'Yes,' smiled Horus. 'Memories of Murder no doubt.'

Horus indicated that Fulgrim should walk with him, and the two primarchs marched from the transit deck.

Eidolon followed in his footsteps, while Abaddon and Horus Aximand fell in behind the Warmaster, but Fulgrim could not fail to notice the accusing looks the Luna Wolves threw in the lord commander's direction. Fulgrim wondered what had passed between the warriors on Murder, as Horus led him through the halls of the mighty ship towards his personal staterooms.

Horus spoke volubly of shared memories of more innocent times, when all that had been before them was the simple joy of warfare, but Fulgrim heard none of it, too locked in his own private misery to listen.

At last, the journey ended at a pair of simple, dark wood doors, and Horus dismissed the two members of his Mournival. Fulgrim likewise dismissed Eidolon, ordering him to attend upon Apothecary Fabius.

'In many ways, it is fortuitous that you come to me now, my brother,' said Horus.

'How so?' asked Fulgrim, as the Warmaster opened the doors and stepped inside.

Horus did not answer, and Fulgrim followed him, seeing that an Astartes in armour the colour of weathered granite awaited them. The warrior was powerfully built and his battle plate was bedecked with parchments and tightly curled script work.

His head was shaven bare, the skin covered in angular tattoos.

'This is Erebus of the Word Bearers,' said Horus, 'and you are correct.'

'About what?' asked Fulgrim.

'That we have much to talk about,' said Horus, closing the doors.

Horus's staterooms were spartan and austere compared to his own, without the lush decorations and fine artworks that hung on every wall and stood proud on golden plinths. This did not surprise Fulgrim, for his brother had always eschewed personal comforts in favour of appearing to share the discomforts of his warriors. Beyond an archway veiled in white silk, he could see his brother's personal chambers, and he smiled as he saw the mighty desk there, the piles of oath papers strewn across its surface, and the tome of astrology given to Horus by their father.

Thinking of their father, Fulgrim looked over to the wall upon which was painted a mural he had not seen in decades. It depicted the Emperor ascendant over all, with his hands outsuetched, and above him spun constellations of stars.

'I remember that being painted,' said Fulgrim wistfully.

'Many years ago now,' agreed Horus, pouring wine from a silver ewer and handing the goblet to him. The wine was deep red, and Fulgrim felt as though he was staring into an ocean of blood as he raised it to his lips and took a long draught. Oily sweat brisded on his brow.

Fulgrim glanced over at the seated figure of Erebus, and felt an irrational dislike for the Word Bearer, despite never having met him or heard a single word pass his lips. He had never particularly relished the company of Lorgar or the warriors of the XVII Legion, finding their enthusiasms unwholesome, and their former zeal in proclaiming the Emperor as a figure of worship contrary to the central tenets of the Great Crusade.

'Tell me of Lorgar,' ordered Fulgrim. 'It has been some time since I have seen him. He prospers?'

'He does indeed,' smiled Erebus, 'like never before.'

Fulgrim frowned at the warrior's choice of words, and sat down on the couch facing the Warmaster's desk. The Warmaster sliced the flesh of an apple with a gleaming, serpent-hilted dagger, and Fulgrim's rarefied senses could feel an unspoken tension in the air, a miasma of things unsaid and great potential. Whatever Horus had in mind was clearly something of great import.

'You have recovered well from your wounds,' noted Fulgrim, catching the furtive glance shared between the Warmaster and Erebus. Precious little information had been released from the 63rd Expedition regarding the Davin campaign, certainly nothing to indicate that Horus had been wounded, but the Warmaster's reaction proved that at least part of the farseer's tale was true.

'You heard about that,' said Horus, taking a slice of apple into his mouth and wiping the juice from his chin with the back of his hand.

'I did,' nodded Fulgrim. Horus shrugged.

'I attempted to prevent word of it reaching the other expeditions for fear of the damage it might do to morale. It was nothing, a minor wound to the shoulder.'

Fulgrim smelled a lie and said, 'Really? I heard that you were dying.'

The Warmaster's eyes narrowed. 'Who told you that?'

'It doesn't matter,' said Fulgrim. 'What's important is that you survived.'

'Yes, I survived and now I am stronger than ever, revitalised even.'

Fulgrim raised his glass and said, 'Then let us give thanks for such a speedy recovery.'

Horus drank to mask his annoyance, and Fulgrim let a small smile creep across his face at the thrill of antagonising so powerful a being as the Warmaster.

'So,' began Horus, changing the subject, 'you have been sent to check up on me, is that it? Is my competence as Warmaster in question?'

Fulgrim shook his head. 'No, my brother, though there are those who question your means of advancing the Great Crusade. Civilians light years from the battles we fight in their name dare question how you make war, and seek to exploit our brotherhood by tasking me to bring your war dogs to heel.'

'By war dogs, I assume you mean Angron?'

Fulgrim nodded and took a drink of the bitter wine. 'It cannot have escaped your notice that he is a far from subtle weapon. Personally, I do not favour his employment in theatres of war where anything less that total destruction is called for, but I recognise that there are times for subtlety and times for raw aggression. Is this war such a time?'

'It is,' promised Horus. 'Angron bloodies himself for me, and at this moment I need him drenched in blood.'

'Why?'

'I'm sure you remember what Angron was like after Ullanor, Fulgrim?' asked Horus. 'He raged against my appointment like a caged animal. His every utterance was calculated to belittle me in the eyes of those who thought my being named Warmaster an insult to their pride.'

'Angron thinks with his sword arm, not his head,' said Fulgrim. 'I remember that it took all my skill in diplomacy to calm the thunder in his heart and smooth his raffled pride, but he accepted your role. Grudgingly, it has to be said, but he accepted it.'

'Grudgingly is not good enough,' stated Horus flatly. 'If I am to be Warmaster, I must have utter devotion and total obedience from all those I command in the days of blood to come. I am giving Angron what he wants, allowing him to affirm his loyalty to me in the only way he knows how. Where others would pull tight the chain that binds him, I allow him his head.'

'And his loyalty to you is forged anew in blood,' said Fulgrim.

'Just so,' agreed Horus.

'I believe that is what the Council of Terra objects to.'

'I am the Warmaster and I make use of the tools available to me, moulding them to fit my purpose,' said Horus. 'Our brother Angron is raw and bloody, but he has his place in my designs. That place requires that his loyalty, first and foremost, is to me.'

Fulgrim watched the Warmaster's eyes as he spoke, seeing a passionate fervour he had not seen in many decades. His brother spoke of magniloquent designs and the fact that he required utter devotion from his followers. Was this the treachery the farseer had spoken of?

As Angron's loyalty was being won, was Horus swaying others to his cause? Fulgrim stole a glance at Erebus, seeing that he too was enraptured by the Warmaster's words, and wondered who laid first claim to the loyalties of the Word Bearers' primarch.

Patience… in time these truths will be known, said the voice in his head. You have always looked up to Horus. Trust him now, for your destiny is linked inextricably with his.