The Eternal Crusader - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Truly?’ shouted Helbrecht, although he had no reason to doubt his commander. His reticence came from what the news betokened. His thoughts went to Grimaldus at Helsreach.

  ‘Yes, my liege! Yes! We have removed our black sword from its stasis field, and begun the rituals of sanctity,’ said Amalrich. Pride was on him like raiment; it was honour for a Champion to arise in his crusade.

  ‘I left Brother-Champion Bayard upon Armageddon at Reclusiarch Grimaldus’s side,’ said Helbrecht.

  The Thunderhawk’s engines cycled down to tolerable levels. Amalrich’s voice lost some of his pleasure along with its volume. ‘You have not heard, then, that he has fallen?’

  ‘We are fresh from the warp, and have received no message.’

  ‘I am sorry, my liege. I had not realised that a Champion had arisen in your crusade. This is as bad news as it is good.’

  Sorrow engulfed Helbrecht, but he allowed none to show. ‘It is joyous. One falls, another arises to feel the divine grace of the Emperor. Praise be.’

  ‘Praise be, brother.’

  Announced by the clamour of docking rituals and hymns of welcome, the second Thunderhawk’s assault ramp hissed open, disgorging Marshal Ricard and his Sword Brethren. All were shaven headed and sported moustaches. White cloaks lined with red swept around their feet.

  ‘Ricard!’ said Amalrich, with plain delight.

  Ricard was between the ages of Helbrecht and Amalrich in years, and similarly disposed in humour: not as grim as his lord, and not as cheery as his peer.

  ‘It is good to see you all. Brother Helbrecht.’ Ricard bowed his head and took Helbrecht’s hands in one of his own. ‘I am pleased my choice was backed by the others. You will be a fine High Marshal.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Helbrecht. He had no desire to go into the debacle of the Ghoul Stars Crusade.

  ‘Master of Sanctity,’ Ricard said to Theoderic. ‘Might I beg the indulgence of your blessing before we depart?’

  ‘You may, marshal. The Emperor will show you his favour.’

  Ricard bowed.

  ‘I was informing the High Marshal of the advent of our Champion,’ said Amalrich.

  ‘It is a boy who has heard the Emperor’s call, I understand,’ said Ricard.

  ‘Vosper is his name, my liege,’ explained Amalrich to Helbrecht. ‘He is young, a neophyte, but close to finishing his training. The visions came upon him three nights ago, and grow in strength. He is a worthy Champion, my liege.’

  ‘Then Bayard is dead,’ said Ricard. ‘I am sorry, my liege. We lose a fine brother.’

  ‘He is certain to have died a hero’s death. May the Emperor shield his soul,’ said Theoderic.

  ‘Praise be,’ they all murmured, and shared a moment of silence.

  Helbrecht rubbed at his chin, the brass of his bionic hand rasping against his stubble. ‘Does the boy…’

  ‘Vosper, my liege.’

  ‘Does Brother Vosper know what this means?’

  ‘Yes, my liege,’ said the marshal. ‘He has undergone initiation into the third mysteries.’

  ‘And he knows no fear?’

  ‘None, my lord. He is among our most promising neophytes. He shows only faith, and a desire to die for the Emperor.’

  ‘Chaplain Theoderic, this coming of a second Champion so soon after the demise of the first is unusual. And in one so young. What do you make of it?’

  Theoderic made a fist, and contemplated the skull-adorned knuckles of his gauntlet a moment, as if the answers were hiding in their empty eye sockets.

  ‘It is highly unusual, my liege, but there is no reason why it should not be so. The Emperor works in mysterious ways. Now, at this dark hour, he comes to our aid directly. The youthfulness of this vessel, Vosper, is perhaps indicative of his purity. No matter his experience in war, the Emperor will fill him with his might. If Bayard is dead, it was meant to be. And we have a new Champion to return to Armageddon with. In my opinion, it is a sign that the Emperor is with us, my liege. Praise be.’

  ‘Praise be,’ the others responded. Automatically, without thought. The praising of the Lord of Mankind waited always on their tongues.

  ‘The visions have proven true, my liege,’ said Amalrich. ‘He has been tested by my crusade’s Chaplains. He has undergone all the trials.’

  Helbrecht looked at Theoderic.

  ‘Dagal and Leofald, my liege. The Chaplains of Amalrich’s crusade.’

  Helbrecht nodded in recognition. ‘Good priests. I am sure they have been thorough, but we must be certain. Amalrich, have the Master of Sanctity examine this Brother Vosper.’

  ‘At once, my liege,’ said Amalrich, beckoning for his shield-serfs, telling them to relay orders to the Virtue of Kings to make the neophyte ready.

  ‘What of our crusades, High Marshal?’ asked Ricard.

  ‘They are done. If circumstances permit, you will be despatched to bring them to successful conclusion once the war for Armageddon is at an end.’

  ‘The banners then?’

  ‘Keep them with all honour. Your crusades are suspended, not dissolved.’

  Ricard and Amalrich bowed. ‘Thank you, my liege,’ said Ricard.

  ‘I am sure the vorteth will appreciate the rest,’ said Amalrich. ‘Let them feel safe in their burrows for a few years more – their extermination will be all the sweeter for their reprieve.’

  ‘Well said, Amalrich,’ said Ricard.

  ‘I will go at once, by your leave, my liege,’ said Theoderic.

  Helbrecht gave his assent.

  ‘You may use my ship as your own, Chaplain,’ said Amalrich. ‘Our business will keep me here a while, I am guessing.’

  ‘Emperor bless and keep you, brother.’

  Theoderic left, the Thunderhawk switching immediately to takeoff protocols.

  ‘So then,’ said Amalrich to Helbrecht, his friend and master, ‘tell us of this ork who would foolishly defy the God-Emperor of Mankind.’

  ‘He is no fool,’ said Helbrecht.

  For three days the marshals conferred with one another while fresh neophytes were gathered from the Chapter keep’s training priories on Fergax. Eighty-four were judged ready for ascension. Meanwhile, in the holiest places of the Virtue of Kings, Theoderic questioned the young Space Marine Vosper. On the fourth day, he returned with joyous news.

  Neophyte Vosper entered the Chamber of Sigismund with wonder and trepidation writ plainly on his face. He tried manfully to keep to the prescribed walk of entrance – small steps were required from one as junior as he. Head bowed, he made slow progress forwards, in time to the chanting of the Chapter’s thrall-monks, but he couldn’t help himself from glancing at the ostentation surrounding him, so different to the training decks. Three dozen Sword Brethren from three crusades lined the way to Helbrecht’s throne, their armour highly ornate, chased with gold and platinum, the darkness of the plate enlivened by the bright colour bursts of their own heraldry. A crowd of the Chapter’s best – Adeptus Astartes and unmodified human servants – waited for him. Representatives of every branch of their order, including one of the Chapter Ancients entombed in a hulking suit of Dreadnought armour. The Praeses-Sword Brother who stood next to his lord’s throne bore a massive sword in its scabbard, wrapped all about with ribbons and oath-papers.

  Still young, Vosper was already fearless, but awe made itself known to him then.

  Helbrecht stood up from his throne as Vosper reached the foot of his dais. All those present made the Templars sign, crossing their forearms in front of themselves. The sudden clash of metal on metal was startling. Vosper dropped to his knees, his supplicant’s robes pooling around him.

  Helbrecht spoke, and his voice was by far the most overwhelming thing Vosper had ever heard, although the High Marshal wore no helmet to amplify his words and spoke no louder than a man in conversation. ‘We welcome you to the Inner Circle, brother of the Black Templars, son of Rogal Dorn, successor of Sigismund. What you see and hear within this chamber shall be r
epeated to none outside these walls. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my liege.’

  ‘Then be at ease, Brother Vosper.’

  Vosper remained kneeling.

  ‘You may stand, brother,’ said Theoderic gently. ‘You are a member of the Inner Circle now.’

  Vosper did as he was told, his wondering gaze switching from one grim warrior to the next, each resplendent in their robes and heavily ornamented battleplate. ‘You call me brother, but I… I am a neophyte, my lord.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the High Marshal is mistaken?’ said Ricard.

  ‘No, no! Forgive me, my lords.’

  ‘We are all equals within this precinct, Brother Vosper,’ said Helbrecht. ‘You may refer to all here simply as brother, except I. Have you completed your training?’

  ‘Nearly, my liege. I have undergone the final implantation. I await only my Knight’s Confirmation.’

  ‘Who is your master, squire?’

  ‘Brother Galbus, my liege.’

  ‘Tell him that you have your confirmation.’

  ‘From you, my liege?’ Vosper’s face lit up. He dropped to one knee. ‘Thank you, lord! Confirmation from you is a great honour.’

  Helbrecht shook his head. ‘No.’ His face remained stern. The neophyte looked up, concerned. ‘Confirmation does not come from me.’

  ‘My liege? I do not understand.’

  ‘You have been chosen by a higher authority. You have received the Champion’s blessing. Your Knight’s Confirmation comes from the Emperor himself, brother, not from one so lowly as I.’

  Helbrecht bade him rise.

  ‘We pay homage to you,’ Helbrecht said. He took the man-high sword from Gulvein. It made a whispered scrape as he pulled it free. The blade was black, so black it took no reflection, appearing to consume what light dared fall upon it.

  ‘This is one of the ten black swords of the Black Templars,’ said Helbrecht. He pointed the sword’s tip at Vosper’s face. ‘It was forged of black solarite in ages past. Few have the honour of bearing one, and none for long. It is now yours, if you will take it. Do you accept this role given to you by the Emperor of Mankind, Brother Vosper? Will you take up the black sword and this great boon, and wield it in the service of our lord, in the furtherance of His Great Crusade to purge the stars? Or do you refuse this honour, and will henceforth be stripped of all title, and driven forth, and hunted until slain? The choice is yours.’

  ‘I accept, my liege, although I am not worthy.’

  ‘You put aside the right to judge your own worth the moment you were chosen to join the Chapter,’ said Theoderic. ‘The Emperor has deemed you fit, and you have no authority to question Him.’

  Helbrecht saluted Vosper with the sword, and then, taking the blade in his hand, reversed it and handed the hilt to Vosper, who took it in his hand, his face alight. Theoderic stepped forwards to clasp the lanyard bracelet about the neophyte’s wrist, and locked it in place.

  ‘Let this blade now never fall from your grasp,’ said the Chaplain. ‘I name you the Emperor’s Champion,’ he said.

  ‘Emperor’s Champion,’ the others echoed.

  ‘You are the chosen of the Emperor, and worthy of a good death,’ said Theoderic. ‘We envy and honour you. For our envy, we shall do penance. For the honour of fighting by your side, we will be proud. Praise be.’

  ‘Praise be!’ the others shouted.

  ‘You will be taken from this place to a place of arming,’ commanded Helbrecht. ‘You will be equipped in the Sanctis Sanctorum aboard the Eternal Crusader. Bring to him the armour of the Champion. Bless him well. When armed and blessed, you will await in prayer within the Temple of Dorn, sainted son of the Emperor. There you will remain until a sign is given unto thee. This you shall reveal only to Master of Sanctity Theoderic. The revelation shall be our signal to go to war.’

  ‘War! War! War!’ the Inner Circle shouted. ‘Praise be! Praise be! Praise be!’

  The Eternal Crusader was vast. Far bigger than most battle-barges, it dated from a time when a force of Space Marines numbered in the tens of thousands, not mere hundreds. The Black Templars Chapter was slightly larger than most, but even they all gathered together would barely tax the capabilities of the vessel. With the mere two hundred brothers of Helbrecht’s Void Crusade aboard, just under a fifth of the Black Templars total strength, a large portion of Sigismund’s ship was empty. Two of the five embarkation decks were mothballed, their maintenance status one of barest renewal. Many hangars were seldom used. Practice halls, gymnasia, barracks and armouries were devoid of life. Several decks were rarely visited; one was sealed off and airless. Only servitor constructs roamed these sepulchral spaces, checking endlessly for decay and reporting malfunctions back to the forge.

  To reach the Navigator’s palace, Helbrecht had to traverse the most eerie of all the Eternal Crusader’s quiet places. He must pass through the librarium.

  There were no Librarians in the Black Templars Chapter. How long this had been so had been lost to the turning of millennia, for without the expertise of the librarium, the Chapter’s records had inevitably fallen into decay.

  Helbrecht and his honour guard went into a baroque tunnel that ran along the spine of the vessel, some decks above the main thoroughfare. The towers of the librarium opened up off either side. Up here the ship’s breath was more apparent: the creaking moans and sudden, sharp shrieks of metal shifting under stress. Distant systems grumbled or whooped. Clatters sounded from unguessed places. Here, so close to the soundless void, the ship seemed noisier than elsewhere, as if its machine-spirit sought to drown out the silence with its own voice.

  The librarium surrounded the access corridor and intensified this sensation. The blast doors into its towers and the deep-thrusting catacombs beneath were welded shut and covered over with hundreds of purity seals. They bore the mark of every Chaplain and High Marshal the Chapter had produced. Some were so old that the parchment had crumbled to dust, the wax cracked away. No cleaning drones came this way, and the trails of previous visitors to the Navigator’s palace were faint marks in the dirt.

  Helbrecht came here infrequently. Ordinarily, when a meeting was called for, Jushol went forth from his palace by ways known only to himself, but what Helbrecht would ask his Navigator demanded the proper protocols. He must be visited at home.

  He recognised his own seal on a door, fresh looking and still bright red amid the crumbling remnants of his predecessors, a mere eight years old. What lay beyond the doors none now knew. The psychic traces of the Librarians clung to the place, evident in the corridor outside their haunted bastions as a faint sense of unease.

  Helbrecht and his men picked up their pace. Soon they left the sealed doors of the librarium behind them as the access way went into less-haunted areas of the ship, and before long they were at the principal entrance to the Navigator’s palace, a pair of grand golden gates barring the way. The spinal corridor terminated here, and few might go beyond.

  Before Helbrecht could announce himself, the golden doors of the palace creaked inwards, pushed open by slack-mouthed servitors whose wheeled lower parts were set into tracks.

  Inside was a world apart. By ancient treaty signed between the Black Templars and House Ju-Sha-Eng, the area beyond the portal was, technically, not part of the Eternal Crusader at all, but sovereign house territory. Even Helbrecht could not enter without permission. A group of heavily altered combat thralls clumped forwards on hissing legs, their eyes far too alive for true servitors. They held weapons at the ready in metal hands. Shoulder-mounted meltaguns, bonded into their flesh, panned back and forth over the group of Space Marines. A phalanx of men wearing the exotic colours of House Ju-Sha-Eng formed up behind them, standing to attention, their laser carbines across their chests.

  A female menial, her painted face scarified and neck extended upon a tower of brass rings, came forwards from the palace’s atrium. She stopped at the threshold of the doors, the place where the domain of the Nav
igator ended and that of the Black Templars began. In her long service, she had never been beyond the boundary of the palace.

  ‘Welcome to the domicile of Jushol Ju-Sha-Eng, Lord Helbrecht,’ she said, revealing filed teeth inlaid with patterns of silver. ‘I am House Mistress Talifera, pledge-bound to House Ju-Sha-Eng. I bid you welcome. The Lord Navigator is expecting you.’

  Helbrecht had his honour guard wait outside, their inscrutable red helm lenses locking in uneasy stand-off with the visored eyes, augmetic and biologic, of the Navigator’s household troops in.

  The palace was a domain unto itself. The gravity here was lower, set to the preferences of Jushol’s mutant physique. Although not one of the void-dwelling Navigator clans, he was nevertheless delicate, as many of his kind were.

  The rear of the palace extended deep into the ship’s spires, sealed off from the rest of the Eternal Crusader by multiple blast doors and thick armoured bulkheads. In splendid isolation, the Navigator, far too valuable to risk in battle, could wait out any conflict. But the front part of his domain stood proud of the mass behind it, and this was a tower covered over with a dome. From there he gazed into the warp. It was to here, to the pilot’s scrying chamber, that Helbrecht was led.

  Jushol Ju-Sha-Eng stood at the console by his throne, consulting with a tech-adept. Maintenance of the chamber was the responsibility of the Navigator’s House, not the forge. Like the thralls in Jushol’s employ, the adept would be bound to him. The Navigator Houses completed their own treaties with the Adeptus Mechanicus for such work.

  Thralls, menials, servitors and the tech-adept bowed and withdrew as Helbrecht entered the chamber.

  ‘My Lord Helbrecht,’ spoke the Navigator. ‘A welcome interruption to my daily chores.’

  ‘I will keep this short, Lord Navigator Jushol of House Ju-Sha-Eng.’ Helbrecht spoke humbly. He bowed his head and held out a scroll tied with a black ribbon. ‘I come with a petition.’

  Jushol took the scroll in a spindly hand without looking at it. His human eyes did not leave Helbrecht’s face for ten long seconds. Under an embroidered scarf wrapped around his brow, his third eye twitched, as if searching for something beyond the blindfold. Then he unrolled and read the request.