Haunted Pheonix

Sire Miho Von Vanderspeac tried not to look nervous as he waited but it wasn't easy. At the far end of the corridor they watched, red-eyed lens glaring from helms marked with strange runes and carvings. He had brought his lifeguard with him, a dozen of the fiercest Lucifer Blacks, but compared with what confronted them they may have well have been made of paper. Two forces locked in a contest of wills, with a decided imbalance of power. No matter his pride or authority hellguns were a poor match for bolters and carapace armour did not compare to lightning marked Ceramite or the gory trophies that hung from pauldrons. Four Astartes of the VIIIth Legion stood in Miho's way and he was sure the infamous 'Night Lords' wouldn't hesitate to use violence to bar his passage.

A tall man with stern features, Miho was marked by his rich robes and staff of office. Dark skin attested to his origins in the violent Hive-sinks of Afrik but his rise to power had been meteoric. A lifetime in the growing edifice that was the Administratum had seen him become a name to respected. No clerk or tallyman for the Imperial Tithe, Miho was a fixer, the kind of man the powerful turned to when they needed a problem solved, or removed. Wealth and titles had followed, his boastful name gifted so he could move in the corridors of power, but he never forgot his origins, or the skills he had honed in that cut-throat world. So successful had his efforts been that Malcador himself had recruited Miho, gifting him the mark of the Sigillite, a pass that should allow Miho passage anywhere, except these four Astartes didn't seem impressed.

Miho glanced about the corridor. High in the Hive Spire of Nihim, capital of Ciihon VIII. Outside a long glassic panel the city sprawled, a vast conurbation of steel and Ferrocrete. Industrial hubs were everywhere, a vast production capability that spoke of a proud civilisation, one that had endured Old Night and all the horrors a hostile galaxy could throw at it. The interior was equally resplendent, the ruling governership decorating their halls with triumphal friezes of victory against alien horrors who dared challenge them. Under the light of bronze electroscones statues of victorious admirals and generals stood, faces stern but wise, defenders of civilisation and justice, not bloodthirsty tyrants. A litany of success the Imperium would have welcomed with open arms, save that the locals had rejected compliance.

A faint noise drew his eye and he saw flashes of purple approaching. Miho straightened as ten Legionnaires Astartes strode into view, their shining plate utterly spotless. Purple was their colour and winged claws marked their pauldrons. Upon their breasts flew the Aquila, a unique honour only they were allowed to bear. Shining blades were heavy in hand and their grips spoke of men who knew how to use them, Miho could tell, he'd seen enough blustering fools in his life to recognise genuine killers when he saw them. Tall and powerful as the Night Lords but totally different, as day is to night. IIIrd Legion elites, the vaunted Emperor's Children.

Majestic were they, but as nothing compared to the figure following behind. Taller than a Space Marine, his plate so perfect it made one want to weep. His face was exposed but his features were stronger than a Ceramite helm, yet graceful too, sublime in beauty. Perfect locks hung over his shoulders, white as snow, and his eyebrows were sculpted with total accuracy, not a hair out of place. A scent hung around him, powered perfumes heavy in the air. His chin was lifted with pride, but in him it was no flaw, it was whispered by the mighty that the Phoenician made pride a virtue. Prefector of Chemos, Palatine Eagle, Primarch of the IIIrd, Fulgrim the Illuminator was a sight to steal the breath away.

Fulgrim paused before Miho and extended a gauntlet bearing a ring. Miho knew this game and bowed to kiss the signet ring of Chemos, though given their disparity in height he didn't have to bow low. It was custom that the lower in rank speak first and Miho greeted the noble Primarch, "Lord Fulgrim, it gladdens my heart you came so swiftly."

"Sire Miho Von Vanderspeac, you summoned me, I am not accustomed to being summoned. Not least by Malcador's… agents," Fulgrim stated coldly.

Miho swallowed at the implied insult but held firm, "It was with the most urgent of reasons. The Sigillite has tasked me with overseeing the conduct of this operation and the reports from this theatre are… disturbing."

Fulgrim didn't seem impressed as he looked to the glassic window, "Nine worlds does Ciihon boast, nine worlds of industry and martial power. But more than this they stand atop a nexus of warp routes that grant access to the galactic north, all the way to the Halo Zone. The Emperor, beloved by all, commanded Ciihon be brought to compliance but they refused our generous offers and opened fire on the 434rd Expeditionary fleet. The War Council sent three legions, with orders that Ciihon be made to kneel. Three Legions Miho, three! Think of that, think of the power of one Legion, now multiply threefold. Did you expect such a campaign to be one of decorum? War is brutal and destructive by nature, the more violent it is the swifter it is won."

Miho protested, "I am no callow babe in arms. I have seen war, I have seen your Marines in action. The noble IIIrd brought the outer worlds to compliance with skill and speed. The Iron Xth subdued the inner worlds with ruthless brutality. But what the VIIIth have done here… it is beyond the pale."

Fulgrim sniffed, "My Brother Curze brought this world to Compliance with minimal casualties and marginal forces. He killed fewer souls than either the IIIrd or the Xth. This city alone he compelled to surrender with a mere three squads. Marvellous skill, marvellous. Of course, it doesn't compare to my feat of taking a whole planet with only seven legionnaires, but the effort must be appreciated. Curze understands what it is to strive for perfection."

"It is how he did it that concerns the War Council," Miho argued, "The scenes played out in the nights, the displays of horror left in the streets, the mutilations played over the public pict-net… the… manner of the executions of rulers."

"Oh you are bothersome," Fulgrim lamented, "I see you will give me no peace till I bring my Brother to task. Very well, let us speak to him."

"Thank you," Miho sighed, "The Sigillite will hear of your support in this matter."

Fulgrim waved his Marines back as he strode to the doors, confronting the four Astartes. Miho trailed in his wake and heard the Phoenician order, "Make way for your betters."

"We are ordered to not let anyone pass," came the reply.

"Do I look like just anyone?!" Fulgrim retorted, "Curze will welcome me, we are bosom friends."

"We have our orders," came the reply.

"But you do not have the means to stop me," Fulgrim purred with a dangerous edge, "I am going through those doors, this is a certainty, if you are alive or not is debatable. I suggest you check with my Brother before making a decision."

A series of vox-clicks hurriedly issued from their helms then they stepped aside, "The Night Haunter will see you, only you two."

Miho breathed out in relief as the doors opened and the pair stepped inside. The council chamber of governship for this world, a senate for the debating of principle and policy. Here wise men had steered the course of billions, engaged in the cut and thrust of debate. Rings of marble seats dwelled under banners and a high podium stood on a raised plinth at the centre, where a moderator ruled the room. Or so it had once been.

Miho came to a halt as his jaw fell. The once beautiful chamber had become an abattoir. Bodies sat upright on their seats, every inch of skin removed to expose muscle and bone. Staring eyes gazed upon the podium, where another body was pinned upright, wearing a powdered wig upon a skull bereft of all skin. The epidermis was not missing, it had been used. The once beautiful banners had been replaced with hangings of skin, woven together into long sheets and marked with letters daubed in bloody tears. Clean marble had been painted over with scenes of horror, the streets of the city etched in perfect detail out of blood and effluent, even down to the bodies laying in corners as brutal Astartes stood over them. The crown jewel was an orrery of the Ciihon system, all its worlds denoted by eyeballs hanging upon silver threads, their moons described with fingernails. The smell was unbearable, a reek of gore that made Miho want to throw up, and he was not easily given to nausea.

Fulgrim stopped with eyes wide, "Oh Konrad… what have you done?" A shadow detached itself from the wall, equal to the Phoenician but darkness to his light. A pale face and lank hair hung in greasy ribbons, lips colourless and thin. His armour was midnight, marked with lightning bolts and adorned with bones and skin-banners, some still dripping so fresh were they. The Dark King, Pale Nomad, Night Haunter, Primarch of the VIIIth, Konrad Curze spake, "So, do you like what I've done with the place?"

Miho's guts clenched as he fought to keep from vomiting, "Konrad Curze! By the authority of Terra you are called to account!"

"Account for what?" Curze sniffed as he stalked closer, "I was tasked to bring this world to compliance, I have done so."

"You call this compliance?!"

"What else would you call it?"

"I call it a travesty! What could possibly justify this nightmare?!"

Curze looked about, "These men had their chance to kneel, they refused. They would plot rebellion the second our eyes were elsewhere. Every soul in this room was a greedy despot, concerned only with their own wealth and power. They would betray us at the first opportunity, so I decided not to give them the chance, plus a warning to the next bunch not to think of trying."

"This is madness!" Miho spat, "Fulgrim, I demand you place this fiend under arrest!"

Fulgrim's eyes were wide as he gazed about, "Oh Curze, what you have done here… it is… it is marvellous."

"Wait, what?!" Miho cried in disbelief.

"Look at it," Fulgrim exclaimed as he spread his arms wide, "Look at the asymmetry of presentation, the details of stance and gesture. One could almost hear the debate ringing as the speakers expounded their views. The use of space and light, the play of shadows and suggested motion. This is a work of art!"

"It is murder!" Miho gasped.

"One must appreciate the difference between the subject matter and the execution of intent. This diorama could stand equal with Berusel's 'Dawn of Reason' or Timorra's 'Fall of Arik Taranis'. The skill displayed here, the sheer talent of the artist, demands respect."

"You like it?" Curze asked with a cocked head.

"I knew you had skill Brother, but I never thought you were such an artist," Fulgrim exclaimed, "I applaud your talents. And your compliance, how many did you kill, a few hundred? Far fewer than Ferrus Manus achieved in the most gentle of his conquests. He can be such a Gorgon at times, but you my Brother, you chase perfection."

"This is madness!" Miho cried.

"Well yes," Fulgrim admitted, "But then are not all great artists a little bit mad? Von Hoch cut off his own ear for his art. Byron ingested poisons. Mingwa cut off his tongue, so he could only communicate through music. Tortured genius is still genius."

"This must be stopped!" Miho cried.

But Fulgrim sighed, "Alas it is the curse of all true artists to be unappreciated in their own time."

Miho couldn't believe what he was seeing. The two Primarchs stood together, mirror reflections of each other. Miho had thought them as different as could be, but suddenly he saw how similar they were. Mirror reflections, but like all mirrors they were reversed. Light and dark, virtue and vice, grace and sin, left and right. Each of them contrasted the other down to the smallest detail, and in doing so became the same. Fulgrim and Curze expressed it differently, but their essences were identical.

Miho backed off, clinging to his staff, "Malcador will hear of this, the War Council will hear! I shall tell the whole Imperium what you have done. The Emperor will not stand for this travesty."

Curze's lips drew back over his teeth, "He will, he already knows and sanctions it. It is by his order this was done. And he does not tolerate those who get in his way."

The Primarch blurred, becoming a streak of motion across the eye. Miho didn't have time to act before something punched into his chest. One fingertip, Curze's digit, driving through his ribcage into the meat of his heart, barely up to the second knuckle, but deep enough to kill. Miho's legs went weak and breath rattled in his lungs, escaping for the last time. His jaw worked like a fish and eyes watered as he wheezed his last, "Can't… kill… I carry… Sigillite's mark…"

Curze grinned knowingly in silence but it was Fulgrim who stepped around his Brother and remarked, "But it was so artfully done."