Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix (The Horus Heresy Primarchs Book 6) by Josh Reynolds

Author:Josh Reynolds [Reynolds, Josh]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Games Workshop
Published: 2017-12-29T16:00:00+00:00

Nine

lives and opinions

‘Well, this is fun,’ Grythan Thorn said, as low-velocity projectiles flattened themselves against his power armour. ‘Should we return fire, do you think?’

Kasperos Telmar shrugged. ‘The primarch said not to hurt them, if possible.’ The farmstead had been occupied by its former menials, and they didn’t seem inclined towards hospitality. Mostly, they seemed to want to shout revolutionary slogans through their purloined voxcasters and waste ammunition.

A slug ricocheted off the side of his helmet, gouging a grey streak in the paint. His sensors registered the impact, and he sighed. ‘Though I fail to see how killing a few wouldn’t help settle the rest of them down.’

‘Peaceful negotiations, brother, remember?’ Thorn laughed. ‘As soon as they run out of ammunition, they’ll be in the mood to talk.’ The revolutionaries had turned the farmstead into a crude bastion, using whatever was to hand. It was by no means impregnable, but it was impressive, in a way. From a casual examination, Telmar had identified fifteen possible points of entry. The simplest would be to kick the main gate down.

‘I doubt that. Have you seen the state of them?’ Telmar frowned. ‘I knew it was bound to be bad, but this is monstrous. The rates of starvation alone are reprehensible. It’s no surprise they seized their moment when it came.’

‘If only it didn’t inconvenience us quite so much,’ Thorn said. He crossed his arms and glanced back towards what remained of the airship that had brought them here, to the outer rim of the agri-circle. The aircraft burned merrily. Its etheric engines sparked still, amid the inferno. The crew was dead, more was the pity. A direct hit from a primitive artillery piece had knocked the craft out of the air, and killed everyone not lucky enough to be clad in ceramite. ‘I’m not walking back, I can tell you that.’

‘Lazy,’ Telmar murmured.

‘Not laziness. We are the Emperor’s chosen, Kasperos. We do not walk, like common menials. We soar like eagles or, failing that, lope like wolves. But walk – never. Think of what that would do to morale.’

Telmar said nothing, content to listen and record the sounds of the fusillade. Later, he thought he might put them to music. There was something pleasing to his ear in the primitive rhythms of gunfire. It was almost… relaxing.

He’d heard similar sounds often enough on Chemos as a child. His memories of that time were a confused jangle of impressions, scents and sounds, but he recalled the gunfire with startling clarity. The whine of low-velocity slugs hitting sheet metal, and the screaming that followed. Always the screaming.

He remembered that he’d been alone when he’d been found by the Legion’s apothecaries. And he remembered the Spider’s voice, calm and reassuring. When had that changed? Or had it? Was it simply his perceptions that had changed?

‘You’re humming. Are you composing again?’

‘No,’ Telmar said, forcing the memories back. ‘I’m growing weary of this. Any chatter on the local vox-network? Has anyone figured out what’s going on?’

‘No. It appears to be spontaneous, whatever it is.

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