Chapter 174 - Though Not Perfect, Already Without Flaw
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Two loyal sons of the Emperor of Mankind clashed with the Daemon Primarch in a storm of close-quarters violence.
Sparks erupted from the edges of their weapons with every exchange. Each blow carried enough force to kill an Astartes outright, and every collision threw off cascades of unnatural light and sound.
The ground shattered beneath their feet. Shockwaves threw rubble into the air and sent it crashing back down.
The fallen Fulgrim's arm, the one Curze had blown apart, had already grown back. And in that newly regenerated hand was a weapon all three of them recognized: the Fireblade.
When the Phoenician and the Gorgon of Medusa had first met on Terra, the weapons they exchanged were the finest proof of their friendship.
Ferrus Manus had forged the Fireblade for Fulgrim. Fulgrim had crafted the Forgebreaker for Ferrus Manus.
Now the fallen serpent meant to use that same weapon, a symbol of brotherhood, to kill the man who made it. And his own clone.
Wreathed in fire, Ferrus Manus opened his mouth and found he had no voice. What came out was a roar that shook the air.
He swung the great hammer down in a crushing arc. Iron-gray flames compressed at the hammerhead, dense as a dying star.
The fallen serpent threw everything he had into holding the line. All four arms raised, weapons braced, he gave ground step by step under the assault.
But every time he barely blocked a blow, the Phoenician came in from the flank. No wasted motion. Just a blade finding the gap, opening wounds that should have been fatal.
Violet-gold flames crept into his flesh along each cut, burning through the gifts of Slaanesh from the inside. The pain was nothing like physical damage. It was worse. Much worse.
He could feel his blessings eroding.
Time was running out.
He needed to finish this now.
His daemonic flesh-wings snapped open. He launched himself into the air.
Distance. He needed distance. Enough room to unleash sorcery that could level all of Iax. Whatever Mortarion and Nurgle thought about it, he was getting his pride back.
But the Phoenician was not going to give him that room.
"You will do no such thing!"
The Phoenician spread his wings and shot upward like a burst of starlight, hurtling straight for the fallen serpent.
They collided midair. The detonation of force tore apart the plague cloud hanging over the battlefield, ripping it open from beneath. Gold and violet light twisted together in the gap, two wills meeting like gods forced to settle their grievances in the mortal realm.
The fallen serpent had no attention left for his clone's technique, no capacity to study or analyze. He was fighting to survive.
He felt the Phoenician's presence rising. Climbing, breath by breath, with every exchange. And then, in one unguarded instant, a kick caught him full force.
He plummeted toward the ground. The Fireblade spun free of his grip.
The Phoenician caught it on the way down.
"No!"
The fallen serpent's roar tore out of him, raw and furious and cornered.
The Phoenician pressed his advantage without hesitation. He took the Fireblade in both hands, rolled into a dive, and came down from the sky like a falling blade himself.
Everything he had, every fragment of strength and conviction, went into that thrust.
The Fireblade drove into the fallen serpent's chest.
Concept.
The concept of the name Fulgrim was shifting.
The fallen serpent felt it happening. The power, the meaning, everything that had once belonged solely to him was draining away. Not torn out by force. Something quieter and more absolute than that. It was flowing toward the one who deserved the name more.
The two of them fell.
Hurtling down through the open air, the fallen serpent's voice came out venomous and raw.
"You can never truly kill me! You imperfect clone! I will come back! And I will take everything you love, all over again!"
The Phoenician's answer was calm. Not cold. Just settled.
"Though I am not perfect, I am already without flaw. And I will be waiting when you return, pitiable brother."
They hit the ground.
The Fireblade's flames surged outward and swallowed the fallen serpent whole. He screamed.
His honor guard watched their gene-father go down. They faced the Phoenician standing over the fallen original, his gaze serene and immovable, and they stepped back. One by one, and then all at once.
A handful of them snapped back to themselves in that moment, clarity cutting through like a blade. They collapsed, clutching their heads, weeping. Their still-loyal brothers cut them down where they knelt.
Eidolon, the guard commander, stared at the figure standing before him. Something complicated moved through him.
"Go!" he shouted.
What remained of the honor guard hauled their fallen serpent father up and triggered a Warp translation. In seconds, they were gone from Iax.
The Phoenician did not pursue. He watched them leave.
When the battle ended, the force sustaining him began to ebb. His legs buckled. He pitched forward.
A pair of cold metal hands caught him.
Fulgrim forced his head up. He looked at Ferrus Manus, still burning, still standing. And he smiled. A real one, from somewhere deep. Then the darkness took him.
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The fighting was not over.
Fulgrim's battle was done. Guilliman and Horus's was not.
Mortarion's toxic mist spread across the field, carrying a God-Plague capable of killing a Primarch. Horus was managing, Sanguinius's feathers had absorbed most of the corrosion on his end. But the toxins had found their way into Guilliman through his wounds, and the Master of Ultramar's face was going dark.
Horus tried to push toward his brother. Mortarion wouldn't allow it. Lethal attacks came down the moment he moved, forcing him to hold position and fight just to stay alive.
A clay bodhisattva crossing the river can barely save itself.
Then a blazing figure crashed into the battlefield.
Ferrus Manus said nothing. He swung his hammer, left the ground in one explosive leap, and drove Mortarion out of the air and into the earth.
Horus didn't wait. He moved in immediately.
"Roboute, I'll handle this monster. Hold on!"
"No, Lupercal." Guilliman's voice came through the vox, labored and deliberate. "I have a plan, brother. Kaelen told me. I'm going into Nurgle's Garden. With Mortarion."
"Roboute! What are you doing! Don't be a fool!"
Horus stiffened.
Guilliman bellowed, a sound like a wall coming down, and then he ran.
No guard. No dodge. He deliberately let the flames of the Emperor's Sword drop, opening himself up, letting the God-Plague drive deeper with every step.
Each stride deepened the corruption. Each breath anchored the rot further into his body.
The Master of Ultramar had decided to bet everything on one throw.
The Death Lord was happy to oblige.
Mortarion came down from above and put Guilliman on the ground with a psychic strike.
From the cluster of vials and canisters at his waist, Mortarion selected a small bottle. The same strain. The God-Plague that had birthed Mortarion himself.
In full view of everyone on that field, he pressed the bottle to Guilliman's neck and emptied it.
Horus's roar came out at a register beyond fury. He swung Worldbreaker and drove forward, trying to close the distance, but Mortarion's death angel stepped into his path.
Even with Ferrus Manus's bound flames in the fight, the blasphemous construct held them both without strain.
"Easy, Horus." Mortarion let out a wet, rattling laugh. "Once Guilliman has fully fallen, I'll come back for you."
He grabbed Guilliman by the shoulder. His insect wings beat once, hard.
An inky green rift split open in the air.
It swallowed them both and closed.
➤ Next: The Plague War Ends
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