Free Fulgrim by Graham McNeill Page A

said, ‘I would never dream of making light of the fact that men are dying, but I know that a great many more would not come back alive if not for me. We all deal with war in different ways and if my way offends you then I am sorry, but I am who I am and I will change for no man.’
    Solomon stared at Marius, practically daring him to prolong the unexpected argument, but his fellow captain shook his head and said, ‘I am sorry, my friend. All this fighting has left me bellicose and I seek to find cause to vent my anger.’
    ‘It’s fine,’ said Solomon, his anger draining away in an instant. ‘You’re so by the book that I can’t help needling you from time to time, even when I know I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.’
    Marius offered his hand, which Solomon took, and said, ‘War makes fools of us all, when never more are we required to maintain our standards.’
    Solomon nodded and said, ‘You’re right, but I don’t know any other way to be. I let Julius take care of the culture side of things. Speaking of which, how is that little stable of remembrancers you’ve been cultivating? Any new busts or portraits of you yet? I swear, Marius, soon you won’t be able to turn a corner without seeing his face in a painting or carved in marble.’
    ‘Just because you’re too ugly to be immortalised in art doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be,’ grinned Julius, well used to Solomon’s friendly barbs. ‘And it’s hardly a stable. Mistress Kynska’s music is wondrous and yes, I hope to be the subject of a painting by Serena d’Angelus. Perfection exists in all things, my friends, not just war.’
    ‘Ego this big…’ chuckled Solomon, spreading his arms wide as the Phoenix Gate opened once more and Fulgrim entered, fully armoured and robed in a great cloak of feathers the colour of fire. The effect was magnificent, all conversation around the table ceasing in an instant as the Astartes gazed in awe at their beloved leader.
    The assembled warriors stood and bowed their heads as the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children took his place at the table. As always, Eidolon and Vespasian flanked the primarch, their armour similarly wreathed in cloaks of feathers. Each carried a staff topped with a small brazier of black iron that burned with a red flame.
    Though the circular table was, in theory, supposed to do away with rank and position, there was no doubting who the master of this gathering was. Other Legions might have a more informal setting for their warrior lodges, but the Emperor’s Children thrived on tradition and ritual, for in repetition came perfection.
    ‘Brothers of the Phoenix,’ said Fulgrim, ‘in the fire I welcome you.’
    B EQUA K YNSKA SAT at the wide desk of her stateroom aboard the Pride of the Emperor and stared at the blue world below her through the brass rimmed viewport. Though the scene was beautiful, she hardly saw it, still fuming over the blank pages of music before her and the rejection of Ostian Delafour.
    Though the boy was plain and unassuming, with no great physical attributes to recommend him over the lovers she had taken over the years, he was young, and Bequa craved the adoration of the young above all else. They had such innocence, and to corrupt that with the bitterness of age and experience was one of the few pleasures left to her. Since her earliest years, Bequa had been able to have any man or woman she desired. Nothing had been beyond her. To be denied something now, when she had the opportunity to achieve the incredible, was supremely frustrating.
    Her anger at Ostian’s refusal of her advances gnawed at her and she swore a silent oath that he would pay for such effrontery.
    No one rejected Bequa Kynska!
    She placed her fingertips on her temple and gently circled them in an attempt to ease the headache she could feel building behind her eyes. The smooth, artificial texture of the skin felt cold to her and she dropped her hands to the desk. Surgical augmentations had kept the worst