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Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix – Extract

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One

anabasis

Fire and blood.

It always came down to fire and blood. Or so his brothers, in their wisdom, claimed. Compliance was forged in fire and cooled in blood, they said. Skies of ash and fields of bone. Fire and blood. A monotonous philosophy, lacking in even the crudest artistry.

It frustrated him to no end that such a belief was the guiding star of humanity’s great adventure. Even the Emperor seemed to hold to it, though more for efficiency’s sake than any other reason. Fire and blood. Efficiency and speed. The watchwords of the Great Crusade.

‘Efficiency,’ Fulgrim said, making it sound like a prayer. The Phoenician stared out through the glass of the viewport, idly calculating the distances between the stars that glimmered in the black. The observation bay of the Pride of the Emperor was dimly lit and stripped bare of all decoration. Here, there was nothing to distract one from the immensity of the universe, and the grandeur of the stars that populated it.

The primarch of the Emperor’s Children was clad only in simple robes of white and purple, a mantle of feathers and gold draped over his deceptively broad shoulders. Armour was for war, or parades. Here, in his place of contemplation, he wore what he considered appropriately subdued attire. It fit loose about his lean form and added to the regal serenity of his appearance. His sole concession to practicality was the blade belted low on his waist. One hand rested on its pommel, and a finger traced the wires wrapped tight about the hilt.

A gift, that blade. A sign of love, forged in respect. He treasured it above all else, save his own certainty. The blade and what it meant were signs that he was on the right path. That he had not turned his back on destiny, but rather embraced it.

He studied the reflections of the amethyst-armoured legionaries of the Third who stood at attention behind him. Clad in thunderbolt and rayed sun, the palatine aquila displayed prominently, they seemed as the demigods of myth made flesh and bound in ceramite. He stood head and shoulders above the tallest of them, a god among demigods, his white hair tied in a single serpentine braid. Violet eyes, set into pale features that were honed to sharp perfection, narrowed in contemplation.

The six Space Marines arrayed behind him were among the best and the brightest of the current crop. Only one of the six was of the Two Hundred – the original remnants of the Legion who’d knelt before him on Chemos. A seventh, also a member of the Two Hundred, stood somewhat apart and behind the others, watching in silence. He nodded slightly, as if aware of Fulgrim’s observation. Fulgrim stifled a snort of amusement.

Five of the six were eager young warriors, freshly blooded and bursting with the need to prove themselves. Much like himself. He pushed the thought aside, annoyed at the sting of truth. He focused on the others, noting their nervousness. To a human, they might seem as statues, barely moving or giving any sign of emotion. But to him, their inner turmoil was plain to see. The five did not know why they had been called into his presence, and it made them nervous. The sixth seemed to feel nothing at all. He smiled, despite this.

‘What is the definition of efficiency, Narvo?’ he asked, gesturing to one without turning around. A bit of showmanship never hurt.

Legionary Narvo Quin stiffened, obviously surprised to be singled out by his primarch. ‘Victory through minimal effort, my lord.’ Quin was a hammer amongst blades. A brawler by nature. But the occasional flash of insight implied potential. A common thread amongst them. Their potential was obvious. And this was all about potential.

Fulgrim turned from his calculations of the stars and their distances, holding the numbers fixed in his head. ‘An acceptable answer, if somewhat pedestrian.’ Quin shifted his weight, chagrin evident in his posture. Fulgrim continued. ‘In truth, efficiency requires more effort than the minimal. And what is or is not efficient can only be properly determined through context. A lesson I learned as a child, amongst ore processors and mineral scoops.’

Without looking, he reached out and tapped the glass with a pale finger. Slowly, carefully, he drew a continuous line between the stars. ‘What Horus considers adequate, for instance, others might call grossly barbaric.’ For several decades, his dwindled Legion had fought in the shadow of another. Horus had shown him what it meant to be one of the Emperor’s sons, with all the duties and responsibilities that entailed. A flash of perfect teeth, as he recalled the frustrations of those days. ‘Then, the efficiency of wolves is a thing unto itself, and not to be judged by the likes of us.’

He turned back to the stars as a polite chuckle rippled through the group. ‘However, we can judge our own efficiency, or lack thereof.’ The chuckles ceased, as he’d intended. There was a time and a place for humour. He knocked on the glass of the viewport with a bare knuckle. ‘My brothers leave behind them a trail of worlds broken to the wheel. Scars of fire and blood, carved across the face of the galaxy. I think – I know – that there is a better way.’ Another smile, swift and sure like the slash of a blade. ‘A more efficient way. And together, you and I will prove it.’

He traced a circle around one particular point of light. ‘This is Twenty-Eight One. Byzas, to its inhabitants, of whom there are several billion. A not inconsiderable number, given what it has endured of late.’ He looked at his warriors. ‘We will bring Byzas into compliance. But not through fire and blood. Six blades and six blades alone will I carry into this battle. You are those blades.’

Their faces were rife with emotion. Not just pride, but worry and eagerness and calculation. They were young. Blooded but untested. This would be their test, and his as well. A new method of war, perfect in its conception and practice.

‘This is the first step on a new journey, the beginning of a new war. One we will win, with our own hands and our own strength. This is the first chapter of our story. All else has been but prologue.’ He tapped the mote of Byzas. ‘There is a term in the Augean dialect of the Ionic Plateau – anabasis. The journey an army takes inland from the sea. The march upcountry to new conquests.’ He turned, arms spread, like a king of old anointing his knights. ‘This, my sons, is our anabasis.’

As one, they knelt, fists clenched tight against the palatine aquila that marked their armour.

Fulgrim smiled, pleased. ‘I have chosen you six to represent the whole of our Legion. You will be my equerries in this matter. Think on what that means, and prepare yourselves accordingly.’ He turned back to the viewport.

‘Go. You are dismissed.’

The legionaries departed, talking quietly among themselves. Two more quietly than the others. One said nothing at all. When they had gone, Fulgrim said, ‘You may speak freely now, Abdemon.’

He turned to face the seventh of those he’d summoned. Clad in Tyrian-lacquered battle-plate, Lord Commander Abdemon was a walking example of all that the warriors of the Legion should aspire to be. His hand rested on the pommel-stone of the artificer-wrought power sword sheathed at his waist. The delicate looking sabre had been a gift from the armourers of the Ionic Plateau on Terra. Abdemon was reportedly a swordsman of some skill, though Fulgrim had, as yet, not witnessed it for himself. At the moment, it wasn’t his ability with a blade that Fulgrim required of him.

The lord commander was one of his senior officers, and a respected voice in his councils. Abdemon was respectful, without succumbing to sycophancy. Of the ten commanders of the first ten Millennials of the Legion, he was perhaps the most thoughtful. It was that inclination to consideration that Fulgrim needed now.

‘What did you think?’ Fulgrim asked.

‘Very stirring, my lord,’ Abdemon said. His voice was a soft rasp, like steel sliding through silk. ‘I felt my heart quicken to hear it.’

Fulgrim quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh? You didn’t think it was a bit much?’

‘No, my lord. Just the right amount of jingoism.’ Abdemon was Terran. He had been among those who made that first, fateful journey to Chemos with the Emperor, and knelt at Fulgrim’s feet. He had fought at the forefront of every battle the Third Legion had participated in, including Proxima. He had earned rank and respect in equal measure, and Fulgrim had swiftly deduced that winning him over was the key to winning the Legion.

That he was their gene-father had been no surety of loyalty, or love. Sons turned against fathers every day, on a thousand worlds. And the fracturing of the Legion had weakened the command structure to a concerning degree. They were used to fighting as individuals, or as small groups, rather than as a Legion. It had taken long years on his part, and that of his trusted lord commanders, to rebuild their sense of purpose and their discipline.

Fulgrim snorted at Abdemon’s words. ‘You’d best thank whatever star you were born under that I have a sense of humour, Abdemon. Otherwise, I’d have you punished for such blatant disrespect.’

Abdemon bowed his head. White hair, bound in short, thick braids, was pulled back from his dark face in a tight bundle, giving him a hawk-like aspect. Fulgrim fancied there was something of him in Abdemon’s aspect, though the officer would never be handsome. He doubted Abdemon cared.

‘My apologies, my lord. I shall endeavour to curtail such foolishness in the future.’ Fulgrim heard the smile in the words, though Abdemon’s face was as still as the onyx it seemed to have been carved from.

‘And now you compound your insolence with bald-faced lies,’ Fulgrim said. He laid the edge of his hand against the side of Abdemon’s neck. Gently, only gently, but in warning all the same. He felt Abdemon’s pulse jump, in sudden disquiet. Not fear though, which pleased him. His sons – the true sons of the Emperor – were above fear.

Fulgrim leaned low, so that Abdemon would feel the full effect of his voice. The lord commander’s pulse quickened. It was no easy thing for a Space Marine to be in close proximity to their primarch. Abdemon handled it better than most, but even he was affected by it. ‘Carefully now, and only in private, or I’ll be forced to make an example of you. The chain of command must be seen to be maintained, Abdemon.’

Abdemon didn’t meet his gaze. ‘As you command.’ A Space Marine couldn’t be seen to disrespect his primarch, even in jest. Especially important for the Third, as their numbers were as yet still so few, and their morale only just recovered from the depths to which it had plunged in the years before Fulgrim had taken his place at their head.

There had been scarcely two hundred warriors remaining, by the time the Emperor had come to Chemos. A Legion in name only. A broken tool, badly used and in need of repair. Fulgrim had done what he could. He had visited the noble families of ancient Europa, renewing the blood-tithes, and had claimed the firstborn sons of a thousand worlds as his due. Slowly, surely, the Legion was growing again. But it was still weak, in the eyes of his brothers. Horus thought it too soon for Fulgrim to spread his wings and fly unaided. But even Horus could be wrong.

Fulgrim pushed the thought aside and stepped back, allowing Abdemon to breathe easily again. He fixed his subordinate with his violet gaze. ‘Give me your honest opinion, Abdemon. Have I chosen well?’

Abdemon hesitated. Fulgrim waited patiently, allowing him to gather his thoughts. Abdemon cleared his throat. ‘Quin is the immediate concern. He’s a rough edge. Brutal. Flavius Alkenex, as well. They’re line troops, not diplomats.’

‘Which is why we need them. They’re the stick, so to speak.’ Fulgrim clasped his hands behind him and turned back to the viewport. ‘The quiet reminder of what can be unleashed, if the situation proves untenable.’ He laughed. ‘They’re not as murderously terrifying as some, I admit, but they’ll prove effective enough. What of the others?’

‘Telmar and Thorn are eager and ambitious. They’ll do fine. As will Cyrius.’

Fulgrim nodded. He had high hopes for Cyrius. A gifted swordsman and a keen mind. Of all those he’d chosen, Cyrius had perhaps the greatest potential. He would rise far, if given the chance. He hesitated, thinking of the sixth of his chosen blades. ‘And what of the Apothecary, Fabius?’

Abdemon paused. ‘Another worry. Talented, but prone to thinking himself outside the chain of command.’ He frowned. ‘He needs reining in.’

‘I will see to that personally,’ Fulgrim said. Abdemon’s look of relief was almost comical. Fabius was another Terran. Scion of some minor house in the mountains of northern Europa. Like Abdemon, he was of the Two Hundred, and had been the only surviving member of the Legion’s apothecarion. There were others now, but for a time, Fabius alone had struggled to hold back the blight that afflicted Fulgrim’s gene-sons. There was a look in the Apothecary’s eyes that Fulgrim did not like – a cynicism at odds with everything they stood for. He wished to correct it, and swiftly.

Byzas promised to yield new blood for the Legion. New aspirants, new tithes. Perhaps that would cheer Fabius up a bit. The primarch turned back to the viewport and renewed his calculation of the Mandeville Points. Abdemon cleared his throat. Fulgrim sighed. ‘You have a question?’

‘A clarification only, my lord.’

Fulgrim gestured lazily. ‘Speak, and be illuminated, my son.’

‘Why are we doing this?’

‘To bring this world into compliance.’

‘But why this way? The risk outweighs the benefits.’

Fulgrim was silent for long moments. Then he sighed and said, ‘My brothers challenge me. And as the challenged, the battlefield and weapons are mine to choose.’ He smiled. ‘Russ thought he was being clever when he suggested I take command of the Twenty-Eighth Expedition. Twenty-eight being a positive integer that is equal to the sum of its proper divisors. Mathematically perfect.’ He laughed softly. ‘I would have expected that suggestion from Ferrus, or maybe even Horus, but never Russ. He has hidden depths, that one.’

‘Well hidden,’ Abdemon agreed.

Fulgrim laughed again. ‘Now, now, that is one of the Emperor’s sons you’re insulting, Abdemon. And my brother.’ He paused. ‘My mangy, flea-infested barbarian of a brother.’ He glanced at his subordinate. ‘I accepted the challenge, of course. It is needful that I make the true extent of our capabilities known.’ He frowned. ‘Already, those discovered after me have outstripped me in accomplishment. We have lingered on our sickbed for too long, Abdemon. Our numbers grow, but slowly, and our resources are unwisely diverted down ulterior paths by those who seek to protect us.’

Abdemon said nothing. He had fought alongside the sons of three Legions in his time, and the thought that they might be to blame for the current predicament, even unknowing, was anathema. Fulgrim continued. ‘Do you know I think they pity us. They pity me. And I will not have it. We are not to be pitied, but respected.’ He turned from his reflection. ‘You asked me why? That is your answer. We must do this thing, and do so perfectly, in order to show them that our worth is beyond question. If we do not stand on our own now, we will forever be but a shadow of what we might have been.’

Abdemon saluted. ‘As you command, my lord.’

Fulgrim waved him away. ‘Be off with you. I have calculations to complete.’

Abdemon turned on his heel and departed. Fulgrim watched his reflection retreat, and allowed himself a brief moment of doubt. Was this truly the correct course?

He had allowed himself to be goaded, that much he was willing to admit. The urge to strike out on his own had been growing since the discovery of Ultramar, and what Guilliman had accomplished there. His brothers’ success rankled.

Fulgrim had waged incalculable wars to save but a single world, while Guilliman and Dorn had ruled entire systems. The Legions awaiting them had numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and had swelled to greater heights since. His had numbered two hundred, and though their list of honours was greater than any, it was poor consolation.

Of them all, he’d thought Russ would understand. Fenris was but one world, as Chemos was. But Russ was arrogant. For him, Fenris was the only world worth the name, and the galaxy too small to contain its magnificence. He did not – would not – see the great tapestry unfolding around him.

Only Horus shared Fulgrim’s understanding. Only Horus saw the galaxy for what it was, and understood what the Great Crusade really meant. The struggle towards perfection was the only task worth contemplating. The form that perfection took was debatable, obviously, but it must be achieved. The galaxy was akin to one of the great mechanisms he’d repaired as a child. It had been badly used, and now needed a sure hand to return it to its former precision.

But was it his hand that was destined to do so? The Wolf-King thought not. The others seemed to share his disdain. Fulgrim bowed his head, suddenly weary. Seven voices, raised in doubt. Seven brothers, arrayed against the eighth. Even the normally contemplative master of the Second had broken his silence to accuse Fulgrim of hubris.

He snorted. There was an old Terran saying, about pots and kettles. He’d refrained from sharing it at the time. His quiet brother had no sense of humour that he was aware of. Perhaps that was why he spoke so little.

But Fulgrim had pressed his case, and Russ had made his challenge. And so it was, for good or ill. Horus had tried to dissuade him, before their parting. The concern in his brother’s voice had been palpable. But even he had not understood.

The Luna Wolves stood pre-eminent amongst the Legions. Their numbers were such that they could prosecute multiple campaigns at once. In contrast, there were barely enough of the Emperor’s Children to fill this one, single ship. The training cages sat dormant, the mess halls empty save for the mortal crew. Even now, on the cusp of resurgence, they faltered. One wrong step could send them reeling over the edge, back into the oblivion they had only just escaped.

Fulgrim was gambling on the lives of his gene-sons, and their legacy. Only once the die had been cast would he know whether or not he’d made the right choice.

‘I suppose I shall find out soon enough,’ he murmured.

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A Black Library Publication

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