by Dan Abnett
Too much.
Priad crunched across the salt-crusted rock to the lip. Below him, at his toes, a giddying drop to the water. Hookbeaks turned and banked in the rising spray, cutting through the brief rainbows the vapour made.
He looked back to his men: Kules, Xander, Pindor, Natus, Andromak with the snake-standard flapping between his shoulder blades, and Scyllon. The pilot and his assistant had also emerged from the drop-ship, kneeling a little way behind the main group to show their respects.
'In the name of the primarch who sired us, in the name of the Chapter which binds us, in the name of the God-Emperor who rules us, in the name of Ithaka... let this which was Ithaka's be Ithaka's again.'
Priad unstoppered his copper flask and let the last of the water trickle out. The spattering droplets fell away down the side of the stilt, twinkling in the sun. This was the Rite of Returning. Every Iron Snake carried a flask of sacred life-water from his homeworld to anoint his actions across the galaxy, for the life-water comes from the ocean and the ocean is the blood of the Emperor. Now, on returning, what little remains must be given back.
One by one, the men stepped to the brink and poured the contents of their own flasks away. When all had finished, Priad, Andromak and Xander returned to the edge and emptied three flasks whose owners had not made it home. The life-waters of Calignes, Illyus and beloved Memnes. Then Kules, Scyllon and Natus stepped forward, bringing the eusippus, the copper urns. As the oldest of Damocles, this last duty fell to hawk-eyed Pindor, not the sergeant.
As Priad intoned the Lament of Dysse, Pindor unscrewed the lid of each eusippus in turn and shook out the grey ash. Soft, loose, light, it sieved away into the wind and returned like the water to the sea. They could smell it. Microscopic motes on the wind. The smell of death and glory.
Calignes. Illyus. Memnes. Fallen to the archenemy on Ceres. Gone, but never forgotten. In his armour's hip-pouch, Priad had the prepared statement of their lives, actions and deaths, sealed and ready to be placed into the archive of the Chapter House.
'Look!' said Pindor, catching Priad's arm. 'Look, there!'
Out beyond the stilts, barely a kilometre distant, the ocean boiled and seethed. Ulbrumid. Wyrm-spoor. The great whirl was midnight black under the churning froth of white water. Thousands of sea birds wheeled and spiralled above the massive upsurge.
For a moment, one great serpent coil broke the froth, horn-plate dazzling as it caught the light. Then it was gone, the ulbrumid fading, and the sea birds dispersing.
A good sign, a good omen,' said Pindor.
Priad nodded. The great snakes of Ithaka had taken back their own.
II
'You have performed the due rituals?' asked Lexicanium Phrastus. Priad nodded.
'Sir, the Rite of Returning is done. This morning, on the home-world below. We went there directly before coming here.'
'I see.' Phrastus walked round to his writing lectern and took a holoquill from the energy well. 'Their names?'
Priad had been gazing out of the tower chamber's pressurised window, looking across the rockcrete fortifications and the barren crags of the moon to where Ithaka, green-white, was rising over the horizon.
'Names?'
'Of the fallen, sergeant.'
'Ah.' Priad sighed. 'Calignes, Illyus, Memnes.'
The lexicanium wrote the names down.
'Any record of deeds?'
Priad took the sealed scroll from his hip-pouch and handed it to the lexicanium. 'Full orders of merit, in detail and all particulars. They all have my highest commendation.'
'These will be catalogued.'
Priad unslung the narthecium from his shoulder and placed it on a side table. Inside, in self-locking sterilised tubes, lay the precious progenoid glands taken from the fallen. With Memnes dead, Priad had been forced to cut the glands out himself. Phrastus rang a bell and summoned Apothecaries to take the narthecium away. You will need new blood,' said Phrastus, setting aside his quill and coming to join Priad. Yes.'
'Captain Phobor has asked me to personally assist in your selection.' 'I am honoured, sir.'
'I have prepared a list of phratry petitioners, all of them new recruits of the highest quality. They are itching for selection into an active squad. And Damocles has a worthy reputation.' 'I'm glad of that, sir.' You lost your Apothecary, didn't you?' 'Memnes. Yes, sir.'
'That is the hardest choice, in my experience. There are two promising candidates, both newly raised to that rank. Sykon and Eibos. I'm sure one or other will suit your needs.'
'I'm sure, sir. But I was hoping for Khiron. I heard what happened on Cozan. I thought-' 'Khiron? Oh no, no. I'm sorry, brother. That just won't be possible.' Priad looked around. The scent of the Chapter House seemed suddenly intensely sterile and cold. 'Not possible?' 'The Emperor grant you grace.’ said the lexicanium. 'Welcome back to Karybdis, brother.'
Karybdis. Fortress moon. Chapter House. Barefoot and dressed in a loose white chiton, Priad stood on the marble deck of the observation platform at the summit of the Chapter House's fortress. From here, he could see out across the mighty defences of the Iron Snakes' bastion, across the sloped turrets of the primary emplacements, the massive curtain walls, the hardpoint blisters of the void batteries like sea urchins. He could smell stone, promethium, fyce-line, oils. The crude power. This was where the Iron Snakes' legacy took flesh, and from here they marched out to conquer the stars in the Emperor's name.
Priad had spent two hours in the armour-drome with his men as Chapter functionaries slowly removed and blessed every segment of their Mark VII battle plate and took it away for overhaul and repair. Then an hour soaking in the warm baths of the balneary, in deep dishes sculpted from the polished coil-plates of great wyrms. Then the plunge pools and the cold scrubs, the brusque ministrations of the wooden thryxus to purge and scruff the skin and exo-skeleton, the application of warm, glossy orub-oil, the salving of sore body plugs and inflamed bio-link sockets.
Their hair had been oiled, combed out and coiled; their faces shaved and smeared with depilatory wax. All Iron Snakes in the regular troop levies were clean shaven. The wax treatment kept their faces smooth for years at a time. The irritation of bristles and whiskers growing under a full-face helmet that might be worn for months at a time was considered a distraction from the focus of combat.
Washed, oiled, scrubbed, anointed. Priad felt cleaner and rawer than he had in years. His skin tingled. The perfume from the oils and unguents adorning him seemed noxiously sweet. They assaulted his armourless, superhuman senses, sickly, invasive.
And he felt light, superhuman. Like he could jump up, break through the sky with his hands and never come down.
He hadn't realised what a weight the armour had become, no matter the strength and invincibility it gave him in battle. He had become used to its burdensome weight, and the focusing muzzle it had put on his senses. In truth, he had not been out of armour for any real length of time in ten years.
Ten years. Ten years ago, he had stood on this very deck, similarly robed and similarly cleansed. He had gazed out over the fortress of Karybdis and rejoiced. He had been Troop-Brother Priad, newly selected for Damocles by Sergeant Raphon and Apothecary Memnes.
Now he was back again. As Brother-Sergeant Priad, in Raphon's place. And Memnes too was dead.
Priad was painfully aware of the way honour had passed into his hands. He looked down at them, surprised to see them human and bare. It felt wrong that the great power claw wasn't clenching as he closed his hand.
He had held the squad together well since Raphon's death. They had taken victories on Ceres and Eidon, though Ceres had been especially bitter. Now he had to remake it. Almost a third of the squad had to be reselected and inducted.
Priad looked up at the stars, as he often did when in search of guidance, no matter what part of the galaxy he found himself in. He didn't know even half the names – that was the job of a Librarian or an Apothecary – but he usually found meaning in their display and f
ormation. The God-Emperor of Mankind was in the stars, in every one of them, after all.
Directly above him was the tight band of the Reef Stars, the linear constellation to which Ithaka belonged. Though the Iron Snakes travelled far and wide in the service of the Emperor, this cluster was their particular battleground. Since the start of Imperial time, the Chapter had policed the Reef Stars and undertaken to keep them safe, especially against the influx of the dark eldar, their oldest enemy.
'Sometimes the great, old wyrms will submerge for years at a time.’ said a low voice, 'but not so deep as your thoughts now, boy' Priad turned, and immediately dropped to his knees. There was a sudden, saintly odour of power and electrical machines. 'Chapter Master!' he gasped, making the sign of the aquila. 'Get up, boy. The Emperor in his wisdom gave you sturdy legs, so use them.' Priad rose slowly, his head down. 'Look at me, Priad.’ Priad gradually raised his head.
Chapter Master Seydon was just a shadow: robed, mysterious and towering. His cloak was made of broken, polished wyrm-horn pieces linked together like a jigsaw puzzle by gold wire. Slow respiration throbbed from the exchanger tanks under his cloak. His head was cowled, but there was a suggestion of inner light coming from where his eyes should have been. He was a good metre taller than Priad. 'Master...'
'There are many things an Iron Snake might be allowed to fear, boy: the massed legions of the Archenemy... the hordes of the greenpigs... the swarms of the accursed hives... but I am not one of them. Slow your pulse and your breathing, Priad. Be calm.’
'I had not expected to see you, lord.'
'I make it a point to see those Snakes who return after a long absence, especially those I am fond of. Damocles squad – now, I've been fond of that ever since I told Damocles to form it. One of the finest war-squads this Chapter has ever produced. One of the Notables, right up there with Thebes, Veii, Parthus and dear, brave Skypio. And you, Priad, you're Damocles now.'
'Yes, lord.'
'Petrok spoke well of you. On Eidon, you impressed him, and it takes a lot to impress my illustrious Librarian.'
'I am not worthy, lord.'
'They tell me Memnes is dead. I will lament that in the temple. A great loss.'
'Lord.'
'Who else?'
'Calignes. Illyus.'
'Calignes... I always liked him. Had an air of old Pheus about him, the way he carried himself. Illyus... now he had the mark of a leader on him. Might have led a squad of his own, one day.'
Priad was quietly amazed. Though the phratry numbered a thousand Marines, the Chapter Master spoke as if he knew every one of them personally.
'You'll miss the men most in the long run.’ said Seydon.
'Sir?'
'A great man like Memnes, everyone will mourn. That'll make the loss easier. But Calignes, Illyus... in my experience, a squad leader will miss the common troopers most. No one mourns them in quite the same way as a squad commander who misses their nuances and moves.'
I'm sure, lord. But Memnes is a great loss to me.'
'Naturally. You've thought about a replacement?'
Priad nodded. 'I was bold, lord. I wanted an experienced man as Apothecary. Khiron-'
'Not Khiron, boy. Forget about him. Khiron won't be joining a squad again.'
'Lord, I... I heard what happened on Cozan. All of Ridates squad lost except for Khiron the Apothecary. It surely wasn't his fault.'
Seydon turned and looked out across the moonscape.
'No, it wasn't. Men die in war, and Ridates squad fell valiantly. Khiron was lucky to survive, and I know for a fact he wishes he hadn't. I'd have liked to have him back in a squad quickly. But it is more recent events that bar him from consideration.'
'Lord?'
'Look elsewhere, Priad. Look to your heart. I know you'll make a good choice.' 'Thankyou, lord. I will try, but...' Priad's voice trailed away. As silent as a phantom, the ancient Chapter Master had gone.
Brother Natus grunted and shifted his weight onto his left leg as the petitioner put his full force into the swing. The cnokoi he wielded whistled over Natus's right shoulder, and Natus pivoted around and brought his own staff up skilfully into the petitioner's ribcage, doubling him over and dropping him onto his backside on the straw mat.
Xander and Andromak laughed broadly and applauded. Natus grinned, and leaned over, reaching out with his augmented left arm to pull the gasping petitioner to his feet.
'Nice try,' Natus said, 'but your reach was wide and it left you open.'
'Sir,' the petitioner nodded, limping back to the edge of the mat where the other petitioners were waiting. At least three of them were sitting, nursing bruises and contusions.
Priad stood with Pindor, Kules and Scyllon on the far side of the sparring hall. Like all the Iron Snakes in the chamber – Damocles veterans and aspiring initiates alike – he wore a flexible bodyglove of dark grey hide, his feet, hands and head bare. The bodyglove was form-fitting, sculpted to the contours of the powerful physique beneath. Rubberised studs covered the lumps of cutaneous plugs and dermal implants.
Only Lexicanium Phrastus was robed. He wore a long grey euchoi of silk, edged with white and red beading and sat on a stone vaulting block, making notes on a data slate.
'Next man!' he called, flicking his fingers.
The next petitioner in line stepped onto the mat and picked up the discarded cnokoi. Two metres long and made of bronze, the cnokoi was a practice weapon designed to simulate the weight and balance of a sea-lance. There was no blade tip, but one end flared slightly into a blunt, spatulate flatness.
'Name?' asked Phrastus.
'Dyognes.’ said the petitioner. He was tall and slender, his hair tied back behind the crown of his head in a short knot.
'Begin.’ said the lexicanium.
Natus settled into a casual crouch, legs planted wide, the classic laoscrae or deck-stance that kept a man upright on a wake-rocked boat. He held his pole across his chest, upper tip angled out to deflect, lower pulled back ready to snap out an underhook from the waist when it was least expected. Dyognes, the petitioner, took up a similar but less stooped stance and they circled. He'll soon be knocked off his feet, Priad thought, his centre of balance is too high.
Dyognes swung his pole tip down at Natus, who deflected it with his own raised tip, immediately pushing out the underhook in response. But Dyognes blocked the hook with a bell-like clang of metal, swept in with his upper tip and, as Natus parried that, deftly slid both his hands to one end of his cnokoi and hooked it like an oar behind Natus's knees.
Natus landed on the mat hard, his breath barked out of him. Now it was the petitioners' turn to clap. Andromak and Xander laughed again.
'Good.’ said Natus grudgingly as the petitioner helped him up.
'Again?' asked Dyognes.
'My turn.’ said Scyllon, stepping forward onto the mat and taking the cnokoi from Natus as he withdrew. Next to Priad, Scyllon had the best record of any in Damocles when it came to wyrm-hunting, and he was a master of lance-craft.
Priad wandered over to Phrastus's side as the bout began.
'Interesting.’ said the lexicanium. Dyognes was the first petitioner to have won a bout against the members of Damocles since the session had begun that morning.
Scyllon moved in without formality, barely seeming to prepare himself. He spun in with a flurry of blows, high and low, that had the younger man lurching back across the mat. The air rang with the strokes of bronze on bronze.
Just when it seemed he was going to be driven across the red out-of-bounds border around the edge of the mat, Dyognes rallied and threw a series of thrusting strikes that forced Scyllon to first duck and then back off. What marked the petitioner's ability particularly was his unorthodox style, Priad noticed. Dyognes frequently changed grip, so that many blows were readdressed and swiftly reversed, and he wasn't afraid to swing the cnokoi one-handed, increasing its reach.
Taking one hand off the staff in a bout was frowned upon, of course. Half as much grip.
.. twice as much likelihood of having the weapon knocked from your grasp.
Dyognes blocked three expert thrusts from Scyllon, and then tore in with an underhook so well-timed Scyllon had to leap back to avoid having his ribs broken. But he was wrong-footed. Dyognes drove on the advantage, scything his pole out one-handed to clout Scyllon around the head.
But Scyllon had feinted. He brought his pole up and intercepted Dyognes's wrist. The petitioner's cnokoi went spinning away through the air. Scyllon then butted Dyognes in the chest with the tip of his pole and dropped him onto the mat.
There was general applause.
'Bout, Scyllon.’ said Phrastus.
'No.’ said Priad. The applause died down. Priad pointed to where Scyllon's left foot was squarely planted in the red border.
'Out of bounds. Bout, Dyognes.'
Scyllon cursed at his own error good-humouredly and helped
Dyognes up. 'There's one.’ said Priad to the lexicanium. 'Mark him down.'
III
'He killed Brother Krates of Phocis squad.’
'He what?' Priad snapped in disbelief.
'Lower your voice, brother. It's not a popular topic in the Chapter House these days. Khiron's disgrace has astonished everyone.'
Priad couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stood with his old friend, Brother-Sergeant Strabo of Manes squad, in the atrium of the Chapter House temple just at the end of twilight prayers. The columns of the portico rose above them, entwined with acanthus and bas-relief wyrms. In the alcoves stood proud kouroi statuary hewn from marble and faience. Priad was almost choking on the scents of the smouldering incense. His nose just wasn't used to such broad, unfiltered odours.
'Ridates, Phocis and Thebes were deployed on Cozan, so I heard,' Strabo whispered. 'The Archenemy was there in force, protecting some foul shrine or other. Ridates squad was wiped out, except for Khiron, and Phocis took some casualties before Thebes managed to turn the day and destroy the foe. They shipped back here with the wounded.' 'And?'
