoulders sag in despair.

'I am your sworn honour brother and I swear to you that I do not lie,' pressed Fulgrim, hoping that there was still a chance to convince his brother not to act in haste.

'I know you're not lying, Fulgrim,' said Ferrus sadly, 'and that's why you have to die.'

Fulgrim brought his sword up as Ferrus Manus swung his hammer for his head with blinding speed. The two weapons rang with a clash of steel that Fulgrim felt echo in the very depths of his soul. Flames blazed from his blade and lightning crackled from the head of Ferrus's hammer. The two primarchs stood locked together, Fulgrim pressing his fiery blade towards Ferrus, and the commander of the Iron I lands holding him at bay with the haft of his hammer.

Burning light and sound filled the Iron Forge, the weapons roaring as the unimaginable forces harnessed in their creation were unleashed. Ferrus dropped his guard and hammered his fist into Fulgrim's face, the force of the blow enough to crush the helmet of Tactical Dreadnought armour, but barely enough to bruise the flesh of a primarch. Fulgrim rode the blow and smashed his forehead into his brother's face, spinning on his heel and slashing his red hot blade towards Ferrus's throat.

The blade clanged on Ferrus's gorget, sliding clear without so much as scratching the black plate. Ferrus spun away from a return strike and swung his hammer one handed as he bought some space with his wide swings. The two warriors circled one another warily, both aware of how deadly the other could be, having fought side by side in decades of war. Fulgrim saw tears in his brother's eyes, and the mixture of sorrow and pleasure he took from the sight made him want to throw down his weapon and clasp his brother to his breast, that he might share such a stupendous experience.

'This is pointless, Ferrus,' said Fulgrim. 'Even now the Warmaster is preparing to expunge the weak from his forces at Isstvan III.'

'What are you talking about, traitor?' demanded Ferrus.

Fulgrim laughed. 'The power of four Legions will be unleashed against Isstvan III, but only those portions that are not loyal to the Warmaster and his grand designs for the future of the galaxy. Soon, perhaps even already, those weak elements will be dead, cleansed in the fire of a viral bombardment.'

'The Life Eater?' whispered Ferrus, and Fulgrim relished the horror he saw in his brother's eyes. 'Throne alive, Fulgrim, how could you be party to such murder?'

Wild laughter bubbled up inside Fulgrim, and he leapt to the attack, his blazing sword cleaving the air in a fiery arc. Once more, Ferrus's hammer came up to block the blow, but it was not a weapon designed for long duels, and Fulgrim rolled the blade over the haft and stabbed for his brother's face.

The burning blade scored along Ferrus's cheek, the skin blackening to match his armour, and his brother cried out as the sword he had forged dealt him a grievous wound. Blinded for the briefest second, he staggered away from Fulgrim.

Fulgrim stepped in, not letting his brother widen the gap, and smashed his fist repeatedly into Ferrus's face, hearing bone splinter beneath his assault. Ferrus reeled from the punches, blood drenching the lower half of his face. Fulgrim's senses shrieked with pleasure at the sight of his brother's pain, and his every sense was stimulated by what he was doing.

As Ferrus stumbled, blinded and incoherent, Fulgrim closed and swung his sword for Ferrus's neck. The sword arced towards Ferrus, but instead of raising his weapon to block the blow, Ferrus dropped the hammer and turned into the blow, catching the descending blade in his molten silver hands.

Fulgrim cried out as the pain of the impact jarred his arms. He tried to pull his weapon free, but Ferrus had it locked tight in his hands. The blade was utterly immobile, the chrome-steel of his brother's hands swirling as though changing from solid matter to liquid metal. Fulgrim blinked as the metal of his sword seemed to liquefy and the fire of its blade rippled up Ferrus's hands.

Ferrus opened his eyes, and the fire of the sword was alive in the silver coins of his eyes.

'I forged this blade,' hissed Ferrus, 'and I can break it too.'

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Fireblade exploded in a bright flare of molten metal. Both primarchs were hurled from their feet by the force of the blast, their armour and flesh burned by white hot gobbets of molten metal.

Fulgrim rolled and blinked stars from his eyes, stunned by the force of the explosion. He still held the ruined Fireblade, though all that was left of the sword above the hilt was a smoking nub of hissing metal. The sight of the rained blade penetrated the red mist of sensation that drove him and the symbolism of the weapon's destruction was not lost on him.

Ferrus was dead to him and would rather die than join the new galactic order of the Warmaster. He had hoped it would not come to this, but he knew that there was no other way this drama could end.

Ferrus lay insensible, his hands glowing with the wrath of the Fireblade's unmaking. His brother moaned in pain at the destruction he had wrought, and Fulgrim pushed himself to his feet as his brother groaned at the horror of what had transpired within his sanctum.

Fulgrim leaned down and took up his brother's warhammer, a weapon he had poured his heart and soul into, a weapon that had been forged for his own hand in a time that seemed as though it belonged to another age.

The weapon felt good, and he hefted it easily over one shoulder as he stood triumphantly over his brother's recumbent body. Ferrus propped himself up on his elbows and looked up through blood gummed eyes. 'You had best kill me, for I'll see you dead if you do not.'

Fulgrim nodded and raised Forgebreaker over his head, ready to deliver the deathblow.

The mighty warhammer trembled in his grip, though Fulgrim knew that it was not its weight that made it do so, but the realisation of what he was about to do. The darkness of his eyes met with the blazing silver of his brother's, and he felt his resolve waver in the face of the murder he was about to commit.

He lowered the hammer and said, 'You are my brother, Ferrus, I would have walked unto death with you. Why could you not have done the same for me?'

'You are not my brother,' spat Ferrus through the blood of his ruined face.

Fulgrim swallowed hard as he sought to summon the strength to do what he knew must be done. He heard a dim voice, a faraway whisper that screamed at him to crush the life from Ferrus Manus, but its entreaties were drowned by the memories of the great friendship he had once shared with his brother, for what could compete with such a bond?

'I will always be your brother,' said Fulgrim, and swung the hammer in an upward arc that connected thunderously with Ferrus's jaw. Ferrus's head snapped back and he collapsed to the floor of the Iron Forge, rendered unconscious by a blow that would have sent a mortal man's head spinning through the air for hundreds of metres.

The voice in his head screamed distantly for him to finish the killing, but Fulgrim ignored it and turned away from his brother. He kept hold of the hammer and made his way to the gates that led back into the Anvilarium.

Behind him, Ferrus Manus lay broken, but alive.

The great gates to the Iron Forge swung open and Julius saw Fulgrim emerge bearing the mighty warhammer, Forgebreaker. Gabriel Santar also saw the weapon Fulgrim bore, but was not quick enough to realise its import until Julius turned and shouted, 'Phoenician!'

Instantaneously, the warriors of the Phoenix Guard swung the crackling blades of their golden halberds and beheaded the Morlocks they stood next to with chillingly perfect symmetry. Ten heads clattered to the floor, and Julius smiled as Gabriel Santar and the astropath spun in horrified confusion. The Phoenix Guard closed the noose on the centre of the Anvilarium with measured strides, their bloodied blades extended before them like those of executioners.

'In the name of the Avernii, what are you doing?' cried Santar as the gates of the Iron Forge closed behind Fulgrim with a hollow boom. Julius could see that the First Captain of the Iron Hands was itching to draw his weapon, but did not do so in the certain knowledge that his death would follow as soon as he reached for it.

'Where is Ferrus Manus?' demanded Santar, but Fulgrim silenced him with a shake of his head and a sly smile of pity.

'He is alive, Gabriel,' said Fulgrim, and Julius hid his surprise at this news. 'He would not listen to reason and now you will all suffer. Julius…'

Julius smiled and turned to Gabriel Santar, lightning sheathed claws sliding from the gauntlets of his Terminator armour. Even as Santar saw what must inevitably happen next, it was too late as Julius hammered the crackling blades into his chest and tore them downwards. The energised claws tore through Santar's armour, ripping through his chest cavity and exiting in a gory spray of blood at his pelvis.

The First Captain of the Iron Hands collapsed, his lifeblood flooding from his ruined body, and Julius savoured the delicious aroma of electrically burnt flesh.

Fulgrim nodded appreciatively and opened a channel to the Pride of the Emperor.

'Marius,' he said, 'we will be making our way to the Firebird, and could use something to keep the 52nd Expedition's ships busy. You may open fire.'

TWENTY A Difficult Voyage Isstvan III Perfect Failure

Dark currents and swirling colours, unknowable beyond the gates of the empyrean, flowed around the Pride of the Emperor and her small complement of escorts as they forged a passage through the warp. Fulgrim's flagship bore fresh scars of war, but for all that her hull was imperfect, her magnificence was undimmed. The guns of the Iron Hands warships had left their marks upon her once pristine hull, but the shots had been fired in spite and futile defiance, for the broadsides fired by Fulgrim's warships had caught the Iron Hands completely by surprise.

The battle had been short and one-sided, and though the vessels accompanying the Pride of the Emperor were few in number they had inflicted crippling punishment on those of their former allies, and disrupted their ability to respond in any meaningful way.

Much to Marius Vairosean's disappointment, Fulgrim had called a halt to the attack before the destruction of the Fist of Iron was complete. Leaving the crippled X Legion's fleet becalmed, the ships of the Emperor's Children had disengaged and made the translation into the immaterium to rendezvous with the forces of the Warmaster once more.

Initially, things had gone as smoothly as could be hoped for, but barely a week into the journey to Isst-van III, storms of fearsome power erupted in the warp, tsunamis of unreality that crashed around the vessels of the 28th Expedition and smashed one to destruction before the few surviving Navigators had managed to fight their way through the storms and guide the ships to relative safety.

Moments prior to the first maelstrom of force, terrifying shrieks of agony and terror had echoed the length and breadth of the Pride of the Emperor's astropathic choir chambers. Alarums had sounded, and one entire chancel was blown clear of the vessel by the force of the psychic forces unleashed, forks of purple lightning dancing across the hull before null-shields and integrity fields had contained the breach. Hundreds of telepaths were dead, and those wretched ruins of flesh that survived were reduced to babbling, moronic psychotics. Before their elimination, those that retained some form of communication spoke of terrifying, galaxy changing forces unleashed, a world devoured by a monstrous, creeping death, fires that reached to the heavens, and the ending of billions of lives at a single stroke.

Only Fulgrim and his coterie of most trusted warriors understood the truth behind these forces, and the feasting and carousing that greeted the news plumbed new depths of insanity. The Emperor's Children revelled in the Warmaster's strength of purpose with the abandon that was now commonplace in the Legion.

As the revelries of the Astartes continued, the preparations for Bequa Kynska's Maraviglia reached new heights of wonder and decadence, with each rehearsal discovering new and undreamt of raptures to include. Coraline Aseneca trod the boards nightly as she trained her voice to replicate the sounds recorded in the Laer temple, and Bequa's symphony soared passionately as she sought to encapsulate its power in musical form. As part of her quest, she developed new and outlandish musical devices, their melodies as yet unheard and unknown. Such was their scale and form that they more resembled weapons than instruments, monstrously oversized horns like missile tubes and stringed mechanisms with long necks like rifles.

La Venice became a magical place of music and art, with the remembrancers working on the decor and embellishments of the theatre, excelling themselves as they strove to create a venue worthy of staging the Maraviglia.

Fulgrim spent a great deal of time in La Venice, offering his insights to the artists and sculptors, and every suggestion was followed by frantic bouts of creativity as they were immediately implemented.

Fragmentary scraps of information trickled in from Isstvan III, and it was eventually discerned that the Warmaster's first strike against those whose loyalty remained with the Emperor had failed to wipe them out completely. Instead of viewing this as a setback, it appeared that the Warmaster had taken it as an opportunity to blood his loyal warriors and complete what had begun with the war against the Brotherhood of the Auretian Technocracy.

Warriors from the World Eaters, Death Guard and Sons of Horus were at war in the fire wracked ruins of a murdered world, hunting down and destroying the deluded fools who believed they could oppose the Warmaster's will.

Even now, declared Fulgrim, Chaplain Charmosian and Lord Commander Eidolon would be earning the Warmaster's plaudits as they displayed the battle perfection of their beloved Legion. When the killing on Isstvan III was done, the chaff would have been cut from Horus's force, and they would be a sharpened blade aimed at the heart of the corrupt Imperium.

But the reunion of Fulgrim and Horus was to be delayed it seemed.

With the death of the majority of the astropaths, communication with the 63rd Expedition was problematic to say the least, with the shattered sanity of those left alive making the precise exchange of information between the two fleets virtually impossible. The Navigators could not discern a course through the warp not wracked with heaving currents and battering storms, and declared that it would take at least two months to reach Isstvan III.

Fulgrim chafed at such delays, but even a being as mighty as a primarch was powerless to quiet the tempests of the immaterium. In the enforced wait, he studied more of the writings of Cornelius Blayke, coming upon a passage that lodged like a splinter of ice in his heart.

He tore the page from the book and burned it, but its words returned to haunt him as the dark voyage through the warp continued:

"The phoenix is an angel: the clapping of whose wings is the roar of thunder.

And this thunder is the fearful note that heralds the cataclysm,

And the roar of the onrushing waves that will destroy paradise."

The sculpture was almost complete. What had begun many months ago as a gleaming white rectangle hewn from the quarries at Proconnesus on the Anatolian peninsula was now a towering, majestic sculpture of the Emperor of the Imperium. Ostian's workshop was almost tidy, only the tiniest chips and flakes of marble drifting to the floor, for the last stage of his statue's journey was being wrought with files and rasps of greater and greater fineness.

It had been said that the point of a journey was not to arrive, but to savour the experiences along the way. Ostian had never understood that aphorism, believing that only the end result made the journey worthwhile.

To anyone else, the statue would have been finished some time ago, but Ostian had long ago realised that only in these final stages could be found that which would breathe the final life into the statue. At this crucial stage, a true artist would find the last twist of genius that lifted a statue from a thing of stone to a work of art.

Whether that was in one last imperfection or a human understanding of the frailty of life, he didn't know and didn't want to know, for Ostian feared that if he ever examined his talent too closely he would be unable to piece it back together again.

In the months since their journey to the Callinedes system (a pointless venture if ever there had been one, for the 28th Expedition had tarried barely a week and fought in only one battle as far as he could tell) he had kept himself more or less confined to his studio and the sub-deck where meals were served. La Venice had become a place of lewdness, where people who should know better drank too much, ate too much and indulged their every sordid appetite without regard for the mores of civilised behaviour.

The last few times he had visited La Venice, he had been shocked and revolted by its appearance, the artwork and statuary taking on an altogether more sinister aspect as the primarch lent his vision to the final details of its renovation. Wild, orgiastic gatherings, like the debaucheries of the ancient Romanii Empire were now a frequent occurrence, and Ostian had chosen to stay away rather than be outraged on a daily basis.

The one time he had been forced to set foot in it since he had shared a drink with Leopold Cadmus, a man who, along with almost every remembrancer who had not journeyed to Laeran, appeared to have departed the 28th Expedition, he had seen Fulgrim directing Serena d'Angelus as she completed a great mural on the ceiling. Its proportions were monstrous and its subject matter a vile concoction of writhing serpents and humans engaged in unimaginable excesses.

Serena had spared him a brief glance, and he was ashamed as he remembered his harsh words to her when he had last visited her. Their eyes had met and, for a moment, he had seen a look of such anguished desperation that he had wanted to weep when he later recalled it.

Fulgrim had turned as though sensing his presence, and Ostian had been shocked rigid at the primarch's appearance. Brightly coloured oils rimmed his eyes and his silver hair was bound up in ludicrously tight plaits. The faint lines of what looked like tattoos curled on his cheeks, and his purple robe laid much of his pale flesh bare, revealing an inordinate number of fresh scars and silver rings or bars piercing the skin.

Ostian was transfixed by Fulgrim's dark eyes, the madness and driving obsession he had seen in his studio magnified to terrifying proportions.

The memory chilled him and he retuned his attention to the marble. Perhaps the remembrancers that had vanished from the 28th Expedition to greener pastures had the right idea, though a suspicious voice in the back of his head worried that some darker reason lay behind the sudden lack of dissenting voices.

Even the thought of such a suspicion was enough, and Ostian resolved that as soon as he found the spark of humanity that brought the statue to life, he would request a transfer to another expedition. The flavour of the 28th had become sour to him.

'The sooner I'm out of here the better,' he whispered to himself.

Though he could not know of it, Ostian Delafour's sentiment echoed Solomon Demeter's almost exactly, as he stared over the bombed out ruins of the Choral City and the Precentor's Palace. The desolate, fire-blackened landscape stretched out before him as far as the eye could see, as close to a vision of hell as he could ever imagine. This had once been a beautiful world, the obliterated perfection of its architecture in stark contrast to the rebellion that had fomented within its gilded palaces and the treachery that played out in its blackened remains.

A dark shroud had hung over Solomon ever since the battle on the deep orbital of the Callinedes system, though the reason for Julius and Marius's abandonment of the Second was now horribly apparent. He had seen neither of his brothers following the battle, and within hours he and the Second had been in transit to the Isstvan system to rendezvous with three other Legions to pacify the rebellious world of Isstvan III.

The heart of the rebellion was centred on a city of polished granite and tall spires of steel and glass known as the Choral City. Its corrupt governor, Vardus Praal had fallen under the influence of the Warsingers, rogue psykers that had supposedly been wiped out by the Raven Guard Legion over a decade ago.

Initial attacks on the Choral City had washed away many of Solomon's feelings of unease, the release of his anger and hurt in bloodshed reassuring him that things were as they should be, and that his earlier misgivings were no cause for concern.

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 pay-load 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 rabble, 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 rabble.

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.

'You 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 Moumival 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.

Solomon 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.

Blood dripped from his sword as the whirring teeth slowly wound to a halt, and he took a deep breath as he saw how close they had come to being overwhelmed. The skill with which the swordsman had despatched his foes bordered on the miraculous, and Solomon knew that Lucius's reputation as the deadliest killer in the Legion was entirely justified.

'We did it,' he gasped, painfully aware of how dearly the victory had been bought. All the warriors under Lucius's command were dead, and as Solomon surveyed the carnage, he felt an immense sorrow as he saw that there was little to tell traitor from loyalist.

But for a twist of fate, might he too have turned on his brethren?

'We did indeed, Captain Demeter,' smirked Lucius. 'I couldn't have done it without you.'

Solomon looked up at the supercilious tone and bit back an angry retort. He shook his head at the swordsman's ingratitude and nodded wearily.

'Strange they came with so few warriors,' he said, kneeling beside the body of the last traitor he had killed. 'What did they think to gain?'

'Nothing,' said Lucius, cleaning the blood from his sword with a scrap of cloth, 'yet.'

'What do you mean?' demanded Solomon, fast growing weary of Lucius's obtuse answers. The swordsman's smiled, but didn't answer, and Solomon looked away, taking in the dead bodies and the stench of seared flesh and bone.

'Don't worry, Solomon,' said Lucius, 'it will all soon become clear to you.'

The smug gleam in the swordsman's eyes unnerved Solomon more than he cared to admit and a horrific, gut wrenching suspicion began to form in his mind.

He quickly looked around the dome, his eyes darting back and forth as he did a quick count of the bodies that lay silent and unmoving on the cratered floor. Lucius had been given the remains of four squads to defend this portion of the palace, some thirty warriors.

'Oh no,' whispered Solomon as he realised that there were around thirty corpses. He gazed at the battered armour plates, the blackened faces, and the damage that told him these warriors had not come fresh from their billets to attack the palace, but had been here all along. These dead warriors were not traitors at all.

'They were loyalists,' he whispered.

'I'm afraid so,' said Lucius. 'I am going to rejoin the Legion. The price for that is allowing Eidolon and his warriors a way into the palace. It was most fortunate you arrived when you did, Captain Demeter. I do not know if I would have been able to kill them all before the lord commander arrives.'

Solomon felt the walls of his existence come crashing down as the enormity of what he had done sank in. He dropped to his knees, and tears of horror and anguish spilled down his cheeks.

'No! What have you done, Lucius?' he cried. 'You have doomed us all.'

Lucius laughed and said, 'You were already doomed, Solomon. I just hastened the end.'

Solomon hurled aside his sword in disgust at what he had become, a killer no better than the traitors beyond the palace, and his anger at Lucius surged like a molten river.

'You took my honour from me,' he snarled, rising to his feet and turning to face the swordsman. 'It was all I had left.'

Lucius was right in front of him, that cocky, arrogant smile still plastered over his scarred features. The swordsman smiled and asked, 'How does it feel?'

Solomon roared and flew at Lucius, wrapping his hands around his foe's neck. Hate and remorse flooded his limbs with fresh energy to better strangle the life from this thief of honour.

A terrible pain erupted in his stomach, tearing upwards through his chest, and Solomon cried out as his ruined frame fell away from Lucius. He looked down to see the glowing blade of Lucius's sword protruding from his breastplate. The sizzle of burning meat and melting ceramite was strong in his nostrils as Lucius thrust his sword completely through his torso.

The strength fled from his body, and all the agony of the injuries he had fought to overcome since the firestorm returned a hundredfold. His entire body was a mass of pain, his every nerve-ending shrieking in agony.

Solomon dropped to his knees, his blood and life pouring from his body in a hot rush. He reached up to grip Lucius's arms, and fought to focus on the swordsman's face as death reached up to claim him.

'You… will… not… win…' he gasped, each word forced from his throat a small victory.

Lucius shrugged. 'Maybe, maybe not, but you won't be around to see it.'

Solomon fell backwards in slow motion, feeling the motion of air across his face and the crack of his skull against the hard floor. He rolled onto his back, looking out through the cracked dome to the clear blue sky beyond.

He smiled as the pain balms of his armour struggled uselessly to alleviate the mortal wound Lucius's blade had done to him, staring into the limitless expanse of the open sky and feeling as though his gaze might reach beyond the atmosphere to where Horus's fleet hung in space.

With a clarity denied him in life, Solomon saw where the Warmaster's terrible betrayal would inevitably lead, the horror and the long war that would surely follow. Tears spilled down his cheeks, but they were not shed for his own ending, but for the billions who would suffer an eternity of darkness for the sake of one man's dreadful ambition.

Lucius walked away from him, not even bothering to watch his final moments, and Solomon was glad of the peace. His breathing slowed and his eyelids flickered as the sky grew darker with each breath.

The light was dying with him, he thought, as though the world marked his passing by drawing a curtain across the day and ushering him into the final darkness with honour.

Solomon closed his eyes as a final tear fell to the ground.