Fulgrim- The Palatine Phoenix - Josh Reynolds by Warhammer 40K

Author:Warhammer 40K [40K, Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-03-24T16:18:52+00:00

Ten

the education of cyrius

Legionary Cyrius smiled.

The air of the palace gardens was redolent with the smell of fruiting blossoms. Artfully pruned trees clustered in carefully arranged glens. They crowded against miniature recreations of ancient temples, or lined the dark, cobbled pathways that cut through the palatial gardens. Marble statues peeked out from behind curtains of greenery, as if curious to see who might be invading their realm.

It was peaceful here, in contrast to the rest of Byzas. The world tottered on its foundations. Riots, panic, starvation. At night, the horizon was lit by distant fires. There was a war-wind blowing from the west, and the reports from the continental army were lacklustre at best. Cyrius gave no thought to any of that. All that mattered was the enemy before him, and the mission at hand.

Young noblemen, from the most influential families of the patricians, stood arrayed in a loose circle around him, hands on their weapons. They reminded him of predatory birds - eager to fly and hunt, but not much else Once, he might have been counted amongst their number. On Chemos, he had been the son of an Executive. One of the elite, chosen to serve by the Illuminator. Cyrius had been bom to rule. His blood was a contract between Chemos and its people, unbreakable. As the blood of these was a contract between their people and their world. Aristocracy was the same, whatever it called itself.

He towered over the tallest of them, but few of the group seemed cowed. Instead, their gazes were calculating. They were hungry for glory - another thing he recognised in himself. He wondered if Fulgrim had chosen Byzas because its culture was so similar to that of Chemos, in some aspects. He knew these people were being tested as much for compatibility with the culture of the Third as they were for compliance. These ones were too old to become his brothers, but their children, and their children's children, might yet serve beside him in the vanguard of the Great Crusade.

At last, one of them stepped forward. Cyrius was thankful. He'd been growing impatient. This one was thin, but with the look of a swordsman. His clothing was practically iridescent, and his fingers were decorated with rings. Tattooed glyphs, shaped like grasping hands, marked the corners of his eyes and his cheeks. The glyphs were common among the younger members of the elite, though Cyrius had yet to discern just what they signified.

'We have heard that you are considered a duellist of some note,' the young man said somewhat nervously, his fingers tapping against the pommel of his blade. 'Is this true?'

Cyrius laughed. 'Truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.'

This witticism only resulted in a shared look of confusion. Cyrius sighed and drew his sword. It was a good blade, made for him by the finest artificers on Chemos. Forged from pure ores, drawn from deep veins and shaped according to the traditions of the Sulpha people. Light, but with a solid core that lent it weight and strength.

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