Soul Drinkers 06 - Phalanx

by Ben Counter

'My own work,' said Demenos.

  'Then you need to learn how to balance a hilt. Good

  work, though.' Lysander spotted Voar trundling between

  the forges towards him. 'Archmagos! I am glad you could

  come. I think perhaps this place is more suited to your

  tastes than the rest of the Phalanx.'

  'I have no tastes,' replied Voar. 'A magos

  metallurgicus could gain no little pleasure from the

  specifications of your forges, no doubt, but my specialities

  lie in the fields of reverse engineering and theoretical

  mechanics.'

  'Well, be that as it may,' said Lysander, 'the Crucible

  itself is not why I requested your presence. This is.'

  Lysander took from a compartment in his armour a tube of

  black metal, as long as a normal man's forearm. Its

  surface was knurled into a grip and on one end it had a

  small control surface with indented sensors. 'Perhaps you

  recognise it?'

  Voar walked up to Lysander and took the cylinder.

  Voar's bionic hand did not fit the grip well - it was sized for

  a Space Marine's hand.

  'This is the Soulspear,' said Voar flatly.

  'As seized at the Lakonia Star Fort,' said Lysander.

  'The seed of the conflict between the Priesthood of Mars

  and the Soul Drinkers. We recovered it from the

  Brokenback before it was scuttled. I understand that it is

  to be considered your property. It was taken from you by

  the Soul Drinkers, and as heretics they have no right to it.

  Therefore its possession defaults to the Adeptus

  Mechanicus. Specifically, you.'

  Voar turned the weapon over in his artificial hand. 'I

  confess that my dealings with emotive matters are long

  behind me,' he said, 'but still I have the impression, a

  remnant of some human sense if you will, that you are not

  happy about this situation.'

  'The Soulspear is a relic of our primarch,' replied

  Lysander. 'Rogal Dorn himself found and re-engineered it.

  By rights it should belong to one of the successors of

  Dorn's Legion, the Imperial Fists or one of our brother

  Chapters. I have no shame in that belief. Any son of Dorn

  would say the same. But my Chapter Master has no wish

  to see another rift between the Adeptus Astartes and the

  Mechanicus, and I must bow to his decision. Here.'

  Lysander touched a finger to one of the control

  surfaces and a tiny laser pulse punched a microscopic

  hole through the ceramite of his gauntlet's finger joint. Twin

  blades of pure blackness shot out of each end of the

  cylinder. The air sighed as it was cut apart by the voids of

  the blades.

  'Vortex blades,' said Lysander. 'A vortex field bound by

  Throne knows what technology from before the Age of

  Imperium. Activated by a gene-lock keyed to the genetic

  signature of Rogal Dorn. This was wielded by Dorn's own

  hand, archmagos. A man of whom no Fabricator General

  can claim to be the equal. The saviour of the Emperor

  Himself at the height of the Heresy. The greatest soldier

  this galaxy has ever seen, and I say the greatest man, too.

  Remember that, whatever you choose to do with this relic.

  Fail to show Dorn's own handiwork the proper respect and

  the Imperial Fists just might choose to risk a new rift after

  all.'

  'I see,' said Voar. 'Your information has been logged

  and will be made available to all those given the honour of

  examining this device.'

  'In return for this,' said Lysander with obvious disdain

  for Voar's manner, 'the Chapter Master expects the

  Adeptus Mechanicus to conduct their part in the trial with

  all the honour that your status as a guest here demands.

  This is no place to settle a feud between the Soul Drinkers

  and the Mechanicus. No place for vengeance.'

  'Your battle-brothers are not all of the same mind,'

  said Voar. 'Nor, logic suggests, will many of the visiting

  Astartes agree with such a stance. There is a great deal of

  vengeance sought on the Phalanx, and the better part of it

  stems not from the Mechanicus.'

  'Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh has pronounced on the

  subject,' said Lysander. 'He has tasked me, among others,

  with seeing his word made law.'

  'Then it shall be abided by,' said Voar with a nod of his

  head. It seemed the archmagos was not capable of any

  gesture of greater deference. 'Our interest is in justice.'

  'If you cared about justice, archmagos, you would give

  the Soulspear to us.'

  'And if you cared about justice, brother-captain, then

  Sarpedon would have died on Selaaca.' Archmagos Voar

  wheeled around and left the forge, the Soulspear clutched

  in his bionic hand.

  Chapter 3

  The cell block had been built for the use of the Imperial Fists’ own

  penitents. When battle-brothers believed themselves guilty of some

  failure, they came here, to the Atoning Halls. They knelt in the dank,

  cold cells lining the narrow stone-clad corridors and prayed for their

  sins to be expunged. They begged for suffering with which to cleanse

  themselves, a suffering regularly gifted to them by the various

  implements of self-torture built into the ceilings and floors of each

  intersection. Nerve-gloves and flensing-racks stood silent there, most

  of them designed to be operated by the victim, so that through pain he

  might drive out the weaknesses that had led to some perceived failing.

  The cells had not been built with locks, for all those who had spent

  their time there had done so voluntarily. But the Halls of Atonement

  had locks now. Its current penitents were not there by choice.

  ‘Salk!’ hissed Captain Luko. Luko was chained to the wall of his cell,

  with just enough freedom in his bonds to stand up or sit down. Like the

  rest of the Soul Drinkers imprisoned in the Halls of Atonement, he had

  been stripped of his armour, with his wargear kept somewhere else on

  the Phalanx to be used as evidence in the trial.

  ‘Captain?’ came Sergeant Salk’s voice in reply. The Soul Drinkers

  officers had mostly been locked in cells far apart from one another, but

  the Halls of Atonement had not been built to contain a hundred

  Astartes prisoners and so it was inevitable two would end up in

  earshot.

  ‘I hear something,’ said Luko. ‘They are bringing someone else in.’

  ‘There is no one else,’ replied Salk. ‘They took us all on Selaaca.’

  Though Luko could not see Salk’s face, the despondency, tinged with

  anger, was obvious in his voice. ‘They must be coming to interrogate

  us. I had wondered how long it would take for them to get to you and

  me.’

  ‘I think not, brother,’ said Luko. ‘Listen.’

  The sound of footsteps broke through the ever-present grinding of the

  Phalanx’s engines. Several Space Marines, and... something else. A

  vehicle? A servitor? It was large and heavy, with a tread that crunched

  the flagstones of the corridor.

  Luko strained forwards against the chains that held him, to see as

  much as possible of the corr
idor beyond the bars of his cell. Two

  Imperial Fists came into view, walking backwards with their bolters

  trained on something taller than they were.

  ‘Throne of Terra,’ whispered Luko as he got the first sight of what

  they were guarding.

  It was a Dreadnought. It wore the deep purple and bone of the Soul

  Drinkers, but to Luko’s knowledge no Dreadnought had served with the

  Chapter since he had been a novice. He had thought the Chapter had

  not possessed any Dreadnought hulls at all.

  The Dreadnought’s armour plating was pitted with age. Its weapons

  had been removed, revealing the complex workings of the mountings

  and ammo feeds in its shoulders. Even so the half-dozen Imperial

  Fists escorting it kept their guns on it, and one of them carried a

  missile launcher ready to blast the Dreadnought at close range.

  As it stomped in front of Luko’s cell, the Dreadnought turned its

  torso so it could look in. Luko saw that its sarcophagus had been

  opened partially, and he glimpsed the pallid flesh of the body inside.

  Large, filmy eyes shone from the shadows inside the war machine,

  and Luko’s own eyes met them for a moment.

  ‘Brother,’ said the Soul Drinker inside the Dreadnought, his voice a

  wet whisper. ‘Spread the word. I have returned.’

  ‘Silence!’ shouted one of the Imperial Fists in front of the

  Dreadnought. ‘Hold your tongue!’ The Space Marine turned to Luko.

  ‘And you! Avert your eyes!’

  ‘If you wish me blinded,’ retorted Luko, ‘then you will have to put out

  my eyes.’

  Luko had a talent for eliciting a rough soldier’s respect from other

  fighting men. The Imperial Fist scowled, but didn’t aim his gun at Luko.

  ‘Maybe later,’ he said.

  ‘Daenyathos has returned! said the Dreadnought’

  Luko jumped forwards against his chains. ‘Daenyathos!’ he echoed.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Daenyathos!’ came another voice, then another. Every Soul

  Drinker’s voice was raised in a matter of seconds. The Imperial Fists

  yelled for silence but their voices were drowned out. Even the bolter

  shots they fired into the ceiling did not quiet the din.

  Luko did not know what to call the emotions searing through him.

  Joy? There could be no joy here, when they were facing execution and

  disgrace. It was a raw exultation, a release of emotion. It had been

  pent up in the Soul Drinkers since they had seen Sarpedon fall in his

  duel with Lysander, and now it had an excuse to flood out.

  Daenyathos was alive! In truth, in the depths of his soul, Luko had

  always known he was not truly dead. The promise of his return

  seemed written into everything the legendary philosopher-soldier had

  passed down to his Chapter, as if the Catechisms Martial had woven

  into it a prophecy that he would walk among them once more.

  Amazingly, impossibly, it seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy

  that Daenyathos should be there when the Chapter faced its

  extinction.

  Only one voice was not raised in celebration. It was that of Pallas,

  the Apothecary.

  ‘What did you do?’ shouted Pallas, and Luko just caught his words.

  They gave him pause, even as his twin hearts hammered with the force

  of the emotion.

  ‘What did you do, Daenyathos?’ shouted Pallas again, and a few of

  the Soul Drinkers fell silent as they considered his words. ‘How have

  you fallen into their hands, the same as us? Have you come here to

  face justice? Daenyathos, warrior-philosopher, tell us the truth!’

  ‘Tell us!’ shouted another. Those words soon clashed with

  Daenyathos’s name in the din, half the Soul Drinkers demanding

  answers, the other half proclaiming their hero’s return.

  Daenyathos did not reply. Perhaps, if he had, he would not have

  been heard. The Imperial Fists hauled open a set of blast doors

  leading to a side chamber that had once been used to store the

  volatile chemicals required by some of the torture devices. Its

  ceramite-lined walls were strong enough to contain the weaponless

  Dreadnought. The Imperial Fists marshalled the Dreadnought inside

  and shut the doors, slamming the thing that called itself Daenyathos

  into the quiet and darkness.

  Outside it took a long time for the chants of Daenyathos’s name to

  die down in the Halls of Atonement.

  More than three hundred Astartes gathered in the Observatory of

  Dornian Majesty. Most Imperial battlezones never saw such a

  concentration of Space Marines, but these Astartes were not there to

  fight. They were there to see justice done.

  The Observatory was one of the Phalanx’s many follies, a viewing

  dome built as a throne room for past Chapter Masters, where the

  transparent dome might afford a dramatic enough view of space to

  intimidate the Chapter’s guests who came there to petition the lords of

  the Imperial Fists. Vladimir had little need for such shows of

  intimidation and had closed off the Observatory for years.

  It was one of the few places large enough to serve as the courtroom

  for the Soul Drinkers’ trial. The ship’s crew had built the seating

  galleries and the dock in the centre of the floor, an armoured pulpit into

  which restraints had been built strong enough to hold an accused

  Astartes. The Justice Lord’s position was on a throne the same height

  as the dock, facing it from the part of the gallery reserved for the

  Imperial Fists themselves.

  The whole court was bathed in the light from the transparent dome.

  The Veiled Region was a mass of nebulae that boiled in the space

  outside the ship, nestling stars in its glowing clouds and swamping a

  vast swathe of space in the currents of half-formed star matter.

  Kravamesh hung, violet and hot, edging the courtroom in hard starlight.

  The first in had been Lord Inquisitor Kolgo’s retinue of Battle Sisters,

  ten Sororitas led by Sister Aescarion. They knelt and prayed to

  consecrate the place, Aescarion calling upon the Emperor to turn His

  eyes upon the Phalanx and see that His justice was done.

  The Imperial Fists 4th Company took up their positions, a hundred

  Imperial Fists gathering to serve as honour guard to their Chapter

  Master. Next the Howling Griffons filed in, Borganor scowling at the

  Observatory as if its tenuous connection with the Soul Drinkers made

  it hateful.

  The other captains were next. Commander Gethsemar of the Angels

  Sanguine was accompanied by a dozen Sanguinary Guard, their jump

  packs framed by stabiliser fins shaped like white angels’ wings and

  their helmets fronted with golden masks fashioned to echo the death

  mask of their primarch, Sanguinius. Gethsemar himself wore several

  more masks hanging from the waist of his armour, each sculpted into

  a different expression. The one he wore had the mouth turned down in

  grim sorrow, teardrop-shaped emeralds fixed beneath one eye. Siege-

  Captain Daviks of the Silver Skulls wore the reinforced armour of a

  Devastator, built to accommodate the extra weight and heft of a heavy

  weapon, and his retinue counted among the
m his Company Champion

  carrying an obsidian sword and a shield faced with a mirror to deflect

  laser fire in combat.

  The Iron Knights were represented by Captain N’Kalo, an assault

  captain who wore a proud panoply of honours, from a crown of laurels

  to the many honoriae hanging from the brocade across his chest and

  the Crux Terminatus on one shoulder pad. He led three squads of

  Astartes, his Iron Knights resplendent in the personal heraldry each

  wore on his breastplate and the crests on their helms. The Doom

  Eagles came in at the same time, represented by a single squad of

  Space Marines and Librarian Varnica. Where Varnica stepped, the

  stone beneath his feet bubbled and warped, his psychic abilities so

  pronounced that the real world strained to reject him, even with his

  power contained and channelled through the high collar of his Aegis

  armour.

  Finally, Captain Lysander led in Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh.

  Vladimir took his place on the throne – as the Justice Lord of this

  court he was the highest authority, and it was at his sufferance that

  any defendants, witnesses or petitioners might speak. Lysander did

  not stand in the gallery, for he was to serve as the Hand of the Court,

  the bailiff who enforced his Chapter Master’s decisions among those

  present. Lysander looked quite at home patrolling the floor of the dome

  around the dock, and his fearsome reputation both as a disciplinarian

  and a warrior made for a powerful deterrent. A Space Marine’s temper

  might move him to leave the gallery and attempt to disrupt the court’s

  proceedings, even with violence – Lysander was one of the few men

  who could make such an Astartes think twice.

  The tension was obvious. When Lord Inquisitor Kolgo arrived to join

  his Battle Sisters, the sideways glances and murmured comments

  only grew. Space Marines were all soldiers of the Emperor but many

  Chapters did not have regular contacts with others and some

  developed fierce rivalries over the millennia. The Imperial Fists had both

  retained the livery of their parent Legion, and been feted above almost

  all other Chapters for the service to the Imperium – no little jealousy

  existed between them and other Chapters who coveted the honours

  they had been granted, and no one could say that such jealousy was

  absent from the court.

  Fortunately, nothing papered over such schisms like a common