‘I am proud,’ said Thiel. ‘To be Ultramarine, to have you as my gene-sire, to have fought with you for so long. But I am not proud enough to let it kill me.’

Guilliman smiled beneath his helmet. ‘You have not changed, Aeonid. Fear not – I will not let pride doom me. Stand aside but for the moment. Guard my back. If I cannot best Fulgrim alone in combat, come when I call and we shall give him the honourless death he deserves.’

‘My lord,’ said Thiel, relieved.

‘It will be so,’ added Andros.

Reluctantly, the sons of Roboute Guilliman stood away from the doors. The primarch placed his palms flat upon their defiled metal and pushed. He expected them to creak and squeal, but they opened soundlessly, emitting a gust of foul-smelling air as they parted. Nothing but darkness was beyond, closer yet than that in the Triumphal Way.

Guilliman entered the Heliopolis, and the gates swung closed behind him.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The Fallen Phoenix

The Heliopolis was in a ruinous state. Shattered tiers of marble seats crowded the dark. In times past, the followers of Fulgrim had gathered upon them to hear their primarch speak, before he fell to darkness and took his Legion with him. Now, pageantry and light had been cast out by decay and dereliction. The great windows in the dome were dark, their shutters closed from neglect rather than by necessity. A thick layer of dust coated everything, and the air reeked thickly of sweat and stale musk.

Bones were scattered about amid toppled fire bowls. They were mostly baseline human, but here and there were the skeletons of Space Marines, identifiable by their greater size, the solidly fused bones of their ribcage and the tattered remains of black carapace clinging to them. Shell holes in the marble told of a battle long ago. The craters’ large circumferences had the signature blast patterns of bolt detonation in soft stone: Space Marine had fought Space Marine here, though when and why, Guilliman could not guess. Perhaps there had been a last stand of Emperor’s Children loyal to Terra, though it could just as easily have been a clash between rival warbands decades later. It was impossible to tell.

The mosaics on the ceiling were full of holes, the faces all smashed in. Hooks between the figures held bent banner poles. Shreds of triumphal silk standards moved in the ship’s breath. When whole, these flags had proudly commemorated thousands of victories in the Emperor’s name, but now they were as spoilt as the oaths of the warriors who had won them. A rare complete example stood out amid the rags. The devices on it were smirched with filth. That was worse, in a way.