by Nick Kyme
‘Chaplain,’ said Drakgaard, recognising his visitor without needing to see him.
Elysius acknowledged the greeting with a nod. The black-armoured Chaplain stood a little taller than the captain, but not as wide, though the presence of a power fist served to bulk out his frame. Unlike Drakgaard, he wasn’t wearing his helmet and had it mag-locked to his belt instead. His head was cleanly shorn, all the way down to the scalp. It shone like a smooth nub of onyx.
‘I can’t recall the last time I saw your face, brother-captain.’
Drakgaard didn’t even spare Elysius a sideways glance. ‘We are at war. Such things as helms are necessary when bad men are trying to kill you.’
‘You know what I mean. Much is revealed by the face, the eyes in particular.’
‘You of all of us should know something of the desire to hide one’s face.’
‘I did it out of shame and respect,’ Elysius replied. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Very well…’
With a hiss of escaping pressure, Drakgaard unlocked his helm from his gorget and lifted it off. Then he faced the Chaplain. He was a mess of scars and exposed muscle, only partially healed. In his left cheek, his molars were visible through the sizeable gouge in his skin.
‘What do you see?’ Drakgaard asked.
Elysius’s expression softened marginally.
‘Pain, a legacy of it.’
Drakgaard snorted, unimpressed with Elysius’s attempts at camaraderie. He returned his helmet to its proper place.
‘Is that all? By your sermonising tone I was expecting you to reveal some revelation of my character.’
‘I need only hear your voice for that.’
Drakgaard didn’t answer.
Since they had been talking, vox reports had been feeding in to Drakgaard’s comm from the various battlefronts. None were directed at him personally, he just liked to keep abreast of developments. What he was hearing far from satisfied the captain. Despite their difficult relationship, he allowed himself to vent in front of the Chaplain.
‘They are a horde, Elysius,’ said Drakgaard, gesturing to the amorphous enemy below. There was little to see, even from the roof. The cultists and their dark masters had become little more than a homogenous mass. Now day was finally turning to night, vision was further impaired. Though, with all the smoke, the transition was difficult to appreciate. ‘We should have broken them by now, and restored this world to the grace of the Throne.’
‘Quite the pious sentiment, brother.’
‘I am not without faith,’ Drakgaard quickly replied, as if his pride had been wounded.
‘Indeed, I apologise. Dug in, with knowledge of the terrain… They are more than just a horde, brother. Black Legion is a formidable enemy. They were like us once.’
‘No longer,’ Drakgaard scowled, unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking. ‘And I have seen precious few actual Renegade Space Marines amongst the heretics to warrant considering them our main enemy here.’
‘Rest assured, they are here and have been brutalising Cadians and turning what’s left of the Heletine militia against us.’
‘I am far from assured.’ Drakgaard folded his arms. ‘How easily some can fall to ruin…’
A strained silence fell between them that lasted a few seconds before Elysius replied.
‘Have you set yourself in judgement too? Did your eyes see more than my own during Dak’ir’s trial?’
‘I have great respect for you, Elysius. Your record is beyond reproach but Third Company was ill-fated ever since the day it lost Ko’tan Kadai. Some believe that curse spread to all associated with it.’ Drakgaard turned, his helmet’s faceplate ever-snarling as if echoing his mood. ‘I am no gifted dissembler–’
‘Nor am I, brother. What are you insinuating?’
Drakgaard raised a placatory hand. ‘Nothing. I merely speak and see plainly. There was something cankerous at the heart of the Third, and you were closer to it than most. Perhaps Agatone can reforge what has been broken, perhaps not…’
‘And if not, then who? You, Ur’zan Drakgaard?’
Whatever Drakgaard felt at Elysius’s intentional snipe was left unsaid as the low thrum of thrusters interrupted them.
Their attention was drawn skyward to another vessel. Not a gunship this time, but a lander.
Elyisus narrowed his eyes.
‘You recognise that vessel,’ said Drakgaard.
‘I do. I’ve fought alongside their kind before. Although not this particular order.’
Like the Chaplain’s armour, the ship was also black but that was where any affiliation ended. Through occluding smoke, the icon of a chalice became visible. The stylised cup dominated the underside of the lander and was depicted holding a stark white flame like a brazier.
‘What was your appraisal?’
Stabiliser jets flared as the main engines died off and all forward momentum slackened to nothing. Eddies of dust and swirling smoke spun away as if retreating from the vessel as it hovered into a slow descent. Below, Imperial engineers and labourers scattered as a Salamanders command squad approached the landing zone with weapons at ease but ready.
‘You have not fought with the Adepta Sororitas before, then, brother-captain?’ asked Elysius.
‘You mean beside.’
Elysius looked confused.
‘Beside, not with.’
‘I know what I meant.’
Drakgaard shook his head.
‘They are good fighters,’ Elysius continued. ‘Not Adeptus Astartes, but resolute, determined.’
‘That all?’
As the ship emerged through the smoke, so did several others, all armoured in black with the sigil of a chalice on their flanks and underside. Some were smaller with the aspect and armament of gunships.
‘No. They’re fanatics. Only their brand of fanaticism is sanctioned.’
‘Brand? Is that supposed to be humorous, Brother-Chaplain?’
The ships touched down on the landing field, a host of ground crew hustling back and forth in the resultant dust storm kicked up by a host of descent thrusters. Whilst the ground crews coughed behind their sleeves, trying to keep the grit from their eyes and waving to their comrades in an attempt to exert some order on the unexpected arrivals, Drakgaard’s warriors stood and watched. To the practised military eye, they had formed a defensive perimeter.
‘Believe me, brother, there is nothing amusing about the Order of the Ebon Chalice,’ Elysius concluded.
Then they descended the stairs from the preceptory, and went to meet the Sisters of Battle.Paste your extract text here. (Do not delete the chapter drop above)
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