Fulgrim (14 page)

It had been beneath Mount Narodnya, the greatest forge of the Urals, where the primarchs had first met, Ferrus Manus toiling with the forge-masters who had once served the Terrawatt Clan during the Unification Wars. The Primarch of the Iron Hands had been demonstrating his phenomenal skill and the miraculous powers of his liquid metal hands when Fulgrim and his Phoenix Guard had descended upon the sprawling forge complex.

Neither primarch had yet met the other, but each had felt the shared bonds of alchemy and science that had gone into their making. Both were like gods unto the terrified artisans, who prostrated themselves before these two mighty warriors as though fearing a terrible battle. Ferrus Manus would then tell Santor of how Fulgrim had declared that he had come to forge the most perfect weapon ever created, and that he would bear it in the coming Crusade.

Of course the Primarch of the Iron Hands could not let such a boast go unanswered, and he had laughed in Fulgrim’s face, declaring that such pasty hands as his could never be the equal of his own metal ones. Fulgrim had accepted the challenge with regal grace, and both primarchs had stripped to the waist, working without pause for weeks on end, the forge ringing with the deafening pounding of hammers, the hiss of cooling metal, and the good natured insults of the two young gods as they sought to outdo one another.

At the end of three months unceasing toil, both warriors had finished their weapons, Fulgrim having forged an exquisite warhammer that could level a mountain with a single blow, and Ferrus Manus a golden bladed sword that forever burned with the fire of the forge. Both weapons were unmatched by any yet crafted by man, and upon seeing what the other had created, each primarch declared that his opponent’s was the greater.

Fulgrim had declared the golden sword the equal of that borne by the legendary hero Nuada Silverhand, while Ferrus Manus had sworn that only the mighty thunder gods of Nordyc legend were fit to bear such a magnificent warhammer.

Without another word spoken, both primarchs had swapped weapons and sealed their eternal friendship with the craft of their hands.

Santor looked down at the weapon, feeling the power within it and knowing that more than just skill had gone into its forging. Love and honour, loyalty and friendship, death and vengeance… all were embodied within its majestic form, and the thought that his primarch’s sworn honour brother had created this weapon made it truly legendary.

He looked up as Ferrus Manus continued his circuit of the Anvilarium, his face thunderous once more. ‘Yes, my brothers, cheer, for it will be an honour to fight alongside Fulgrim’s warriors, but he only comes to our aid because we have been weak!’

The cheering immediately died and the assembled warriors looked anxiously from one to another, none willing to meet the eye of the angry primarch as he spoke.

‘The Diasporex continue to elude us, and there are worlds in the Lesser Bifold Cluster that require the illumination of the Emperor’s Truth. How is it that a fleet of ships thousands of years older than ours, and led by mere mortals, can elude us? Answer me!’

None dared respond, and Santor felt the shame of their weakness in every fibre of his being. He gripped the haft of the hammer tightly, feeling the exquisite craftsmanship beneath the steel of his augmetic hand, and suddenly the answer was clear to him.

‘It is because we cannot do this alone,’ he said.

‘Exactly!’ said Ferrus Manus. ‘We cannot do this alone. We have struggled for months to accomplish this task on our own when it should have been clear that we could not. In all things we strive to eradicate weakness, but it is not weakness to ask for help, my brothers. It is weakness to deny that help is needed. To fight on without hope when there are those who would gladly lend a hand is foolish, and I have been as blind as any to this, but no more.’

Ferrus Manus strode back to the entrance to the Anvilarium and put his arm around the shoulders of Astropath Cistor. The mighty primarch dwarfed the man and his very nearness seemed to cause the astropath pain.

Ferrus Manus extended his hand and Santor stepped forward, holding
Forgebreaker
out before him. The primarch took up his hammer and held it aloft as though its monstrous weight was nothing at all.

‘We will not be fighting alone for much longer!’ cried Ferrus Manus. ‘Cistor tells me that his choirs sing of the arrival of my brother. Within a week the
Pride of the Emperor
and the 28th Expedition will be with us and we shall once again fight alongside our brothers of the Emperor’s Children!’

SEVEN

There Will be Other Oceans

Recovery

The Phoenix and the Gorgon

H
E HAD BEGUN
with small, tentative chips into the marble, but as he had grown more confident in his vision, and the bitterness towards Bequa Kynska had risen once more, he found himself hacking at the marble with no more thought to his actions than a wild beast. Ostian drew a stale breath through his mask and took a step back from the marble block, leaning against the metal scaffolding that surrounded it.

The thought of Bequa made him grip the metal of his chisel tighter, and he felt his jaw clench at the depth of her spite. The sculpture was not going as smoothly as he would have liked, the lines more jagged and harsh than would normally be the case, but he couldn’t help himself, the bitterness was too great.

He thought back to the day he and Serena had walked arm in arm to the embarkation deck, their thoughts joyous and carefree at the idea of discovering a new world together. The corridors of the
Pride of the Emperor
were abuzz with excited speculation in the wake of the Emperor’s Children’s victory on Laeran, or as it was formally, and correctly known, Twenty-Eight Three.

Serena had come to fetch him the moment the word had gone out, dressed in a fabulous gown that Ostian had felt sure was unfit for a journey to a world where the surface was composed entirely of water. They had laughed and joked as they made their way through the fabulous, high galleries of the ship, joining more remembrancers the closer they got to the embarkation deck.

The mood had been light, artists and sculptors mingling with writers, poets and composers in a happy throng as armoured Astartes escorted them towards their transports.

‘We’re so lucky, Ostian,’ murmured Serena as they made their way towards a huge, gilded set of blast doors.

‘How so?’ he asked, too caught up in the festive atmosphere of the crowd to notice the baleful stare of Bequa Kynska at his back. He was finally going to see the ocean, and his heart leapt at the thought of such a wondrous thing. He calmed himself by remembering the writings of the Sumaturan philosopher, Sahlonum, who had said that the real voyage of discovery consisted not in finding new landscapes, but in having new eyes with which to see them.

‘The Lord Fulgrim appreciates the value of what we’re doing, dear heart,’ explained Serena. ‘I’ve heard that in some expeditions, the remembrancers are lucky to even see an Astartes warrior let alone get a trip to the surface of a compliant world.’

‘Well, it’s not as though Laeran’s exactly hostile anymore,’ said Ostian. ‘There’s nothing left of the Laer, they’re all dead.’

‘And good riddance too! I’ve heard it said that the Warmaster won’t let any of his remembrancers down to the surface of Sixty-Three Nineteen yet.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ostian. ‘They say that there’s still resistance, so I can see why the Warmaster’s not letting anyone down,’

‘Resistance,’ scoffed Serena, ‘the Astartes will soon have that quashed. What’s the worst that could happen? Haven’t you seen them? Like gods unto us they are! Invincible and immortal!’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ostian, ‘I’ve been hearing some rumours in
La Fenice
of some quite appalling casualty figures.’

‘
La Fenice
,’ tutted Serena. ‘You should know better than to believe anything you hear in that nest of vipers, Ostian.’

That at least was true, reflected Ostian.
La Fenice
was the area of the ship the Emperor’s Children had given over to the remembrancers, a great theatre in the high decks that served as a recreation space, eating hall, exhibition area and place of relaxation. During the course of the fighting, Ostian had taken to spending his evenings there, chatting, drinking and exchanging notes with fellow artistes. The currency of ideas was in full flow, and the thrill of being in an environment where designs were tossed into the air and swatted around with lively debate, each time acquiring some strange new form its originator had not yet conceived, was intoxicating.

Yes,
La Fenice
fostered ideas, but when the wine flowed, it was also a hotbed of scandal and intrigue. Ostian knew it was impossible to put so many people of an artistic persuasion in one place without generating operas worth of salacious gossip, some of it undoubtedly true, but some wildly inaccurate, slanderous and downright lunatic.

But the stories that had come back regarding the ferocity of the fighting on Laeran had the ring of truth to them. Three hundred dead Astartes was what some people were saying, but others put the figure even higher at seven hundred, with perhaps six times that injured.

Such figures were nigh impossible to believe, but Ostian could only wonder at the force of will that would be required to destroy an entire civilisation in a month. It was certainly true that the Astartes he had seen around the ship were more sombre of late, but could the casualties really have been that high?

All thoughts of dead Astartes had been washed away as he and Serena entered the embarkation deck through the mighty blast doors that sealed it from the rest of the ship. Ostian’s jaw fell open at the sheer scale and noise of the space, its ceiling lost to darkness, and the servitors and craft at its far end rendered miniscule by distance. The cold blackness of space was visible through a flashing rectangle of red lights that indicated the edge of the integrity field, and Ostian shivered, terrified of what might happen should the field fail.

Menacing Stormbirds and Thunderhawks sat on launch rails that ran the length of the massive deck, their purple and gold hulls pristine and gleaming as they were tended to like the finest studs of the stable.

Wheeled gurneys snaked through the deck, carrying crates of shells and racks of missiles, fuel tankers rumbled, and brightly coloured crewmen directed the chaos with a measure of calm control that Ostian found amazing. Everywhere he looked, he could see activity, the bustle of a fleet that had recently been at war, the deafening industry of death rendered mechanical and prosaic by repetition.

‘Close your mouth, Ostian,’ said Serena, smiling at his amazement.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, finding new marvels at every turn: huge lifters carrying armoured vehicles in mechanised claws as though they weighed nothing at all, and phalanxes of Astartes warriors marching in perfect step both on and off gunships.

Their escorts kept them in line, and Ostian soon recognised the intricate ballet of movement that operated in the embarkation deck, realising that, without it, this place would be a nightmare of collisions and anarchy. Where before there had been an irreverent atmosphere among the remembrancers, all levity ceased as they were herded through the embarkation deck towards a towering, handsome Astartes warrior and a pair of robed iterators standing on a podium draped with purple cloth. He recognised the Space Marine as First Captain Julius Kaesoron, the warrior who had attended Bequa Kynska’s recital, but he had never seen the iterators before.

‘Why are there iterators here?’ hissed Ostian. ‘Surely there’s no populace left to sway?’

‘They’re not for the Laer,’ said Serena. ‘They’re for us.’

‘For us?’

‘Indeed. Though the Lord Fulgrim appreciates us, I assume he still wants to make sure we see the right things and say the right things when we get back. I’m sure you remember Captain Julius, and the man on the left with the thinning hair, that’s Ipolida Zigmanta, a decent enough sort. He loves the sound of his own voice a bit too much in my opinion, though I suppose that’s an occupational hazard for an iterator.’

‘And the woman?’ asked Ostian, his interest piqued by the raven-haired woman’s stunning countenance.

‘That,’ said Serena, ‘is Coraline Aseneca. She’s a harpy, that one: an actress, an iterator and a beautiful woman. Three reasons not to trust her.’

‘What do you mean? Iterators are here to spread the word of the Imperial Truth.’

‘Indeed they are, my dear, but there are some that only employ words for the purposes of disguising their thoughts.’

‘Well, she looks pleasant enough.’

‘My dear boy, you of all people should know that looks are not everything. One with the countenance of Hephaestus may have the most beautiful soul, while she with the comeliness of Cytherea can harbour the bitterest heart.’

‘True,’ agreed Ostian, glancing over at the blue-haired form of Bequa Kynska, and remembering her attempted seduction of him.

He turned back to Serena and said, ‘If that’s the case, Serena, how can I trust you, since you are also a beautiful woman?’

‘Ah, you can trust me because I am an artist and therefore seek truth in all things, Ostian. An actress seeks to conceal her real face from her audience, to project only what she wants you to see.’

Ostian chuckled and returned his gaze to the platform as Captain Julius Kaesoron began to speak, his voice deeply musical, and worthy of an iterator.

‘Honoured remembrancers, it gladdens my heart to see you here today, for your presence is a vindication of what my fellow warriors and I have achieved on Laeran. The fighting was hard, I won’t deny it, and it tested us to the limits of our endurance, but such endeavours only help us in our quest for perfection. As Lord Commander Eidolon teaches us, we always need a rival to test us, and against whom we can measure our prowess. You have been selected as the pre-eminent documentarists and chroniclers of our expedition, to travel to the surface of this new world of the Imperium and tell others what you have seen.’