Chapter Three
When the Emperor's Children fleet exited the warp into the Meilburne Star System, three destroyers and a single strike cruiser of the Archenemy patrolled the Mandeville point. All were of ancient design harkening back when the Emperor still walked amongst His people, bristling with weapons, and proudly bearing the Winged Sword of the First Legion.
Four Astartes warships, no matter the classification, would have proven significantly powerful to deter or destroy any ship that came to investigate the star system's lack of communication. Even if the Imperial reinforcements turned out to be an Imperial Army battlegroup, the traitor legionnaires would have dearly wounded the mortal fleet and likely able to withdraw before being overwhelmed. Unfortunately for the Calibanites, the ships that emerged from the Immaterium were not of the Army's Armada, but that of the Legiones Astartes.
The Incorruptible was the first to exit, followed swiftly by its accompanying escorts. Five strike cruisers, sixteen destroyers, and another battle-barge followed the flagship into real-space, warp tendrils temporarily latched to the loyalist warships, as if wanting them to return to the embrace of daemons, before breaking off and returning to the Empyrean as the ships' warp reactors cycled down.
Fulgrim stared at the four traitor vessels on the bridge's primary view-screen, the distance between them was a mere fifty-two thousand kilometres, the Incorruptible's sensoria detecting active void-shields and readied weapon systems. Yet they were nothing but gnats buzzing around an eagle.
"Shipmaster Andreas," the Phoenician spoke loudly, "end them."
The battle-barge unleashed its fury. Macro-cannon shells, lance and fusion beams, plasma blasts, and ship-killer torpedoes were fired. The rest of the Imperial fleet held its fire for these kills belonged to the flagship.
The destroyers' shields resisted the barrage for less than a minute, the strike cruiser for two minutes, before their void-shields had overloaded and the adamantium and plasteel hulls were bare to the Incorruptible's arsenal. Metres thick outer plating buckled, melted to slag, or simply disintegrated on a molecular level. Tens of thousands of slave-crewmen, hundreds of slave-officers, and twenty-three Dark Angels perished under righteous fire.
Within moments the four Dark Angel warships were naught but deep-space debris, glowing orange as their sundered parts rotated lazily into the void to be forgotten as if never having existed.
Fulgrim looked at Andreas, face still. Then he cracked a faint smile. "Excellent work, shipmaster. Your crew does the Emperor proud."
The bridge crew erupted in cheer, clapping comrades' shoulders and embracing one another. Even the tech-priests seemed pleased with their oculars whirring in and out and the twitching of mechadendrites beneath their crimson robes.
It lasted for a moment and Fulgrim let them bask in it. Discipline quickly reasserted itself without verbal command, satisfying the primarch. Andreas looked at Fulgrim, waiting for the order.
"Proceed inwards, shipmaster. Take us to Scound's Fall."
"Yes, lord primarch."
The Meilburne Star System was part of the Segmentum Solar, a mere hundred light-years from Terra. Meilburne held six planetary bodies in it, four gas giants and two inhabited worlds, with a total of fourteen billion Imperial citizens. Idamaat, a cratered-ridden world of enclosed bio-domes on the surface and extensive underground hive cities sealed in expansive hollow caverns. The second world was Scound's Fall.
As the Imperial fleet moved passed Idamaat, sensoria detected the ruptured shells of the bio-domes and the tell-tale radioactive signs of atomic detonations over cavern arcologies. There was no call for help, not even the scream of static signalling an active vox-channel. The three billion denizens of the planet were gone, either killed or taken. Idamaat was now a world of the dead.
The Imperials passed it in silence. Hours later they neared Scound's Fall. An arid world, with the bulk of the population centred on an equatorial sea, it was nothing remarkable before the attack. Now, the world was afire. Smoke plumes blotted out much of the atmosphere over the capital city. The sea was a speck of blue amidst a field of fiery destruction.
A cluster of First Legion warships and transports were in high-orbit. They were already facing the III fleet, ready to do battle; doubtlessly a vox or astropathic message had alerted them to the loyalists' arrival.
Fulgrim inspected the traitor fleet. Two strike cruisers and three destroyers, accompanied by half a dozen mass bulk carriers.
"Shipmaster Andreas, execute battle-plan echo-gamma-four."
"Echo-gamma-four, copy, lord primarch."
Fulgrim turned to Valinor and Caedus. "Come. Let us show these Fallen Angels Chemosian hospitality."
A hundred drop-pods fell to Scound's Fall. Within minutes of being forcibly ejected from Incorruptible's underbelly, the drop-pods impacted the dry earth, landing in Byra City's central park. Five hundred Space Marines and a primarch had arrived. The Third Primarch stepped out, power sword and bolt pistol in hand. The Phoenix Guard re-joined their father and Fulgrim looked out over the capital city of Scound's Fall.
Overhead Imperial aerospace fighters secured air superiority, shooting down traitor fighters and transports, establishing an aerial cordon for III dropships that carried another thousand legionnaires. The remaining five hundred of Caedus' Second Millennial remained in orbit, enacting either boarding actions on traitor vessels or protecting the battle-barges.
Fulgrim activated the mini-hololith built into his vambrace. Enemy positions had been scanned from orbit, and the data-feed was updated in ten second intervals.
"Octavius, head for the governor's palace, relieve the defenders and secure the governor and cardinal. They will be needed after this battle is done."
"Aye, sire. Will you join us?"
"Negative," he said, starting to move. "I am heading to the abbey. The greatest concentration of Traitor Marines is located there."
"Copy, sire."
Fulgrim switched to the Legion-wide vox-channel.
"Children of the Emperor! Death to His foes!"
Primarchs had been made to fight, to lead and reign supreme above all others. Cutting down Dark Angel after Dark Angel reinvigorated him like nothing else had. Fulgrim appreciated culture and art, but his true purpose was to kill the enemies of Mankind, and he revelled in it.
He did not laugh like Russ would have, nor felt sorrow at sowing destruction like Lorgar had felt many a time, but the exuberant joy once felt during his youth in the Great Crusade had long faded in the centuries after the Great Betrayal, now Fulgrim felt only private satisfaction at fulfilling his one true purpose.
Armour drenched in gore, Fireblade humming with ancient power and smelling of ozone, he advanced, leaving a trail of corpses behind him. The Phoenix Guard flanked him, a force of two hundred pushing ever deeper towards the Abbey of the Sacred Heart. The Dark Angels, despite being outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, fought fanatically, even desperately. This raiding party consisted of just over a hundred Astartes, and already most lay dead amongst the rubble of Byra City. Many of the survivors had congregated around the abbey and it was to there the primarch marched to.
After traversing a kilometre, the Emperor's Children arrived to the abbey, surrounded by once-beautiful gardens, now ruined by promethium flamers and plasma fire. Thirty Dark Angels had encircled the abbey, several of their own dead on the manicured lawn. Dozens of priests, nuns, and acolytes lie butchered. Several Frateris Templar guards resided among them, their attempt to save their fellow believers noble, if ineffective.
As several of the traitors turned they were cut down by a wall of bolter fire. Fulgrim reloaded as he charged. The traitor legionnaires returned fire. The Phoenix Guard beside him fell to the ground, head gone from where a mass-reactive bolt had embedded itself and detonated. Brain matter and helm shrapnel covered the primarch's left side.
On the move, he downed three more Fallen Angels, mag-locking the pistol to his waist when it clicked empty. One traitor, clearly a psyker, raised his hand, eldritch energy beginning to form.
Fulgrim arched Fireblade, positioning it as if it were a spear, and threw. It whistled through the air, impacting the traitor in the chest before he could react. He sailed backwards, carried by the sword's momentum, before impacting the abbey's wall with a solid crunch. The loss of concentration and shock of the wound disrupted the summoning. Fulgrim stood over the heretic Librarian. He reached for the sword, pulling it out and beheaded the cursing Calibanite.
The primarch cut down two more legionnaires before reaching the splintered abbey doors. He stormed in, guards following obediently. Before him was an incredible sight. A young woman, no older than mid-twenties, stood over an unconscious transhuman clad in grey repentant robes, her hands outstretched and glowing with familiar golden light. Behind her and the unconscious legionnaire were scores more innocents, huddling and whimpering in fear.
And what they feared was indeed gruesome. A helmless Dark Angel warlord, swollen with foul might, attempted to kill the woman and Astartes with a staff blazing with warp-magicks, but was unable to. The woman must have been quite strong to resist so powerful a foe.
The warlord turned, shock and unease plastered onto his face at the sight of a returned Fulgrim. He attempted to turn but was shot by several of the Guard, their bolters barking death. Some were stopped by a telekinetic shield but most impacted ceramite, blasting through to the meat on the inside. Black blood flowed out and the traitor fell to his knees, his psychic-fuelled assault flickering out.
"Cease fire," Fulgrim ordered, bolter fire stopping immediately.
The Phoenician approached the kneeling Dark Angel. The transhuman looked up.
"Your return will stop nothing, peacock," sneered the traitor, inciting anger from the dozens of Emperor's Children in the main chamber. "Sar Luther has foreseen the end of the Imperium. It is inevitable. Chaos will win, mastered and wielded by my lord."
Fulgrim stood over the warlord, unperturbed.
"You think yourself its master, but you have been a slave of Chaos since the moment it touched you." Fulgrim raised his sword. "Return to your gods, tell them nothing is inevitable. The Imperium will survive."
Before the warlord could say something else, Fulgrim slashed downward, cutting from shoulder to hip, the energised primarch-crafted blade cutting with ease and the body split into two halves. He turned to the woman and the man she crouched protectively over.
Walking towards them, he noted her remarkable beauty. Either she was naturally gifted or she had spent time under a chirurgeon's knife. She looked up as he approached, her bright blue eyes not surprised to see a primarch looming above her.
She did tilt her head in honest respect. "Lord Fulgrim, I am pleased you received my message. I have dreamed of this day for many months."
Ah, a seer, then. The primarch was about to reply when he truly looked at the unconscious Astartes. Every legionnaire inherited certain features from their primogenitor, whether it be a proud chin, a strong nose, high cheekbones, or dozens of other minor physical characteristics. The characteristics of the unconscious transhuman matched those of the bisected warlord almost perfectly. Quickly, he raised his sword to strike, but the woman threw herself over the man.
"Please, no, Lord Fulgrim! He is of the Unforgiven, a loyal warrior of the Emperor!"
Fulgrim hesitated, then sheathed his sword. The noises of combat from outside had died down, reports coming in of the total extermination of the enemy's force. One hundred and forty-three Dark Angels for eighty-seven Emperor's Children. An acceptable ratio.
The primarch looked at the raven haired woman. "Very well, he will live. For now."
The woman sighed in relief.
"And who are you?"
The woman, knowing her companion was temporarily safe, rose and presented herself more formally.
"I am Amelia Jakoby, Abbess of this holy sanctum."
"How is it that a female psyker has advanced so far within the Cult? Has the Ecclesiarchy changed so drastically since my departure?" Fulgrim knew they had not as he had studied the Adeptus Ministorum's history closely, but was curious for her answer.
"I am not a natural born psyker, Lord Fulgrim. I received my powers only four months ago, given to me by the God-Emperor. His Divine Majesty revealed to me of your return via prophetic dreams. This also helped knowing when and where to send the plea for help."
Fulgrim eyed the woman inquisitively, searching for any hint of deception or taint. He saw none. It could not be a coincidence that this woman had received powers from the Emperor during the same time period that saw his return. And the golden light that emanated from her hands… it had not reeked of the warp; rather it had felt like father's light: warm, piercing, yet comforting. This woman, Amelia, had been granted substantial power and if the Master of Mankind trusted her, then so must Fulgrim.
He took a deep breath. "I believe you, Amelia Jakoby. My brother Lorgar called those blessed such as you living saints. Do you believe you are one?"
Amelia clasped her hands before her, and despite the dirt and blood covering her abbess robes, she looked regal. "I believe in the God-Emperor, Lord Fulgrim. I will be whatever He needs me to be."
Fulgrim grunted at that, impressed. Despite being a mortal, she didn't blabber like a fool, and though it was clear she believed his father to be a god, she didn't exuberate extreme zealotry, rather a firm belief in a clear determined mind that could be rational.
The primarch looked down at the legionnaire, his wounds great and only partially healed. Bolts, sword and sorcery had damaged him significantly. A miracle he was even alive.
"They were after him?"
"Yes, lord."
"Do you know who he is, the name he carried so long ago?"
She nodded.
Fulgrim ordered two Apothecaries to move the unconscious transhuman to the flagship to fully recover and also to be detained. "I will be most interested to hear what he has to say when he wakes up."
Three days later the unconscious legionnaire, now fully healed physically, awoke aboard the Incorruptible, hands and feet manacled to the reinforced cot fit for one of his stature. Fulgrim had been sitting beside him the entire time, working on another draft of his treatise, two Guards standing at the secondary apothecarion's sole entrance. Despite the many wounded, this apothecarion was empty barring the primarch, his two protectors, and the now awake Unforgiven.
The Unforgiven looked at Fulgrim in silence for some time. When he finally spoke, it was with utmost respect.
"Lord Fulgrim, it has been some time."
A faint smile played upon the primarch's lips. "Yes, it has been. Over ten thousand years, give or take."
The Unforgiven relaxed in his cot. "Is Amelia alive?"
"Yes. She protected you when your wounds forced the Sus-an Membrane to activate, putting you into a coma."
"I see we are on a ship, and I can feel the slight throbbing of a ship in the warp. Is she here?"
"Yes," Fulgrim said again. "She is aboard this very ship, though about two kilometres that way," the primarch gestured towards the bow. "She is truly a unique individual. Bearing Emperor-given powers and unafraid of Chaos-corrupted Space Marines, and one who can look me in the eyes and carry on a conversation without fainting or stuttering in hopeless nervousness. I think I can see why He gifted her so. It is my belief she will play a key role in preserving the Imperium."
"I concur."
The primarch nodded, setting down the data-slate, the completion of the treatise's draft would have to wait for a later date.
"You will have to tell me how you came to be here, in this time and place."
"I could ask the same of you, my lord. I'm sure we could exchange quite a tale."
Fulgrim smiled again. "That we could." His expression changed to a more serious look. "I want to know what happened in the Ghoul Stars, the great battle that saw Caliban destroyed, the Lion's disappearance, and how you ended up at Scound's Fall."
The Unforgiven took a deep breath. "Very well, lord. Where would you like me to start?"
"Where all stories should start, Corswain. At the beginning."