Fulgrim (40 page)

‘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

T
HE BEAT OF
hammers and the pounding of distant forges echoed through the Anvilarium of the
Fist of Iron
, but Gabriel Santor, 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 Santor 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 Santor 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, Santor,’ said Ferrus, and Santor 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 Santor 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.’

Santor 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 Santor 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 Santor’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 Santor knew that was exactly what was bothering his primarch. ‘We saved him and his precious
Firebird
from being blown to bits,’ continued Santor. ‘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.’

Santor 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 Santor, their cold depths chilling in their controlled anger. Santor 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 Santor, 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 Santor.

‘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.’

T
HE 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.’

M
ARIUS 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.

F
ERRUS
M
ANUS 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 hung 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 comprised 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.