Fulgrim (2 page)

‘Oh, well no pressure then…’ said Ostian as Serena turned away from him, satisfied that he was as presentable as he was going to get.

‘You’ll be fine, darling. You and your hands will soon have that marble singing.’

‘And your work?’ asked Ostian. ‘How are you getting on with the portrait?’

Serena sighed. ‘It’s getting there, but with the pace Lord Fulgrim is setting for the fighting, it’s a rare day I get him to sit for me.’

Ostian watched as Serena unconsciously scratched at her arms as she continued, ‘Every day it sits unfinished I see more and more I hate about it. I think I may start again.’

‘No,’ said Ostian, prising her hands away from her arms. ‘You’re exaggerating. It’s fine, and once the Laer are defeated, I’m sure Lord Fulgrim will sit for you as much as you need him to.’

She smiled, but Ostian could see the lie behind it. He wished he knew how to lift her from the melancholy that weighed upon her soul, and undo the harm she was doing to herself.

Instead, he said, ‘Come on. We shouldn’t keep Bequa waiting.’

O
STIAN HAD TO
admit that Bequa Kynska, former child prodigy of the Europa hives was now a beautiful woman. Her wild blue hair was the colour of the sky on a clear day, and her features were sculpted by good breeding and discreet surgery though she wore an overabundance of facial cosmetics that, to Ostian’s mind, only detracted from her natural beauty. Just beneath her hair, he could make out aural enhancers and a number of fine wires trailing from her scalp.

Bequa had been educated at the finest academies of Terra and trained at the newly established Conservatoire de Musique – though, in truth, the time she had spent at the latter institution had largely been wasted, as there had been little the tutors there could teach her that she did not already know. People the length and breadth of the galaxy listened to her operas and harmonious ensembles, and her skill in creating music that could lift the soul and raise the rafters with its energy was second to none.

Ostian had met Bequa twice before aboard the
Pride of the Emperor
, and each time had been repulsed by her monstrous ego and intolerably high opinion of herself. But, for some unknown reason, Bequa Kynska seemed to adore him.

Dressed in a layered gown the colour of her hair, Bequa sat alone on a raised stage at the far end of the recital hall, head down and perched before a multi-symphonic harpsichord linked to a number of sonic projectors spaced at regular intervals around the hall.

The recital hall itself was a wide chamber of dark wood panelling and porphyry columns illuminated by subdued lumen globes bobbing on floating gravitic generators. Stained glass windows depicting purple-armoured Astartes of the Emperor’s Children ran the length of one wall and a row of marble busts said to have been carved by the primarch himself lined the other.

Ostian made a mental note to examine them later.

Perhaps a thousand people filled the hall, some clad in the beige robes of remembrancers, others in the sober black robes of Terran adepts. Others still wore classically fashioned brocaded jackets, striped trousers and high, black boots that marked them as Imperial nobility, many of whom had joined the 28th Expedition specifically to hear Bequa play.

Amongst the crowd were soldiers of the Imperial Army: senior officers bearing feathered helmets, cavalry lancers in golden breastplates, and discipline masters in red greatcoats. A profusion of different coloured uniforms circulated through the recital hall, the click of sabres and spurs loud on the polished wooden floor.

Surprised at the sheer number of uniforms he saw, Ostian said, ‘How can all these army officers afford the time to attend events like this? Aren’t we at war with an alien species?’

‘There’s
always
time for art, my dear Ostian,’ said Serena, procuring two crystal flutes of sparkling wine from one of the liveried pages that passed quietly to and fro among the crowd. ‘War may be a harsh mistress, but she’s got nothing on Bequa Kynska.’

‘I don’t see why I have to be here,’ said Ostian, sipping the wine and enjoying the refreshing crispness of the beverage.

‘Because she has invited you, and one does not refuse such an invite.’

‘But I don’t even like her,’ protested Ostian. ‘Why would she bother to invite
me
?’

‘Because she likes you, you silly goose,’ said Serena, nudging him playfully in the ribs with her elbow, ‘if you know what I mean.’

Ostian sighed. ‘I can’t imagine why, I’ve barely spoken to the woman. Not that she let me get a word in edgeways anyway.’

‘Trust me,’ said Serena, placing a delicate hand on his arm, ‘you want to be here.’

‘Really? Enlighten me as to why.’

‘You haven’t heard Bequa play have you?’ asked Serena with a smile.

‘I’ve heard her phonocasts.’

‘My boy,’ said Serena, theatrically pretending to swoon, ‘if one has not heard Bequa Kynska with one’s own ears,
one has heard nothing!
You will need lots of handkerchiefs, for you will cry a great deal! Or failing that, take a sedative because you will be exalted to the point of delirium!’

‘Fine,’ said Ostian, already wishing he was back in his studio with the marble, ‘I’ll stay.’

‘Trust me,’ chuckled Serena, ‘it will be worth your while.’

Eventually the hubbub of conversation in the hall began to subside. Serena took hold of his arm and placed a finger to her lips. He looked for the source of the gathering silence then saw that a vast figure in white robes with long flowing blond hair had entered the recital hall.

‘Astartes…’ breathed Ostian. ‘I had no idea they were so huge.’

‘That is First Captain Julius Kaesoron,’ said Serena, and Ostian caught the smug tone to her voice.

‘You know him?’

‘He has asked me to create a likeness of him, yes,’ beamed Serena. ‘It transpires that he’s quite the patron of the arts. Pleasant fellow and he has promised to keep me informed of opportunities that might arise.’

‘Opportunities?’ asked Ostian. ‘What kind of opportunities?’

Serena did not reply and an expectant hush fell upon the privileged assembly as the lumen globes dimmed yet further. Ostian looked towards the stage as Bequa moved her hands across the keyboard of the harpsichord. A sudden, energetic and romantic feeling overcame him as the sonic projectors precisely magnified the intensity of her overture.

Then the performance began, and Ostian found his dislike of Bequa swept away as he heard the sound of a storm take shape in the music. At first he heard raindrops, then the symphonic wind picked up and suddenly there was a downpour. He heard torrents of rain, lashing wind and the throb of thunder. He looked up, half expecting to see dark clouds.

Trombones, a shrill piccolo and thundering timpani swelled and danced in the air as the music grew bolder, transforming into a passionate symphony that told its epic story in the tones and moods created, though Ostian would later remember nothing of its substance.

Vocal soloists combined with an orchestra, though he could see no trace of either, the soaring music yearning for peace, joy, and the brotherhood of Man.

Ostian felt tears pouring down his face as his soul was given flight, then plunged into despair, before rising towards a majestic, exultant climax by the power of the music.

He looked over at Serena, and seeing that she was similarly moved, wanted to pull her close and share in the joyous expression of his feeling. Ostian looked back to the stage where Bequa swayed like a madwoman, her sapphire blue hair whipping around her face as she played, her hands moving like dervishes across the keyboard.

Movement drew Ostian’s eyes to the front of the enraptured audience, where he saw a nobleman in a silver breastplate and high collared jacket of navy blue lean over to his consort and whisper something in her ear.

Instantly, the music ceased and Ostian cried out as the beautiful concerto came to a crashing halt. Its absence left an aching emptiness in his heart and he felt an unreasoning hatred towards this boorish noble who had caused its premature end.

Bequa stood from her instrument, her chest heaving with exertion and an expression of fury plastered across her face.

She stared thunderously at the nobleman and said, ‘I do not play for such pigs!’

The man stood angrily from his seat, his features flushed. ‘You insult me, woman. I am Paljor Dorji, sixth Marquis of the Terawatt Clan and a patrician of Terra. You will show me some damned respect!’

Bequa spat on the wooden floor and said, ‘You are what you are by an accident of birth. What I am, I created myself. There are thousands of nobles of Terra, but there is only one Bequa Kynska.’

‘I demand you play on, woman!’ shouted Paljor Dorji. ‘Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to have myself assigned to this expedition in order to hear you play?’

‘I neither know nor care,’ snapped Bequa. ‘Genius such as mine is worth any price. Double it, triple it, you have not even begun to place a value on what you have heard tonight. But it is irrelevant, for I shall play no more this day.’

A chorus of denials filled the air as the audience begged for her to resume playing. Ostian found his voice joined with that of the audience. It appeared, however, that Bequa Kynska was not to be swayed until a powerful voice at the door to the recital chamber cut through the clamour and said, ‘Mistress Kynska.’

All heads turned at the commanding sound of the voice and Ostian felt his pulse quicken as he saw who had stilled the crowd: Fulgrim, the Phoenician.

The Primarch of the Emperor’s Children was the most magnificent being Ostian Delafour had ever laid eyes upon. His amethyst-coloured armour shone as though fresh from the armourer’s hand, its golden trims gleaming like the sun, and exquisite carvings twisted in spiral patterns on every plate of his armour. A long, scaled cloak of emerald green hung from his shoulders, a high collar of purple and the great eagle’s wing sweeping over his left shoulder perfectly framing his pale features.

Ostian longed to render Fulgrim’s face in marble, knowing that the coolness of the stone was perfect for capturing the luminosity of the primarch’s skin, the wide, friendly eyes, the hint of a smile playing around his lips and the shimmering white of his shoulder length hair.

Ostian and the remainder of the audience dropped to their knees in awe of Fulgrim’s majesty, humbled by perfection they would never come close to achieving.

‘If you will not play for the marquis, would you consent to do so for me?’ asked Fulgrim.

Bequa Kynska nodded and the music began anew.

T
HE BATTLE ON
Atoll 19 would later be described as a minor, opening skirmish in the Cleansing of Laeran; a footnote to the fighting that was yet to come, but to the warriors in the speartip of Solomon Demeter’s Second Company of Emperor’s Children, it felt considerably more intense than a skirmish.

Shrieking bolts of hot, green energy flashed down the curving thoroughfare, melting portions of the angled walls and dissolving Astartes battle plate whenever they struck one of the advancing Space Marines. The hungry crackle of fires and the whoosh of missiles mingled with the hard bangs of bolter fire and the shrieking horns from the coral towers as Solomon’s Astartes fought their way up the serpentine street to link with Marius Vairosean’s squads.

Coiled towers of glittering crystal coral reared above him like the gnarled conch shells of some great sea creature, with smooth rimmed burrow holes piercing the spires like the touch holes of a musical instrument. The entire atoll was formed from the same lightweight, but incredibly tough material, though how these structures floated above the vast oceans was a mystery the Mechanicum adepts were eager to solve.

Screeching cries echoed from the disturbingly alien architecture, as though the spires themselves were screaming, and the damnable metallic slither of the aliens’ movement seemed to come from all around them.

He ducked back behind a sinuous column of pink veined coral and slammed another magazine into his customised bolter, its every surface and internal working hand-finished by his own artifice. Its rate of fire was only marginally faster than a regular issue bolter, but it had never once jammed, and Solomon Demeter wasn’t the kind of man to trust his life to anything he hadn’t worked towards perfection.

‘Gaius!’ he shouted to his second in command, Gaius Caphen, ‘Where in the name of the Phoenician is Tantaeron squadron?’

His lieutenant shook his head, and Solomon cursed, knowing that the Laer had probably intercepted the Land Speeder squadron en route to them. Damn, these aliens were clever, he thought, remembering the grievous loss of Captain Aeson’s flanking force, which had revealed that the Laer had somehow managed to compromise their vox-net. The idea of a xenos species with the ability to wreak such a violation on a Legion of the Astartes was unthinkable, and had only spurred Fulgrim’s warriors to greater heights of wrath in their extermination.

Solomon Demeter was the very image of an Astartes, his short dark hair kept shaved close to his scalp, his skin tanned from the light of a score of suns, and his animated features rounded and wide spread on thick cheekbones. He disdained the wearing of a helmet to prevent the Laer from deciphering his orders over the vox-network, and because he knew that if he were hit in the head by one of the Laer weapons, he was as good as dead, helmet or not.

Knowing he could not expect any immediate help from the aerial units, he knew they were going to have to do this the hard way. Though it railed against his sense of order and perfection to undertake this assault without the proper support in place, he couldn’t deny that there was something exhilarating about making things up as he went along. Some commanders said that it was an inevitable fact that they would often fight without the forces they wanted, but such a belief was anathema to most of the Emperor’s Children.

‘Gaius, we’re going to have to do this ourselves!’ he shouted. ‘Make sure we’ve plenty of fire keeping those xenos heads down!’

Caphen nodded and began issuing curt, concise orders, with sharp chops of his hand, to the squads spread through the rabble of what could laughingly be called their landing zone.