Fulgrim Read online

  No, thought Solomon, the eldar were not to be underestimated.

  The encounter with the craftworld had come as a great surprise to the 28th Expedition, and had been greeted with guarded hostility until it became clear that the eldar had no apparent aggressive intent. Fulgrim himself had spoken to this Eldrad Ulthran, an individual who claimed to guide the craftworld, though he had fallen short of claiming to be its leader.

  Thus began an elaborate ballet of proposal and counterproposal, with neither side willing to allow the other upon its ships. The calls for war were strident, with Solomon’s loudest of all as he, Julius, Marius, Vespasian and Eidolon gathered in the primarch’s staterooms to hear why they had not yet attacked the eldar, as their mandate of conquest demanded.

  Fulgrim’s quarters were a riot of paintings and sculpture, and Solomon had been quietly disconcerted to see a statue bearing his own features at the far end of the stateroom, standing next to ones of Julius and Marius.

  ‘They are aliens!’ he had said. ‘What more reason do we need to make war upon them?’

  ‘You heard what Lord Fulgrim said, Solomon,’ said Julius. ‘There is much we can learn from the eldar.’

  ‘I know you don’t believe that, Julius. I fought alongside you on Tza-Chao and you know exactly what they’re capable of.’

  ‘Enough!’ Fulgrim had shouted. ‘I have made my decision. I do not believe the eldar come with hostile intent, for they are but one vessel and we are many. They offer us friendship and I will honour that friendship as honest, unless proven otherwise.’

  ‘When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend,’ said Solomon. ‘This is a sham and they mean us ill, I know it.’

  ‘My son,’ said Fulgrim, taking him by the arm, ‘there is no man, however wise, who has not at some time in his youth said or done things that are so unpleasant to him in later life that he would gladly expunge them from his memory if he could. In years to come, I will not be haunted by the guilt of all the good I didn’t do.’

  The discussion, such as it was, had ended, and all but Eidolon and Julius had been dismissed to return to their companies. Further communication with the eldar had yielded no further unlocking of the impasse to a conference, until Eldrad Ulthran had offered a meeting on a world named Tarsus.

  Such a solution had been deemed acceptable, and the ships of the 28th Expedition had followed the craftworld on a stately voyage through the Perdus Region towards yet another verdant world of beauty that was as empty of life as all the others had been before it. Co-ordinates had been transmitted to the Pride of the Emperor, and after yet more wrangling, the size of both group’s deputations were agreed upon.

  A Thunderhawk had brought them to the surface of Tarsus as the sun dropped towards the horizon. They had landed atop a rounded hillock, on the edge of a large forest, amid the ruins of what must at one time have been a stately dwelling of some description. As the clouds of their landing had dissipated, Solomon saw the eldar were already waiting for them, though the expedition fleet had detected no shuttles or landers detaching from the craftworld.

  Solomon felt nothing but apprehension as he stared down at the eldar deputation. Lord Commanders Vespasian and Eidolon flanked Fulgrim, with Solomon, Julius, Marius, Saul Tarvitz and Lucius bringing up the rear.

  The eldar gathered around an arched structure identical to the one they had seen on Twenty-Eight Four. A group of warriors in bone-coloured armour and high crests stood around the arch, each of them carrying a pair of long-bladed swords across their backs. Behind them, tall figures in dark plate stood sentinel with long barrelled weapons, while a pair of hovering tanks with jutting prows circled the perimeter. The air shimmered beneath the gracefully skimming vehicles and clouds of dust were kicked up by the mechanism that kept them in the air.

  At the centre of the group of eldar, a slender figure robed in a dark tunic and wearing a high helm of bronze sat cross-legged at a low table of polished dark wood. He carried a long staff and beside him stood one of the giant walking war machines that Solomon had dreaded ever since the battle on Tza-Chao. It carried a sword as long as an Astartes warrior was tall, and its graceful limbs belied the fearsome power and strength within it. Though the golden sweep of its curved head was completely featureless, Solomon felt sure that it was looking right at him with nothing but scorn.

  ‘Quite a gathering,’ whispered Julius, and Solomon heard an eager edge to his voice.

  Solomon said nothing, too intent on watching for the slightest hint of danger.

  YOU BELIEVE HE is the one?

  ‘I do not know,’ said Eldrad as the voice of Khiraen Goldhelm echoed in his mind, ‘and that troubles me.’

  The fates are not clear?

  Eldrad shook his head, knowing the mighty wraithlord was uneasy at this meeting Eldrad had urged with the mon-keigh. The long dead warrior’s counsel had been to attack the humans as soon as they had violated eldar space, destroying them before they even knew the eldar were there, but Eldrad had sensed there would be something different in this encounter.

  ‘I know that this one will be a great player in the bloody drama set to unfold, but I cannot see whether it will be for good or ill. His thoughts and future are hidden from me.’

  Hidden? How is such a thing possible?

  ‘I do not know for sure, but I believe that whatever dark forces his Emperor employed in the creation of these primarchs renders many of them as little more than spectres in the warp. I cannot read this one, nor sense anything of his future.’

  He is mon-keigh; he has no future but war and death.

  Eldrad could sense the contempt the dead warrior had for the humans, for it had been a human blade that had ended his life and left him a ghost in the shell of a mighty war machine. He tried not to let the wraithlord’s anger cloud his judgement of the humans, but it was difficult not to agree with him, given the evidence of their blood-soaked history.

  Yes, the mon-keigh were a brutal race that lived for conquest, but these humans had behaved in a manner unlike any he had witnessed before, and he fervently hoped that this Fulgrim might be the one with the wit to bear his warning to the ruler of his race.

  You know I speak true, urged Khiraen. You have seen it haven’t you, the great war that set them at one another’s throats?

  ‘I have seen it, great one,’ nodded Eldrad.

  Then why seek to prevent it? Why should we care whether the mon-keigh destroy one another in fire and blood? I say let them, for the life of one eldar is worth ten thousand of theirs!

  ‘I agree,’ said Eldrad, ‘but I see a time in the grim darkness of the far future when our failure to act will be our undoing.’

  I hope you are right, farseer and that this is not simply arrogance.

  Eldrad looked up at the armoured warriors gathered on the hillside and felt a shiver within his soul as he hoped the same thing.

  FULGRIM LED THE way down the hillside without preamble, resplendent in his battle armour and a cloak of bright gold that shone dazzlingly in the fading light. His silver hair was pulled into a number of elaborate plaits and he wore a glittering golden wreath about his brow. Powder had been applied to his skin, rendering it even paler than normal and coloured inks had then been applied to his cheeks and eyes in elegant swirls.

  Fulgrim had come armed, the silver sword belted at his waist, and to Solomon’s eyes his master was dressed in a manner more akin to some theatrical impresario’s vision of a primarch rather than the reality.

  He kept his own counsel, however, as the Emperor’s Children reached the bottom of the hill, and the eldar robed in black rose smoothly from the ground and bowed before Fulgrim. The faint hint of a smile ghosted across the alien’s features, and Solomon tensed as he removed his bronze helmet.

  ‘Welcome to Tarsus,’ said the eldar, bending at the waist in a formal bow.

  ‘You are Eldrad Ulthran?’ asked Fulgrim, returning the bow.

  ‘I am,’ said Eldrad,
turning to face the towering war machine. ‘And this is Wraithlord Khiraen Goldhelm, one of Craftworld Ulthwé’s most revered ancients.’

  Solomon shivered as the towering war machine inclined its head curtly, the gesture of welcome rendered as one of hostility.

  Fulgrim looked up at the giant wraithlord and returned the gesture, a nod of respect between warriors, as Eldrad spoke again, ‘And from your stature you must be Fulgrim.’

  ‘Lord Fulgrim of the Emperor’s Children,’ put in Eidolon.

  Again Solomon saw the ghost of a smile, and his jaw clenched at the insult he felt sure was implicit in such a gesture.

  ‘I apologise,’ said Eldrad. ‘No disrespect or offence was intended. I simply sought to establish a dialogue based on virtue rather than rank.’

  ‘No offence is taken,’ assured Fulgrim. ‘Your point is well made, for it is not birth or rank, but virtue that makes the difference between men. My lord commanders are simply anxious that my station be recognised. Although it will make no difference to our parlay, it is still unclear to me what rank you hold among your people.’

  ‘I am what is called a farseer,’ said Eldrad. ‘I guide my people through the challenges of whatever the future might hold and offer guidance as to how best to meet those challenges.’

  ‘Farseer…’ said Fulgrim. ‘You are a witch?’

  Solomon’s hand itched to reach for his sword, but he fought the impulse. The primarch had expressly forbidden them to draw their weapons unless he did so first.

  Eldrad appeared unmoved by Fulgrim’s provocative word, but shook his head slightly.

  ‘It is an ancient term, one that perhaps does not translate well into your language.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Fulgrim, ‘and I apologise for speaking without thought.’

  Solomon knew his primarch better than that, and saw that Fulgrim had very deliberately chosen the word to gauge Eldrad’s reaction to it.

  Against a human counterpart such a ploy might have worked, but the farseer’s features gave nothing away.

  ‘So as a farseer, you are the craftworld’s leader?’

  ‘Craftworld Ulthwé has no formal leader as such, more a… council I suppose you would call it.’

  ‘Then do you and Khiraen Goldhelm represent that council?’ pressed Fulgrim. ‘I desire very much to know with whom I deal.’

  ‘Deal with me,’ promised Eldrad, ‘and you deal with Ulthwé.’

  ONCE AGAIN OSTIAN rapped on the shuttered door to Serena’s studio, telling himself he would give her five more minutes to answer before heading back to his own studio. The statue of the Emperor was coming on in leaps and bounds, as though some inner muse guided his hands, though there was still much to be done and this visit to Serena’s was taking up much needed time.

  He sighed as he realised that Serena wasn’t going to answer. Then he heard shuffling behind the shutter and the faint, but unmistakable smell of an unwashed body.

  ‘Serena? Is that you?’ he asked.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said a ragged and hoarse voice.

  ‘It’s me, Ostian. Open the shutter.’

  Silence was his only answer and he feared that whoever the voice belonged to was simply going to ignore him. He raised his hand to knock once more when the shutter began to rattle upwards. Ostian stood back, suddenly nervous about who he might come face to face with.

  Eventually the shutter rose enough for him to see who had opened it.

  It was a woman, but one he would have expected to see hawking for loose change from the gutters of a downhive sump. Her long hair was greasy and unkempt, her features gaunt and wasted, and her clothes ragged and stained.

  ‘Who are…?’ he began, but the words died in his throat as he realised that this decrepit excuse for a human being was Serena d’Angelus.

  ‘Throne alive!’ cried Ostian, rushing forward to take her by the shoulders. “What’s happened to you, Serena?’

  He looked down at her arms, seeing scores of cuts and scars crisscrossing her flesh. Dried blood was still crusted on the more recent wounds, and even he could tell that many were infected.

  She looked at him with dull eyes, and he all but dragged her back into the studio, shocked at the disaster area it had become. What had happened to the meticulously neat artist who had kept every part of her life organised and compartmentalised? Paint pots were strewn all over the floor, and broken canvases lay around like so much garbage. A pair of easels still stood in the middle of the studio, but he could not see what had been painted on them for they were facing away from him.

  Red stains streaked the walls and a large plastic barrel sat in one corner of the room. Even from here, Ostian could smell the rotten, acidic reek from it.

  ‘Serena, what in the name of all that’s sane has happened here?’

  She looked up at him, as though seeing him for the first time and said, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well clearly something has happened,’ he said, his anger growing in proportion to her indifference. ‘I mean, look at this place: paint everywhere, smashed paintings… and that stench? Throne, what is that? It smells like something died in here.’

  Serena shrugged and said, ‘I’ve been too busy to clean.’

  ‘Well that’s just nonsense,’ he said. ‘I was always far messier than you and my studio’s not this bad. Really, what’s been going on here?’

  He wandered through the smashed wreckage that filled Serena’s studio, avoiding a large pool of reddish brown paint in the middle of the floor, and making his way towards the large barrel in the corner of her studio.

  Before he reached it he felt a presence behind him and turned to see Serena right behind him, one hand held poised to reach out to him, the other tucked in the folds of her dress as though holding something.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Serena. ‘Please, I don’t want to…’

  ‘Don’t want to what?’ asked Ostian.

  ‘Just don’t,’ she said, and he could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘What have you got in that barrel?’ asked Ostian.

  ‘It’s engraver’s acid,’ she said. ‘I’m… I’m trying something new.’

  ‘Something new?’ repeated Ostian. ‘Switching from acrylics to oils is something new. This is… well, I don’t know what this is, but it’s something insane if you ask me.’

  ‘Please, Ostian,’ she sobbed. ‘Please go.’

  ‘Go? Not until I find out what’s been happening with you.’

  ‘Ostian, you have to go,’ begged Serena. ‘I don’t know what I might do.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Serena?’ asked Ostian, grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but I want you to know that I’m here for you. I’m an idiot and should have said something before now, but I didn’t know how to. I knew you were hurting yourself because you didn’t think your talent was worth anything, but you’re wrong, it is. It so is. You have a rare gift and you have to realise it, because this… this is not healthy.’

  She sagged into his arms, and he felt tears pricking his eyes as her body was convulsed by wracking sobs. His heart went out to her, though the wiring of his male brain could not understand the strangeness of her affliction. Serena d’Angelus was one of the most talented artists he had ever seen and yet she was tormented by delusions of her own inadequacy.

  He pulled her tight and kissed the top of her head. ‘It’s all right, Serena.’

  Without warning she pushed him away with a shriek of rage and shouted, ‘No! No, it’s not alright! Nothing lasts! No matter what I do it won’t last. I think it was because he was inferior, no good. His talent wasn’t able to sustain it.’

  Ostian recoiled from her rage, not knowing who or what she was talking about, or what she meant. ‘Serena, please, I’m trying to help.’

  ‘I don’t want your help,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want anyone’s help. I want to be left alone!’

  Utterly confused, he backed away from her, sensing on some instincti
ve level that he was in danger just by being there. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Serena, but it’s not too late to come back from whatever’s eating away at you inside. Please let me help you.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ostian. It’s always been so easy for you, hasn’t it? You’re a genius and inspiration comes naturally to you. I’ve seen you do great things without even thinking about it, but what about the rest of us? What about those of us that aren’t geniuses? What do we do?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ he asked, outraged at her dismissal of his skill, as if it was the inevitable result of some intangible force within him spilling from him in a torrent. ‘You think it’s easy for me? Let me tell you this, Serena, inspiration comes of working every day. People think that my talent rises each morning, rested and refreshed like the sun, but what they don’t appreciate is that, like everything else, it waxes and wanes. It always seems so easy for those without talent to look on those who have it and say that it’s easy for us, but it isn’t. I work every day to be as good as I am, and it annoys the hell out of me when mediocre people assume an air of knowing better than I do what makes good art. Appreciation of others work is a wonderful thing, Serena, it makes what is excellent in others belong to you as well.’

  She backed away from him as he spoke, and he realised that he’d let his anger get the better of him.

  Disgusted with himself, he stormed away as she reached for him, passing through the shutter and into the corridor beyond.

  ‘Please, Ostian!’ wailed Serena as he walked away. ‘Come back! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I need your help. Please!’

  But he walked on.

  THROUGHOUT THE JOCKEYING exchanges of greeting, Solomon had watched the motionless wraithlord behind the farseer. Its slender limbs seemed incapable of supporting its body and elongated golden head and curving crest. Solomon felt his skin crawl just looking at it, for though he knew such things could move with fearsome speed and agility, he felt no sense of life from the machine, as he did from a Dreadnought.