‘Dante has replied?’
She shook her head. ‘The master of the monastery on Baal favours a more direct approach, Lord. A ship is on its way. I have intercepted the shadows of signals from the depths of the immaterium. It will arrive soon.’
Stele accepted this with a nod. ‘Do you know what kind of vessel? Something more powerful than the Bellus?’
‘Unlikely,’ she noted. ‘There is but one Blood Angels ship matching the tonnage of the Bellus within operational range of Shenlong, and that is the Europae, the Lord Mephiston’s personal command.’
‘Dante would not send his lieutenant Mephiston without good cause,’ Stele spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘Not yet, at any rate. No, it will be a smaller craft.’
‘The advent of any Adeptus Astartes reinforcements will jeopardise the strategy,’ Ulan said flatly. ‘They will be outside our sphere of influence, an incalculable variable. The matter must be addressed.’
‘Yes, and so it will be,’ said the inquisitor, considering the situation. ‘Return to orbit and maintain your post. You are to contact me the instant Dante’s envoy reaches contact range.’ Stele toyed with the silver purity seal stud in his ear. ‘I must prepare.’
‘New arrivals will not be turned so easily to loyalty to the Blessed,’ the psyker warned. ‘Termination presents the better option.’
‘You are too narrow-minded, Ulan. Commander Dante is about to deliver me a valuable object lesson.’ Stele dismissed her with a wave of his hand. ‘Go now.’
When he was alone, the inquisitor let his control slip away and he crossed to the altar and the metal box upon it. The grey cylinder bore sigils and purity seals showing the oaths of the Ordo Hereticus and the Blood Angels, some engraved in the titanium itself, others on strips of sanctified parchment, fixed by fat discs of sealing wax embossed with devotional symbology. He laid his hands on the surface of the container and felt the warmth radiating out from the object inside. The Spear of Telesto, one of a handful of battle weapons and hallowed objects forged – so the myths would have it – by the very hand of the God-Emperor himself. The inquisitor felt himself drawn magnetically to the umbra of the device, even now as it lay in quietus.
Stele smothered a surge of jealousy; the reaction was the same each time he considered the Space Marine Arkio and his affinity with the artefact. On the mission of the Bellus into ork space to recover the archeotech weapon, it had been Stele who wrested it from the grip of a greenskin warlord, Stele who held it high in victory, but only in Arkio’s hands had the Holy Lance awakened. On some basic, animalistic level, he could not excise the constant core of resentment he felt for the young Astartes.
He shook the thoughts away. The higher part of Stele’s mind, the ice-cold engine that calculated the intricate clockwork of his schemes, knew better. Arkio was the ideal candidate to wield the spear, the perfect subject for veneration by his battle-brothers – and in the end, Stele’s guidance of his path would lead the inquisitor to such power that would make the spear seem like a child’s toy in comparison.
‘My brother laid his hands on the Spear of Telesto,’ Rafen’s words echoed off the iron walls of his makeshift meditation cell. ‘The Holy Lance that Sanguinius himself once commanded, and then…’ His voice trailed off, the memory as fresh now weeks later as it had been the moment it happened. For a brief instant, Rafen felt the divine radiance of the spear on his face again, the golden light shining off the teardrop blade as Arkio held the haft high in the Great Chapel of the Bellus. Try as he might, Rafen could not explain what he had seen that day. The sudden vision of his sibling’s face melting and merging into a brief incarnation of the long-perished primarch of the Blood Angels, the winged Lord Sanguinius.
‘It was his example that lit the way to this blighted world.’ The Blood Angel’s head bobbed as he considered the desolation of Shenlong. ‘Fired by the oratory of Inquisitor Stele, my brethren clamoured for a chance to visit retribution on the Word Bearers who had desecrated Cybele. It was only Brother-Sergeant Koris and his fellow veterans who spoke of caution, and they were censured for it.’ The words were suddenly flowing from Rafen’s lips in a torrent; it was as if speaking them aloud lifted a great weight from his shoulders. The icon of the God-Emperor watched him with calm and unmoving eyes, silently listening to the Space Marine as he unfolded the tale.
He opened his mouth to speak again and a knife of emotion cut into him. Rafen saw Koris’s face there before him, the craggy old warhound, eyes hard but never without honour. It had been one of the greatest privileges of Rafen’s service to count the veteran as a mentor and a friend, but all the strength the Space Marine could muster did not stop his former teacher from falling into the dark grip of the Blood Angels gene-curse, the warped berzerker battle lust known as the black rage. Inducted into the Death Company, as all men who succumbed to the red thirst were, Rafen had watched Koris as the old warrior relived the great battle of Sanguinius against the arch-traitor Horus, played out in the depths of the Ikari fortress. ‘He died there,’ Rafen told his god, ‘and you took him to the peace he deserved… But he did not release his grip on life easily. His words… He left me with a warning.’
The moment replayed in the Space Marine’s mind.
‘Rafen. Lad, I see you.’
‘I am here, old friend.’
‘The Pure One calls me, but first I must… Warn…’
‘Warn me? Of what?’
‘Stele! Do not trust the ordos whoreson! He brought me to this, all of it! Arkio… Be wary of your sibling, lad. He has been cursed with the power to destroy the Blood Angels! I see it! I see–’
‘Gone now,’ Rafen admitted, ‘and without him I felt cut adrift and alone, while my brothers took up Arkio’s cause as their own. I saw no other path to take… I broke the disciplines we swore to and damned protocol…’ He shook his head, calculating the enormity of his transgressions. ‘Under cover of lies I sent word to the monastery on Baal and the Lord Commander Dante, in hopes that he might come to end this madness… But in your wisdom, you have yet to guide him here.’
Rafen opened his eyes and looked into the unmoving face of the God-Emperor. ‘I beg of you, lord, I must know. Am I the heretic, the dissenter, the apostate deserving only of death? If Arkio truly is the Great Sanguinius reborn, then why do I doubt it so? Which of us is the one fallen from the path, he or I?’
‘Lord inquisitor?’
Stele turned to see Sachiel approach, a questioning look on his face. The Sanguinary High Priest’s battle armour caught the light through the chapel windows, glinting off the white detailing that marked his wargear. Stele stepped down from the altar and fixed him with a sullen eye. ‘Sachiel. Where is Arkio?’
‘The Blessed observes the trials in the plaza below, Lord Stele. He bade me to find you.’ Sachiel paused, frowning. ‘He has questions…’
Stele crossed to a set of stained-glass doors and waved his hand over a discreet wall sensor. On ancient mechanics, the glass gates parted to reveal a broad stone balcony jutting from the equator of the fortress. The instant the doors opened, a wall of sound thundered into the chapel; all at once, there were chants and cheers of victory, the screaming of the dying, the discharges of multiple weapons. The inquisitor walked out into the noise, to the lip of the balcony, and Sachiel followed.
Below them, the vast open plaza fronting the Ikari fortress was a ring of shanty-built grandstands and huts ringing a makeshift arena. The floor of the stadium was littered with the dead and a few pieces of broken cover. Gunfire flashed and snapped back and forth as figures swarmed over one another, some armed only with blunt clubs and crude knives, others clinging to lasrifles or ballistic stubber guns. In the stands, the faithful roared in approval as kills were made and the numbers of the fighters gradually diminished.
Stele glanced at Sachiel. The Blood Angel observed the unfolding battle with an arch look, clearly unimpressed by the crudity of the fighting. ‘How many so far?’ he demanded of the priest.
‘Three
hundred and nine chosen at last count,’ he replied. ‘The Blessed himself is making the selections.’
Stele saw the sunlight glinting as it touched a huge figure in golden armour, drifting over the battle on angelic wings. As he watched, the messianic shape singled out a wiry man wielding two swords and nodded to him. He dropped his weapons and wept with joy, the crowd chanting its accord once again. ‘One more,’ said Stele. ‘We’ll have the thousand soon enough.’
‘As the Blessed chooses,’ said the priest. ‘He will have his army.’
The inquisitor looked away. ‘You don’t approve?’
Sachiel’s face flushed red. ‘How can you ask such a thing? It is as Arkio commands, and he is the Reborn. I would not question his wisdom.’
Stele smiled. ‘The Warriors of the Reborn,’ he said, gesturing to the men penned into a holding area at the edge of the arena. ‘A thousand of the most zealous and devoted to the name of Arkio… And yet, there are Blood Angels who hesitate at his decision to raise this helot army.’
Sachiel blinked. ‘We do not doubt,’ he snapped, ‘It is only… new to us. Understand, inquisitor, we have lived our lives to the tenets of the Book of the Lords and the Codex Astartes, and the recruiting of these commoners goes against those convictions.’
‘We are past the time for ancient dogma,’ Stele replied, ‘Arkio the Blessed ushers in a new age for the Blood Angels, and the Warriors of the Reborn are merely an aspect of that.’ He pointed into the crowd of tired, bloody fighters. ‘Look at them, Sachiel. They have fought all day and still they would cut out their own hearts if Arkio demanded it of them. When he embarks on his glorious homecoming to Baal, the chosen thousand will accompany him. They will be the vanguard of a new breed of initiates to the Blood Angels, a new generation of the Adeptus Astartes.’
When the priest did not answer him, Stele turned to press him for a reply; but instead he saw the look of surprise on Sachiel’s face.
‘The Blessed…’ began the priest.
From nowhere a sudden rumble of wind beat at Stele and he staggered back a step, forcing down the urge to shield himself with his hands. A shape, swift and brilliant, rushed up before the edge of the balcony and hung before him, blotting out the glow of the Shenlong sun. Sachiel fell into a deep bow and tapped his fist to the symbol of a winged blood droplet on his chest plate. The inquisitor looked up into a face of striking nobility, a countenance that combined a most patrician aspect with the promise of a darker heart beneath. A face that mirrored that of Sanguinius himself.
‘Stele,’ said Arkio, hovering there on wings spread like wide white sails. ‘I would speak with you.’
‘I saw him turn death upon innocents,’ Rafen’s voice was heavy with anguish. ‘By my blood, I watched my own brother cull men and women all too willing to accept murder, as if it were some horrific benediction. This is not the promise to which I granted my life as an aspirant. This is not the Emperor’s will, I hope and pray that it is not. Arkio rules this world now by force of temper, with Sachiel as his instrument and the Inquisitor Stele as advisor forever at his side. It is not right. By the Red Grail, the marrow in my bones sings it is not so!’ Anger boiled up inside Rafen and he came to his feet, fists balling, his words bouncing off the chamber walls. ‘I pray that Lord Dante will have the grace and wisdom to end this matter before our Chapter is split asunder beneath its weight, but until that moment comes I must answer the call of my blood.’ He took a breath, his burst of fury subsiding. ‘Until a sign comes to me, bright and undeniable, my heart will set the compass of my deeds from this moment forth.’
Rafen laid a hand on the icon of the Emperor and bowed his head once again. ‘Hear me, hear the pledge of Rafen, son of Axan, child of the Broken Mesa clan, Blood Angel and Adeptus Astartes. I recant the false oath I have taken to Arkio the Blessed and in its stead I restore my allegiance to Sanguinius and the God-Emperor of Mankind. This I swear, my blood, my body, my soul as the price.’ The declaration seemed to take all the energy from him, and Rafen staggered back a step. ‘This I swear,’ he repeated.
After a long moment, he gathered himself together and opened the hatch, pausing to throw the holy icon a last glance. Here, in this forgotten place, the symbol would lie safe from the hands of those who sought to revise their beliefs in the face of Arkio’s new Blood Crusade. ‘There is one thing of which I have absolutely no doubt,’ he told the statue. ‘A single act for which I know I and I alone will be responsible. By what means and when are unclear to me, but my brother Arkio will perish and I shall be the one to end him. I know it in my blood, and it damns me.’
Rafen left the room behind, the leaden burden of his dilemma pressing down upon him as he stepped back into the Shenlong sunlight. He picked his way through the ruined streets and did not look back.
Before him, the vast cone of the Ikari fortress rose to fill the horizon like a monstrous volcanic mountain.
CHAPTER TWO
Arkio dropped to his feet on the balcony with a whisper of air through the wings at his back, and cocked his head. Sachiel fell to one knee and averted his gaze, while Stele gave a shallow bow. The gestures seemed to satisfy the Blood Angel. ‘Lord inquisitor, I have questions.’ His voice was cool, assured and direct, with none of the hesitation that had plagued him in the past as a youth.
Stele resisted the urge to smile. ‘Blessed, I will answer them if I can.’
‘Your counsel has meant much to me in these past few weeks,’ Arkio began, ‘and your guidance has helped me to understand the path Sanguinius has laid before me.’
‘I am merely the lamp to light the way, Great One,’ Stele allowed. ‘I took on the governorship of this blighted world only because I saw it wanting. No honest servant of the Imperium would have done any less. That I could help you into the bargain…’
Arkio accepted this with a cursory nod. ‘And we have done well here, have we not? The taint of Chaos has been burnt from the streets of Shenlong.’
Sachiel cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘All the Word Bearers that intruded on this planet lie dead, lord, that is true… But our search still continues to find and purge any sympathisers.’
Stele watched Arkio assimilate the priest’s words; only a short time ago, it had been Arkio who had suggested they annihilate this world completely rather than chance the survival of any cohorts of the Chaos Gods. But that was before his transformation, before Arkio’s brutal duel with the Dark Apostle Iskavan the Hated in the manufactorium below the city. With his physical changes, Arkio had also altered within. He had become, to all intents and purposes, the living reincarnation of the Blood Angels primogenitor, and the former Space Marine revelled in his newly found divinity. He wore the sacred golden artificer armour of his Chapter with the arrogance and hauteur of one whom had been born to it. Yes, Stele told himself, I chose him well.
‘The men speak in whispers and keep their fears from me,’ Arkio turned his back on them and wandered to the edge of the balcony, watching the continual pit-fight. ‘But yet I hear them.’
Sachiel’s face twisted. ‘What dissent is this? Lord Arkio, if there are weaklings and craven among our forces, I would know it. The honour guard will see them repudiated for such failings!’
Stele arched an eyebrow. With little prompting, Sachiel had stepped into the role the inquisitor had laid for him with gusto. So focussed was the priest on adhering to the word of his new master that he hardly noticed he was sanctioning the censure of his own battle-brothers.
Arkio shook his head slowly. ‘No, Brother Sachiel, no. These men are not to be chastised for their fears. What leader would I be if turned away every Space Marine who dared to wonder? A fool myself.’ The warrior’s wings had folded back on themselves now, and they lay flat against Arkio’s sun-bright armour.
‘If it pleases the Blessed,’ said Stele, ‘what have you heard?’
‘My brothers are conflicted, inquisitor,’ said Arkio. ‘They look upon me and see the truth of my change, of the Great Angel’s hand o
n my soul, and they believe. But word spreads now among the ranks of the Blood Angels here on the planet and above on the Bellus.’ He gestured toward the sky. ‘I have heard men speaking of Dante and Mephiston, and questions of our Chapter brethren on Baal.’
‘They fear you will not be accepted by the Lord Commander,’ Stele said gently, providing the words to the rumour that he himself had quietly seeded. It had been a simple matter to fan the flames of righteousness in the Space Marines who had laid their fealty at Arkio’s feet; it was the nature of the devout to seek enemies in all those who did not share their beliefs.
Sachiel made a negative noise. ‘Lord, this matter trivialises your Ascension. I grant that yes, perhaps our battle-brothers at the Baal monastery may have their doubts about you, but when they lay eyes on you, they will know as I do – that you are the Deus Encarmine, the Reborn Angel.’
Arkio hung his head for a moment. ‘Can you be sure, my friend? I still look to my own face and wonder at the changes wrought on me by fate. Mortal men could do no less.’
Stele took a calculated pause before answering. ‘Blessed, as you speak of this now I must admit that I too have heard these misgivings among my comrade brethren. I chose to keep it from you as I believed it to be beneath your concern.’ He shook his head, adopting a look of contrition. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Then tell me now, Stele. What is said?’
‘As you say, Great Arkio. The men see themselves set apart from their brothers elsewhere, blessed by your arrival in their midst – but they fear Dante’s reaction to your Emergence.’
The Blood Angel fixed him with a questioning look. ‘But why, Stele? Why should they be afraid of that? Dante is a good and honourable commander. He has led our Chapter through adversity and strife for more than one thousand years, his character is impeccable.’ Arkio gave a quick, bright smile. ‘I welcome the moment when I will be able to face him with this miracle.’
And there it was, the opening Stele had been waiting for. With care, he marshalled his lies and pressed them home. ‘But will Dante welcome you, Blessed? When you enter the grand annexe of the fortress-monastery, will Dante kneel and give you his fealty as we have? Will his Librarian Mephiston bow to you? What of Brothers Lemartes, Corbulo or Argastes? Will they see the truth of it?’
Deus Sanguinius Page 2
