Graham McNeill: Fulgrim: Visions of Treachery

Julius ignored their stares and retrieved his sword and helmet from his bearers before taking his seat. He cast his eyes around the chamber, seeing silver and scarlet officers of the Imperial Army filling the lower tiers of the Heliopolis, their closeness to the floor indicative of their higher ranks.

Lord Commander Fayle sat at the centre of a gaggle of flunkies and aides. He was a stern man with a horribly scarred face, augmented with a steel plate that obscured the left side of his head. Julius had never spoken to the man, but knew him by reputation: a skilled general, a blunt speaker and a ruthless, unforgiving soldier.

Behind the officers of the army, occupying the mid-level of seating, were the adepts of the Mechanicum, looking uncomfortable in the bright light of the Heliopolis. Their hooded robes hid much of their features, and Julius could not remember if he had ever seen one with his hood down. He shook his head at the foolish veils of secrecy and ritual they surrounded themselves with.

Alongside the Mechanicum were the remembrancers, earnest men and women in beige robes that scrawled in battered notepads and data-slates or sketched on cartridge paper with charcoals. The greatest artists, writers and poets of the Imperium had spread through the expedition fleets in their thousands to document the monumental achievements of the Great Crusade, meeting varying degrees of welcome. Precious few of the Legions appreciated their efforts, but Fulgrim had declared their presence to be a great boon and had granted them unprecedented access to his most intimate and guarded ceremonies.

Following his gaze, Lycaon spat, 'Remembrancers. What purpose do scriveners and their ilk serve at a council of war? Look, one of them has even brought an easel!'

Julius smiled and said, 'Perhaps he is attempting to capture the glory of the Heliopolis for future generations, my friend.'

'Russ has the truth of it,' said Lycaon. 'We are warriors, not subjects for poetry or portraits.'

'The pursuit of perfection extends beyond the martial disciplines, Lycaon. It encompasses fine arts, literary works and music. Only recently, I was privileged to hear Bequa Kynska's recital and my heart soared to hear such sweet music.'

'You've been reading poetry again, haven't you?' asked Lycaon, shaking his head.

'When I have the chance, I delve into one of Ignace Karkasy's Imperial Cantos,' admitted Julius. 'You should try it sometime. A little culture would be no bad thing for you. Fulgrim himself has a sculpture in his chambers that he commissioned from Ostian Delafour, and it's said that Eidolon has a landscape of Chemos painted by Keland Roget hanging above his bed.'

'Never! Eidolon?'

'So they say,' nodded Julius

'Who'd have thought it?' mused Lycaon. 'Anyway, I'll stick to achieving perfection in war if it's all the same to you.'

'Your loss,' said Julius, as the benches in the upper reaches of the Heliopolis filled with people: the scribes, notaries and functionaries who served those nearer the centre of power.

'Big turnout,' noted Lycaon.

'The primarch is going to speak,' said Julius. 'That always brings the adorers out.'

As though speaking his name was the key to summoning him, the Phoenix Gate opened and the Primarch of the III Legion entered the Heliopolis.

Fulgrim was flanked by his senior lord commanders, and the assembled warriors, adepts and scribes immediately rose to their feet and bowed their heads in wonder at the magnificent, perfect warrior before them.

Julius rose with them, his earlier discomfort washed away in the rush of excitement at seeing his beloved primarch once again. A swell of rippling applause and cries of ''Phoenician!'' filled the Heliopolis, a roaring gesture of affirmation that only halted when Fulgrim raised his palms to quiet his reverent followers.

The primarch wore a long flowing toga of pale cream, and the dark iron hilt of his sword, Fireblade, was visible at his hip, the blade itself sheathed in a scabbard of gleaming purple leather. The flaring wings of an eagle were embroidered in gold thread across his chest and a slender band of lapis lazuli kept his silver hair from his face. Two of the Legion's greatest warriors, Lord Commander Vespasian and Lord Commander Eidolon came in behind the primarch. Both warriors were dressed in plain, white togas, unadorned save for a small eagle motif over the right breast. Their stern martial bearing was an inspiration for Julius, who held himself a little straighter at their presence.

Eidolon looked unimpressed at the gathered warriors, while Vespasian's humours were unreadable behind his flawless, classical features. Both lord commanders were armed, Vespasian's sword held sheathed at his side and Eidolon's hammer carried upon his shoulder.

Julius could feel the tension in the air as the expedition awaited Fulgrim's words.

'My friends,' began Fulgrim, taking his seat before the assembled warriors, his pale skin radiant in the glow from above, 'it gladdens my heart to see you gathered so. It has been too long since last we made war, but what a chance we have now to remedy that.'

Though he knew what was coming, Julius felt an unreasoning excitement build within him and saw that the normally sardonic Lycaon smiled broadly when he heard the primarch speak.

'We orbit the world of a fearsome species that calls itself the Laer,' continued Fulgrim, his voice having lost the Cthonic harshness he had picked up while the Emperor's Children had fought alongside the Warmaster's Luna Wolves. The cultured accent of Old Terra again flavoured every syllable, and Julius found himself beguiled by the timbre and cadence of the primarch's words. 'And such a world it is! One that the honoured representatives from the Mechanicum tell me would be of immeasurable value to the crusade of the Emperor, he who is beloved by all.'

'Beloved by all,' echoed the chamber.

Fulgrim nodded and said, 'Though a world such as this would be of immense value to us, its alien inhabitants do not wish to share what blind fortune has blessed them with. They refuse to see the manifest destiny that guides us through the stars and have made it abundantly clear that they hold us in nothing but contempt. Our peaceable advances have been rebuffed with violence, and honour demands we answer in kind!'

Angry shouts of threatened violence filled the Heliopolis. Fulgrim smiled, clasping his hands to his chest in thanks for their devotion. As the cheering and shouts died away, Julius saw Lord Commander Fayle stand and bow deeply to the primarch.

'If I may?' ventured the soldier, his voice deep and laden with experience.

'Of course, Thaddeus, you are my most favoured ally,' said Fulgrim, and Fayle's stern mask twitched in pleasure at being addressed by his first name.

Julius smiled as he remembered the skill with which Fulgrim flattered those he spoke to, knowing full well that he was soon to blindside Fayle with hard facts and uncomfortable truths.

'Thank you, my lord,' began Fayle, placing his gnarled hands on the wall that separated him from the dark floor of the Heliopolis. As Thaddeus Fayle spoke, microscopic motes of crystal floating in the column of light focused on the Army commander, wreathing him in a diffuse glow. 'Perhaps you can enlighten me as to something?'

Fulgrim smiled and his dark eyes were alive with mirth. 'I shall endeavour to bring illumination to your ignorance.'

Fayle bristled at the implied insult, but pressed on. 'You have called us here for a council of war regarding what is to be done with Twenty-Eight Three? Yes?'

'Indeed I have,' replied Fulgrim. 'For I could not conceive of undertaking such a decision without your counsel.'

'Then why have you already sent warriors to the planet's surface?' asked Fayle with impressive force of will. Most mortals were rendered imbecilic simply by standing in the presence of a primarch, but Thaddeus Fayle spoke as though to a member of his own staff, and Julius felt his choler rise at such boorish behaviour.