To the Mortifactors, death was venerated above all things, and the wisdom of the dead was sought through the visions of their Chaplains. Blood rites and the worship of those who had passed through this life in ages past was the norm for the Mortifactors and, though initially horrified by such deviation from the pages of the Codex Astartes, Uriel had found that he had more in common with the warriors of the Mortifactors than he cared to admit.
It was not a pleasing revelation.
Astador, the Chaplain of the Mortifactors, had said it best: “You and I are both Angels of Death, Uriel.”
But it had taken him many months of hard fighting and harder choices to realise the truth of this. Despite the protests and outrage of Sergeant Learchus, Uriel had followed Astador’s vision quests and emerged triumphant, where a strict adherence to the Codex would have seen them defeated in the earliest stages of the war. Pulled between two opposing philosophies, Uriel had made his choice and had found the balance between following the spirit and the letter of the Codex. He knew such behaviour marked him out amongst his brethren, but his former captain, Idaeus, had taught him the value of such insights and he knew in his heart that he had done the right thing.
Uriel looked along the line of corpses and felt a great weight settle upon him.
He had almost died in the belly of the tyranid hive ship, an insidious alien poison causing his blood to clot throughout his body. Only the devotion of his oldest friend and comrade, Pasanius, had saved his life, the veteran sergeant almost bleeding himself dry to save his captain’s life. The wounds he had suffered in the conflict had mostly healed, though the mass of plasflesh that sealed the gaping wound in his torso was a constant dull, throbbing ache. Techmarine Harkus and Apothecary Selenus had reconstructed his left shoulder and clavicular pectoralis major with augmetic sinews and muscle grafts following a battle with a tyranid guardian organism, and his blood still underwent regular transfusions to ensure its purity.
But he had not died, he had triumphed and through his and countless others’ sacrifice, Tarsis Ultra had been saved, though it would never be the same again. Uriel had seen enough on Ichar IV to know that once a planet was infected with the taint of these vile xeno creatures, it would forever be impossible to remove.
The bodies had been prepared for transport to the crypts beneath the Fortress of Hera; Chaplain Clausel was performing the Finis Rerum and Selenus had reverently removed the progenoid glands from the fallen. Upon their return to Macragge, each battle-brother would be interred in his own sepulchre and Uriel himself would go to the Shrine of the Primarch in the Temple of Correction and carve the names of the dead onto the bronze-edged slabs of smooth black marble that ran along the curved inner wall of the sanctum.
Clausel’s chanting came to an abrupt end and Uriel turned to face the skull-visaged Chaplain, reflecting that perhaps the Mortifactors were not so different after all. For wasn’t a Chaplain nothing more than a vision of Death incarnate? Frequently the last face a warrior saw before passing from this mortal coil was that of a Chaplain, the warrior who prepared his body before its journey to the halls of the dead.
He nodded to Clausel, feeling a tonal shift in the vibrations running through the hull as the ship’s main engines powered down. The Vae Victus had achieved orbit and they were ready to descend to Macragge.
Awe. Humility. A sense of history that stretched back ten thousand years. All these feelings and more flooded Uriel’s body as he entered the Temple of Correction once more. He remembered the last time he had set foot in this mighty marble edifice before he had set off for the world of Tarsis Ultra. Then he had been but a newly tested captain, with the weight of his next command heavy on his shoulders and a life of service before him. Everything had seemed simpler back then, before the burden of choice had entered his life.
As always, the Temple was thronged with pilgrims and the faithful, many of whom had journeyed further than he to be here. Many women carried babes in swaddling clothes and Uriel knew that a great many would have been both conceived and born during the pilgrimage to Macragge. Heads bowed as he passed and shouted blessings followed him. There were whispered prayers of thanks that one of the Emperor’s chosen had come to this place to worship with them.
Uriel marched through the marble corridors, the dazzling white of the walls veined with thin traceries of gold and sepia and the floor paved with stone from the rocks at the base of Hera’s Falls.
Finally, he entered the inner sanctum, beams of multicoloured light spearing from the gargantuan dome above. Refracted by cunning artifice through the crystals that made up its structure, each beam interwove with the others to create a dazzling internal rainbow. Hundreds of people knelt before the gently glowing Sepulchre of the Primarch, their voices raised in songs of praise to his memory. The sense of wonderment and rapture in the chamber was palpable and Uriel dropped to one knee, feeling unworthy of gazing too long on the face of his Chapter’s founding father.
Being in the presence of such a magnificent hero of the Imperium, even though his heart had ceased to beat nearly ten thousand years ago, was a humbling experience, made all the more so for his own sense of unworthiness after the battles on Tarsis Ultra. Had he not cast aside this legendary warrior’s teachings in favour of his own initiative and the primitive rites of a death-worshipper? Such arrogance, such hubris. Who was he to second-guess the wisdom of this hero, who was the flesh and blood progeny of the Emperor himself?
“Forgive me, my lord,” whispered Uriel, “for I am unworthy of your love. I come before you to honour the names and deeds of your sons who fell in battle. They fought with courage and honour, and are deserving of a place at your side. Grant them surcease of their sorrows until they are ready to be reborn in your image through the holy mysteries of their gene-seed.”
He stood and made his way to the marble slabs set into the inner circumference of the wall, finding the section designated for the members of the 4th Company. So many slabs, so many names of those who had given their lives for the Chapter. He moved to the last slab with names upon it and, though he had seventy-eight names to carve, he needed neither list nor record to remember each warrior. Each face and name was indelibly etched on his memory and even if he lived to see out his days as one of the Chapter’s Masters, he would never forget those who had died under his command.
He fished out a small chisel and hammer from his belt and began delicately chipping the marble to fashion the first name. He smoothed the inner edges of each letter with a hard-edged sanding stone, ready for those more skilled than he to apply the gold leaf to each name.
Name followed name, and Uriel lost track of time as he relived each warrior’s character and personality through the simple act of carving their name. Daylight dimmed: the dome’s rainbow fading and vanishing before rising anew the following morning. Days passed, though Uriel stopped for neither food nor water. Helots tasked with the care and maintenance of the temple enquired at regular intervals if he wished for anything, but were dismissed with a curt shake of the head. After three days they stopped asking.
As the rainbow crept down through the air to the stone floor of the temple on the fifth day of Uriel’s vigil, he smoothed the last edge of the final name. His arms ached from the precise and painstaking movements of carving, but he was pleased with the results. All seventy-eight warriors would now remain part of the Chapter’s heritage forever more and he felt their silent acceptance of his vigil as light and warmth filled the temple.
He pushed himself to his feet, pocketing his craftsman’s tools, and made his way back to the centre of the temple. Though he had not eaten, drunk or slept these last days, he felt more refreshed than ever, as though a cool spring flowed through his veins, washing away the old Uriel and leaving only a dedicated warrior of the Emperor in his stead. The songs of the many pilgrims echoed in his skull and Uriel felt a great welcoming embrace.
Uriel closed his eyes and prayed, giving thanks for being afforded the chance to serve his Chapter and the Emperor. He joined in
song with the pilgrims and many were the rapturous faces that beamed radiantly from the assembled congregation as his voice joined theirs.
They sang of duty, of courage and of sacrifice. They sang until they were hoarse and could raise their voices no more. They sang until tears spilled from their eyes and a swelling sense of brotherhood filled the temple. A choking tide of emotions welled within Uriel’s chest as more and more voices joined the choir of praise.
As the latest hymn came to a rousing climax, ending in an exhilarated round of exultation, Uriel saw a trio of Space Marines in burnished blue armour enter the temple. That in itself was nothing unusual, but then Uriel realised the leader of the group was none other than Captain Sicarius of the 2nd Company, Commander of the Watch and Master of the Household. Uriel also saw that the Terminators who followed him were armed, something normally unheard of within the sanctum of the primarch.
Sicarius stopped before Uriel and said, “Ventris.”
Though both were captains, Sicarius was still senior to him, and thus Uriel bowed his head, saying, “Captain Sicarius, it is good to see you again.”
Sicarius’ granite features were harder and colder than Uriel had ever known.
“Uriel Ventris of Calth,” said Sicarius formally. “By the power invested in me by Lord Calgar and by the Emperor of Mankind, you are to surrender yourself into my keeping, that I might render you into the custody of your peers and effect their judgement upon you.”
Uriel suspected he knew the answer already, but asked, “On what charge?”
“Heresy,” spat Sicarius, as though the word itself were repugnant to him. “Do not offer any resistance, Ventris, there are more warriors without and it will do no good to create discord before these people.”
Uriel nodded and said, “Thank you for letting me finish my work here. I know you could have come sooner.”
“That was for the dead, not for you,” snapped Sicarius.
“Thank you anyway.”
Sicarius nodded to the Terminators. “Take him to the dungeons.”
The halls of Marneus Calgar, Master of the Ultramarines, were set atop the highest peak of the mountains, amidst the golden domes and marble-pillared temples of the Fortress of Hera. Though the day was hot, the air here was temperate, a fine mist of water from Hera’s Falls sapping the worst of the heat. A perfectly symmetrical structure, the Chapter Master’s chambers enclosed a central, sunken courtyard that was open to the azure sky above, its cloisters wrapped in cool shadows, its balconies draped in ancient, gold-stitched battle honours.
At its centre, a foaming fountain splashed. Carved in the likeness of Konor, the first Battle King of Macragge, it was surrounded by statuary depicting long-dead heroes of Macragge, artfully arranged so that they gave homage to their ancient king.
The last time Uriel had set foot here, it had been to receive his orders to depart for Pavonis and it had been a momentous occasion for him. Now, after a night in the dungeons and stripped of his armour, it was the scene of his disgrace.
And worse, it was the scene of his oldest friend’s disgrace.
Pasanius stood beside him, similarly manacled and dressed in a blue chiton.
His own fall from grace he would accept, but to see Pasanius dragged down with him was almost too much for him to bear.
Surrounding Lord Calgar were the various Masters of the Chapter present on Macragge, in whose hands his ultimate fate lay. Captain Sicarius, Master of the Watch, sat to his left, next to Captain Galenus, Master of the Marches, who in turn flanked Fennias Maxim, the Master of the Forge. Opposite them sat Captain Ixion, Chief Victualler, Captain Antilochus, Chief of Recruits and the heroic Captain Agemman of the 1st Company. The great and good of the Ultramarines sat in judgement of him and at their head sat Lord Calgar, his liege lord and Chapter Master.
Calgar looked older than Uriel remembered him, his piercing gaze sadder and his stern, patrician features more careworn than he remembered. The disappointment in his lord’s eyes was too much and Uriel dropped his gaze, shame burning hot in his breast.
And last of all, seated beside Calgar, was Learchus.
Veteran sergeant of the 4th Company, Learchus had fought beside Uriel and, though it broke his heart, he knew now the source of the accusations against Pasanius and himself.
He should have seen it coming. In the final hours of the war on Tarsis Ultra, Learchus had as good as told him that he would seek redress for Uriel’s flagrant disregard of the Codex Astartes. Much as he wanted to feel anger towards Learchus for this, Uriel could not bring himself to feel anything but pride in his sergeant. He was an Ultramarine through and through and had done nothing wrong. Indeed, had the circumstances been reversed, Uriel might well have found himself where Learchus was now.
At some unseen signal, Captain Sicarius rose from his seat, his long red cloak billowing around him as he stepped down into the sunken courtyard. He stared at Uriel and Pasanius with a look of loathing, pulling a wax-sealed vellum scroll from beneath his cloak.
He looked towards Calgar, who nodded solemnly.
“Uriel Ventris. Pasanius Lysane. On this, the nine hundredth and ninety-ninth year of the tenth millennium of his Imperial Majesty’s rule, you are hereby charged with seventeen counts of the crime of heresy. Do you understand the gravity of these charges?”
“I do,” said Uriel.
“Aye,” said Pasanius, in a tone that made no secret of his contempt for this hearing. “Though to drag us here after the great victory we won at Tarsis Ultra does nothing but shame the memories of those who died there. We fought the Great Devourer with courage, honour and faith. No man here can ask more than that!”
“Be silent!” thundered Sicarius. “You will answer only those questions I ask of you and you are to volunteer no more information than that. Do you understand me?”
Pasanius’ lip curled, but he said nothing and merely nodded.
Apparently satisfied, Sicarius circled the fountain and stood before Uriel, his gaze boring into him, as though he were attempting to force him to admit his guilt by sheer force of personality.
“You are a protégé of Captain Idaeus, are you not?”
“You know I am, Captain Sicarius,” answered Uriel evenly.
“Answer the question, Ventris,” retorted Sicarius.
“My rank is captain, you have not found me guilty yet and will address me by my title until such time as I may be convicted by this body.”
Sicarius pursed his lips, but knew it would do him no good to press the point and reluctantly conceded.
“Very well, captain. If we may proceed?”
“Yes, I served in the 4th Company under Captain Idaeus for ninety years, before rising to its captaincy following his death on Thracia.”
“Could you describe the circumstances of his death for us?”
Uriel took a deep breath to calm his rising temper. The tale of Idaeus’ final battle was well known to every man here and he could see no purpose in reiterating it.
“Captain Ventris?”
“Very well,” began Uriel. “The world of Thracia was one of a number that had rebelled against the lawful rule of the Emperor’s representatives in the Ulenta sector and it was rumoured that the uprising had been instigated by followers of the Dark Powers. We were attached to the crusade forces of Inquisitor Appolyon and had been tasked with several surgical strikes against key enemy positions to facilitate the advance of Imperial Guard units closing on the capital city of Mercia.”
“And what was your final mission in this crusade?” asked Sicarius.
“Guard units were advancing along a narrow frontage, with one flank open to assault across a number of bridges. Squads of the 4th Company were tasked with their destruction.”
“An easy task surely?”
“In theory, yes. Intelligence indicated that the bridges were lightly held by poor quality opposition.”
“But that proved not to be the case, did it not?” asked Sicarius.
“No, bridge
two-four was held by inferior troops, and we easily dealt with them without loss. Once the bridge was ours, we began rigging it for destruction, under the direction of Techmarine Tomasin.”
“May he always be remembered,” intoned Fennias Maxim from the edge of the courtyard.
“And then what happened?”
“As we prepared the bridge for destruction, the weather deteriorated markedly and we received fragmentary reports of the enemy moving in our direction. Within minutes we were under attack from a battalion-sized force of enemy units intent on seizing the bridge.”
“A fearsome prospect,” observed Sicarius.
“Not in this case,” said Uriel. “Though this opposition was of a higher calibre than that tasked with holding the bridge, we were able to keep them at bay, though in the course of the fighting, our Thunderhawk gunship was shot down by enemy flak tanks.”
“So you were trapped,” stated Sicarius. “Truly a desperate situation. At what point did the enemy attack again?”
“Just before dawn we were attacked by warriors of the Night Lords Legion.”
A collective gasp went around the courtyard. Though every warrior knew of the fallen Legions, to hear their name spoken so brazenly was still a shock. To mention such things was as unseemly as it was unbelievable.
“We were able to hold them off, but as the battle dragged on, it soon became clear that we would not be able to hold our position.”
“So what did you do?”
“The explosives were rigged, but Techmarine Tomasin had died in the initial attack. Without his detonator mechanism, we had no way of triggering the charges to destroy the bridge. During the night, Captain Idaeus had sent our assault squads to attempt to detonate the explosives manually using krak grenades. They were unsuccessful, but the principle was sound.”
“I’m sorry, Captain Ventris, I don’t understand,” said Sicarius, cocking his head to one side.
“Don’t understand what?”
“This plan of Idaeus’, it is obviously one that does not refer to the tactica of the Codex Astartes. Are you sure it was his plan?”
Legends of the Space Marines Page 23
