Tarikus reached out his mutating talon-hand and they shrank away; and then the worst of it. As one, all the Doom Eagles turned their backs on him, casting him aside.
Suddenly the room was tight and small about him, the space at the bottom of a pit that stretched up and away, walls too sheer to climb, light too far to reach.
“Poor Tarikus,” said the voice, soothing and unctuous. “Is it any wonder you accepted the gift?”
Terror filled him at the words, but he could not stay silent. “What gift?”
The Traitor opened its claw-hand and in it lay a feather, a small curl of plume alike to those that an eagle might leave behind in passing. It was ink-black, a colour so deep and strong that Tarikus immediately knew that to touch it would be poison to him.
No sooner had he laid eyes on the barb than his chest began to burn. Tarikus gasped and clawed at the wet strips of torn tunic shrouding his torso and ripped them away. His transformed talon hands caught the surface of his skin and great rents appeared in the meat of him. From the wounds he had made, no blood flowed; instead cascades of tiny black feathers issued out, spilling from his body. He roared and felt his throat filling with a swarming mass. Tarikus retched and spat a plug of wet, matted quills from his lips.
“Do you see now?” said the Traitor. “A Chapter that rejected you, left you to perish in the cold, pitiless void. A cadre of false brothers who fled when their lives were in jeopardy. The lies you were told about fealty and honour, but all of it sand. Is it any wonder you were broken?” The other warrior leaned in. “Is it any wonder you let us remake you in the Primogenitor’s name?” He nodded. “And now the last shroud is released from you, kinsman. Now you are free to be one of us… and our first act will be to grind this Ghostmountain to dust.”
Tarikus could not stop himself from trembling. The worst of it was not the visions, or the perhaps-memories, or the sense of his own body slipping away from him. No, the worst of it was that he could not be sure. The Traitor’s words had the edge of truth to them.
How often in those long months in that cell had he lain in torment, one single question desperate on his lips. Why have I been forgotten? His every waking moment as an Adeptus Astartes had been in service of something greater than himself, and in return, in exchange for the surety of fate and death the Doom Eagles gave, Tarikus had the priceless gift of brotherhood. The certain knowledge of comradeship among his kindred, the knowing that he would never be lost, not so long as a single son of Gathis still drew breath. So why did they never come for me? Why did they count me dead and he done, never to speak my name again?
“Because it is a lie,” said the Traitor. “And has ever been one.” He gestured around. “We will never lie to you, Tarikus. You will always know the truth with us.” The hand extended out to him once more. “Take it.”
The thunder outside and the flashes of blue-white light coursed all around him. Tarikus looked up and saw the outstretched hand, the turncoat Astartes—and beyond, the shadows of the Doom Eagles.
They were judging him.
Time halted for Tarikus, and the questions that had bombarded him since he had returned to the Eyrie were echoing through his mind. The accusations welled up from within.
He could imagine a shade of himself—a weaker, broken Tarikus—who might have had the flaw of character to yield to the strain of his confinement on Dynikas. This ghost-Tarikus, this pale copy of him, made bitter by his abandonment, clawing in desperation for the one thing every Space Marine wanted… The bond of brotherhood. Without their comradeship, the Astartes were nothing. Everything they were was built upon that foundation. What horror it would be to lose that, to be cast adrift and counted as unkindred. A weakened soul, captured at the lowest moment, might be persuaded to bend the knee to a former foe for just a taste of that blessed bond once again. A fragile spirit, yes, who would willingly hide their new loyalty beneath the cloak of the old, and carry poison back to those who had deserted them. Poison and murder, all in the name of revenge.
Suddenly, events were moving again, and he was aware of the Traitor nodding. “Yes. You see now, don’t you?”
But that shade, that weakling who appeared in his thoughts… Whatever it was, it was not Tarikus, son of Gathis, scion of Aquila. He drew himself up and with a vicious shove, pushed the turncoat aside.
Tarikus glared up at the silent, condemning gazes of his Doom Eagle brethren, peering at the phantoms of their faces. “I am not a heretic.” He spoke, and with each word that left his mouth, Tarikus felt his vitality returning to him. A sense of righteous power enveloped him, and with it the wrongness of his changed body bled away. Moment by moment, he began to feel correct. With every breath, he moved closer to the warrior he had always been—and with a surge of strength, Tarikus realised that he had not felt so certain of anything in years. Not since before he had been taken prisoner. “Judge me if you will,” he shouted, “I do not fear it! You will look inside my heart and see only fealty! I am Tarikus!”
The hazed faces of his former squad mates danced there in the wraith-light. Korica: impulsive and brave. Mykilus: steadfast and strong. Petius: taciturn and measured. They did not turn from him. They had not forgotten him.
Behind him, the Traitor was getting to its feet, coming towards him with murder in its eyes. “Fool—”
He silenced the enemy by grabbing his throat and tightening his grip until the Traitor could only make broken gurgles. Gunfire-thunder rumbled louder and louder in his ears and Tarikus bellowed to make himself heard. “I am a Doom Eagle! My fidelity will never falter!” He threw his enemy to the ground. “I did not break! I will never break!”
A great pressure, silent but deafening, pushed out from inside his thoughts, and all at once the warped walls around him exploded like glass beneath a hammer.
Tarikus swept around; he was intact, unchanged. Everything that had happened in the phantom room was gone, vanished like shafts of sunlight consumed by clouds. He stood before the open healing tank, then turned and found the Librarian Thryn coming back to his feet. The psyker was nursing an ugly bruise forming at his throat. He spat and eyed the other Astartes.
“You?” said Tarikus. He sniffed the air, scenting the greasy tang of spent mind-power. “You cast a veil over me… All of it illusions and game-play.”
“Aye,” Thryn replied, rough-voiced. “And you almost tore the breath from me in the process.”
Tarikus advanced towards the psyker, his hands contracting into fists. Anger burned in his eyes, and the question of Thryn being clad in armour and himself not didn’t cross his thoughts. “I should beat an apology from you, witch-kin.”
“You should be thanking me,” Thryn retorted. “At last, I finally saw into you. Saw what you hid from us.”
“I hid nothing,” Tarikus spat.
Thryn shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, not now. You hid your fear, Tarikus. The black and terrible fear that came upon you in the darkest moments of your confinement, when just for a moment, you wondered what would happen if you weakened.” The Librarian gave a crooked, unlovely smile. “How very human of you.”
Gradually, Tarikus’ fists relaxed. “I looked into the darkness, across the edge of the abyss,” he said slowly. “And I turned away.”
Thryn nodded. “Indeed you did. And now I have the answer I wanted.” He offered his hand to the other Doom Eagle. “Your integrity is assured. You are returned to us, brother. In body, mind… and in soul.”
Tarikus shook his hand in the old fashion, palm to wrist. “I never left,” he said.
“When will there be an end to this?” grated Korica. He glared at Zurus, and the other warrior nodded slightly.
“I have no answer for you,” admitted the sergeant. He looked away, his gaze crossing the towering black marble fascias of the memorial towers, each reaching up and away towards the ornate ceiling far overhead. He saw something moving; a travel platform, dropping towards them.
Mykilus saw it too, and he pointed. “Look mere.”
Petius took a tentative step towards the edge of the gantryway, then halted. Like all of them, he was unsure of what meaning lay behind the urgent summons that had brought them to the relical.
In the next moment, the platform had arrived and a figure in duty robes stepped off, pushing past them.
“Tarikus?” Zurus could not keep the amazement from his voice. He had truly believed that he would never see the errant Astartes again. Thryn was not known for his lenience in matters of judgement. Then his thoughts caught up with him and Zurus allowed himself a small smile. He had been right about his lost brother; suddenly, all the doubts he had harboured about this duty and his part in Tarikus’ ordeal were swept away, and it was as if a great weight fell from his shoulders.
Korica extended his augmetic arm towards Tarikus, but the veteran pushed past him, not slowing. The other Doom Eagles followed Tarikus down the length of the gantryway until he halted before a particular memorial slab.
Zurus knew what would come next the instant before it happened. The veteran’s fist shot out and punched through the bubble of glassaic at the end of the panel and then folded around the death-remnant inside.
He watched the other warrior draw out a blood-streaked hand, and in it, a battle-worn combat blade. Tarikus looked down at the knife, and then up at them for the first time. His steady, clear-eyed gaze crossed each one of them in turn, ending with Zurus. The veteran opened his mouth to speak—and then thought better of it. Instead, Tarikus acted.
With a slow, steady draw of blade point over stone, he etched a heavy line through his own name, erasing the record of his death. He reclaimed his life.
Mykilus was the first to speak. “Welcome back, sir.” He bowed his head. “If we had only known that the Red Corsairs had not killed you—”
“No.” Tarikus held up his hand. “You will not speak of that again. And by my order, you will not carry any guilt over what happened.” He stepped forward and moved from brother to brother, tapping each on the shoulder in turn. “I hold no malice. You did no wrong that day.”
Then he was looking at Zurus. The Doom Eagle sighed, and made a decision of his own. He reached beneath his robes and his hand returned with a fetter of black and silver links pooled in the palm; it was the honour-chain that signified his command of the battle squad. He offered it. “This also belongs to you, I believe.”
Tarikus showed quiet surprise. “The squad is yours, brother. You have made it so. These men are your men.”
Zurus shook his head. “No. It has been my honour to lead them into battle in the name of the Emperor and Aquila, but I have never been their commander, not in the manner you were. I have only been… the caretaker of that post. You have seniority over me, the laurel and the honours. It is your right to reclaim your prior status.”
The veteran came closer, his brow furrowing. “You are sure you wish to step down, Zurus? I know my brothers would not have followed you if you had not been worthy of it.” He nodded at the chain.
Zurus pressed the links into Tarikus’ hand. “I will not take that which by right is yours.” He stepped away. “I will find another place in the Chapter.”
“You already have a place, sir,” said Korica. He glanced at Tarikus, and the veteran sergeant nodded.
“Aye,” said the other Doom Eagle. “I have need of good men, who see clearly and fight well.” Tarikus held up the honour chain. “I will accept this on condition that you remain in the squad as my second.”
Zurus thought on the offer, then nodded. “That seems a fair bargain.”
Tarikus was silent for a long moment; then he wrapped the chain about the hilt of the knife and put it into his belt. “Come, then, kinsmen. The enemy tasks me.” He gestured up towards the distant roof, where glimmers of constant storm-light flickered. “I have been dead long enough.”
Zurus followed his commander’s gaze upward to where the rain fell, steady and ceaseless as the Emperor’s wrath.
CONSEQUENCES
Graham McNeill
Author’s note: This story is set between the events
of Warriors of Ultramar and Dead Sky, Black Sun.
The cold water pooled in a depression in the centre of the stone floor of the cell, before spilling through the cracked stonework to unknown destinations. This deep beneath the rock of the Fortress of Hera, water dripped from the rugged ceiling, leached through thousands of metres of hard granite from the river that thundered along the length of the Valley of Laponis high above.
Only the thinnest sliver of light from below the thick, iron door illuminated the cell, but it was enough for its occupant, due to enhanced vision that allowed him to see almost as well at night as in daylight. Not that there was anything to see within the cell’s dank confines, merely an iron ring set into the wall where a prisoner could be kept chained until such time as he was removed for sentencing or punishment.
The cell’s solitary occupant was not chained to the wall or restrained in any way. There would be little point in chaining one whose strength could easily break any such fetters, tear the iron ring from the wall or who secreted an acidic saliva that, given time, would eat away at even the strongest of metals.
The prisoner had already sworn an oath that he would not attempt to escape or hamper his gaolers in any way and his word was accepted as truth.
He sat cross-legged, supporting his weight on his hands, holding his body a centimetre from the cold floor of the cell. An aquila tattoo flexed on his right shoulder as he tensed and released his muscles. Inscribed upon the flesh of his left was a number in the curling script of High Gothic.
The prisoner heard the clip of approaching footsteps over the steady drip-drip of the water from the ceiling and lowered himself to the floor, uncrossing his legs and standing in one smooth motion. His hair was dark and short, though longer than he kept it normally, and his thundercloud eyes smouldered with promised threat. Two golden studs glittered on his forehead and, though he was powerfully muscled, taller and broader than the mightiest of humans, he knew he was much weaker and leaner than he should be.
A knotted mass of scar tissue writhed across his flat stomach, paler than the rest of his skin, but it was merely the largest of an impressive collection of scars: battle wounds that criss-crossed his skin in a macabre web.
He heard the rattle of keys and the heavy door groaned open, spilling warm light into the cell. He squinted briefly, before his eyes quickly adjusted to the increased illumination and saw a blue-robed helot dressed in the garb of a gaoler with a dark hood covering his face.
Behind him, two giants in brightly polished Terminator armour stood with golden-bladed polearms carried across their chests. Their bulk filled the wide corridor, braziered torchlight flickering across the blue ceramite surfaces like fiery snakes. The prisoner bowed to his gaoler and said, “Is it time?”
The helot nodded—it was forbidden for one such as he to address the prisoner—and indicated that he should leave the cell.
The prisoner bowed his head below the level of the stone lintel and stood in front of the Terminators, before marching through the fire-lit tunnels towards whatever fate the Master of the Ultramarines had decreed for him.
As he made his way up the rough-hewn steps of the detention level, Uriel Ventris wondered again at the path that had led him to this place.
Six days earlier, the battered and war-weary form of the Ultramarine strike cruiser Vae Victus limped towards the blue jewel of Macragge. Her armoured hide seemed to hang loose on her frame, like a beast starved of food and entering its dying days. The journey through the warp from Tarsis Ultra had taken the better part of six months, though upon re-entering real space and calibrating the ship’s chronometers against local celestial bodies, it was noted that a time dilation of a year and a half had passed. Such anomalies in the apparent flow of time while travelling through the fluid medium of warpspace were not uncommon; rather, they were an accepted price to be paid for a method of travel that allowed a ship to cross the gal
axy without spending generations in the journey.
Indeed, such a relatively minor time dilation was remarkable given the vast distance travelled by the Vae Victus. Tarsis Ultra lay to the north of Segmentum Tempestus, while Macragge orbited her star in the eastern reaches of Ultima Segmentum, half the galaxy away.
In the forward hangars of the ship, three Thunderhawk gunships were securely tethered to the deck—one in dire need of the ministrations of a Techmarine and a team of mono-tasked servitors before it would fly again, so stripped of its armaments and armour was it. Here, a lone Space Marine knelt in prayer between two parallel rows of corpses covered in sky-blue sheets. Another Space Marine, armoured in black, with a skull-faced helm, stood at the end of the rows of bodies, chanting a soft mantra to the fallen and calling upon the Emperor to guide each man to His side.
The bodies lined up on either side of him were the dead of the 4th Company, the cost to the Ultramarines for honouring an ancient debt sworn by their primarch to aid the people of Tarsis Ultra in times of need. Such a price was high, terribly high, but it was a price the Ultramarines willingly paid for the sake of honour.
The Space Marine kneeling between the corpses raised his head and smoothly rose to his feet. Captain Uriel Ventris hammered his fist twice into his breastplate in the warrior’s Honour to the Fallen. These were his men, his warriors. They had followed him into battle on Pavonis against traitors and a monstrous alien star god and thence to Tarsis Ultra where they had fought with courage and honour against the terrifying threat of the extra-galactic predators known as the tyranids. They had saved Tarsis Ultra, but had paid a heavy blood price for the victory.
There, Uriel had fought shoulder to shoulder with brother Space Marines, the Mortifactors, an honourable Chapter whose lineage could be traced back to the Blessed Guilliman, but whose doctrines and belief structure had changed so radically as to make them unrecognisable from their parent Chapter.
[Warhammer 40K] - Legends of the Space Marines Page 22
