by Ben Counter
fall upon them a punishment that not only removes them from this
universe, but proclaims the horror of their deaths as the consequence
for railing against the order the Emperor Himself put in place.’
Kolgo punctuated his final words by banging his armoured fist on the
backs of the seats in front of him. He turned, faced the Justice Lord,
and inclined his head in as much of a bow as an Inquisitor Lord would
give.
‘Are you finished?’ asked Vladimir.
‘This statement is concluded,’ said Kolgo.
‘Pah,’ came a voice from the galleries. ‘One of a thousand he would
give if he had leave. The Lord Inquisitor’s desire to hear his own voice
borders on the scandalous!’ The speaker was Siege-Captain Daviks of
the Silver Skulls. The Silver Skulls beside him nodded and murmured
their assent.
‘You wish to make a counter-statement, siege-captain?’ said
Vladimir.
‘I wish for the statements to end!’ snapped Daviks. ‘This creature in
the dock before us is not deserving of a trial. This thing is a mutant! In
what Imperium of Man is a mutant afforded the right to be bedded
down in this nest of pointless words? Reinez was right. I have never
known a trial granted to such a thing. I have known only execution!’
Several Astartes shouted agreements. Vladimir held up a hand for
silence but the din only grew.
‘Kill this thing, kill all the creatures you hold in your brigs, and let
this be done with!’ shouted Daviks.
‘I will have order!’ bellowed Vladimir. He was not a man who raised
his voice often, and as he rose to his feet the calls for violence died.
‘Apothecary Asclephin has borne witness that Sarpedon is to be tried
as an Astartes. There the matter ends. You will get your execution,
Captain Daviks, but in return you must have patience. I will see justice
done here.’
‘A better illustration of power I could not have created myself,’ added
Kolgo.
‘Your statement is concluded,’ said Vladimir. ‘Who will speak?’
‘We have not yet heard from the accused in the dock,’ replied
Captain N’Kalo of the Iron Knights. ‘If we are to have a trial, the
accused must speak in his defence.’
Vladimir’s recent interjections kept the retorts to N’Kalo’s words to a
minimum.
‘I would speak in my defence,’ said Sarpedon. ‘I would have you all
hear me. I did not turn from the authority of the Imperium at some
perverse whim. For everything I have done, I have had a reason. Lord
Kolgo’s words have done nothing but to convince me further that my
every action was justified.’
‘You will speak,’ said Vladimir, ‘whether those observing like it or
not. But you cannot speak as yet, for further charges are to be levelled
against you.’
‘Name them,’ said Sarpedon.
‘That by the machinations of your authority,’ said Reinez, ‘four
Imperial Fists died on the planet of Selaaca, three Scouts and one
sergeant of the Tenth Company. To the Emperor’s protection have their
souls been commended, and to the example of Dorn have they
measured themselves with honour. Their deaths have been added to
the list of crimes of which you are accused.’ Reinez spoke as if
reading from a statement, and the real anger behind his words was far
more eloquent. He enjoyed pouring further accusations on Sarpedon,
especially one that hit so home to the Imperial Fists on whose forced
neutrality Sarpedon depended.
The Imperial Fists around Vladimir made gestures of prayer. The
other Space Marines gathered had evidently not heard of these
charges, and a few quiet questions passed between them.
‘I know nothing of this!’ retorted Sarpedon. ‘No Imperial Fist died by
a Soul Drinker’s hand on Selaaca. My battle-brothers surrendered to
Lysander without a fight. The captain himself can attest to this!’
‘These crimes were not committed during your capture,’ said
Vladimir. ‘Scout Orfos?’
The Imperial Fists parted to allow a Scout through their ranks. In
most Chapters, the Imperial Fists among them, a recruit served a term
as a Scout before his training and augmentation was completed. Since
he could not yet wear the full power armour of a Space Marine, and
since a full Astartes’s armour was ill-suited to anything requiring
stealth, these recruits served as infiltrators and reconnaissance
troops. Scout Orfos still wore the carapace armour, light by the
standards of Astartes, and cameleoline cloak of a Scout. He was
relatively youthful and unscarred compared to the Imperial Fists around
him, but he had a sharp face with observant eyes and he moved with
the assurance of a confident soldier.
‘Scout,’ said Vladimir, ‘describe to the court what you witnessed on
Selaaca.’
‘My squad under Sergeant Borakis was deployed to investigate a
location that the Castellan’s command had provided to us,’ began
Orfos. ‘In a tomb beneath the ground we found a place that the Soul
Drinkers had built there.’
Sarpedon listened, but his mind wanted to rebel. He had never heard
of any Soul Drinker travelling to Selaaca before he had gone there to
face the necrons. The planet was not mentioned in the Chapter
archives. It could not be a coincidence that of all the millions of planets
in the Imperium, he should stumble upon one where some forgotten
brothers had built a tomb thousands of years ago. A tomb which, as
Orfos’s evidence continued, had been built to keep all but the most
determined Astartes out.
Sarpedon felt a wrenching inside him as Orfos described the deaths
of the other scouts. Orfos was well-disciplined and little emotion
showed in his words, but his face and intonation suggested the effort
he was making in bottling it up. Orfos had been trained to hate, hypnodoctrination
and battlefield experience teaching him the value of
despising his enemy. That hate was turned on Sarpedon now.
Sarpedon felt, for the first time in that courtroom, truly accused. He felt
guilt at the Imperial Fists’ deaths, though this, of all his supposed
crimes, was the only one that he had not committed.
‘It was a Dreadnought,’ Orfos was saying. ‘The tomb had been built
to house it. It had been kept frozen to preserve its occupant...’
‘Justice Lord,’ said Sarpedon. ‘My Chapter has no Dreadnoughts.
The last was lost with the destruction of the Scintillating Death six
thousand years ago. It is made clear in the archives of–’
‘The accused will be silent!’ snapped Vladimir. ‘Or he will be made
silent.’ A glance from Vladimir towards Lysander suggested how
Vladimir would go about shutting Sarpedon up. ‘Scout Orfos.
Continue.’
‘The Dreadnought awoke,’ said Orfos, ‘and I voxed for
reinforcements. A team of servitors and Techmarines made the tomb
safe and disarmed the Dreadnought.’
‘Did it speak to you?’ asked Vladimir.
‘It did,’ said Orfos. ‘It placed itself in my custody, an
d told me its
name.’
‘Which was?’
‘Daenyathos.’
Sarpedon slumped against the pulpit.
Daenyathos was dead. The heretic Croivas Ascenian had killed him
six thousand years ago.
His mind raced. The impossibility of it stunned him.
Of all the names he might have heard listed as a traitor, Daenyathos
was the last he would have expected. Daenyathos had written down
the Soul Drinkers’ way of war, and even after casting aside the ways of
the old Chapter Sarpedon had still found infinite wisdom in
Daenyathos’s works. Every Soul Drinker had read the Catechisms
Martial. Sarpedon had fought his wars by its words. It had given him
strength. Daenyathos was a symbol of what the Imperium could be –
wise and strong, tempered with discipline but beloved of knowledge.
Now the philosopher-soldier’s name had been dragged into this sordid
business.
And if he was alive... if Daenyathos truly lived still, as only a Space
Marine in a Dreadnought could...
‘I swear...’ said Sarpedon. ‘If he lives... I swear I did not know...’
‘And by what do you swear?’ snarled Captain Borganor from the
gallery. ‘On your traitor’s honour? On the tombs of my brothers you
have slain? I say this proves the Soul Drinkers are not mere
renegades! I say they have been corrupt for millennia, under the
guidance of Daenyathos, sworn to the powers of the Enemy and
primed to bring about some plot of the warp’s foul making!’
Voices rose in agreement. Sarpedon’s mind whirled too quickly for
him to pay attention to them. If Daenyathos was alive, then what did
that mean? The Soul Drinkers had gone to Selaaca to stave off the
necron invasion of an innocent world, and yet Daenyathos had been
there all along. Sarpedon traced back the events of the last weeks, his
capture, the assault on the necron overlord’s tomb, the battles on
Raevenia and the clash with the Mechanicus fleet, and before that...
Iktinos. It had been Iktinos who had suggested the Brokenback flee
into the Veiled Region. The Chaplain’s arguments had made sense –
the Veiled Region was a good place to hide. And yet he had led the
Soul Drinkers straight to the tomb of Daenyathos. Iktinos must have
known Daenyathos was there. And yet Iktinos had been one of
Sarpedon’s most trusted friends, the spiritual heart of the Chapter...
‘Is he here?’ said Sarpedon, hoping to be heard over the shouting.
‘Daenyathos. Is he here, on the Phalanx?’
‘He shall be brought to the dock in time,’ replied Vladimir.
‘I must speak with him!’
‘You shall do no such thing.’ retorted Vladmir. ‘There will be no
provision made for you to plot further! When your trial is complete,
Daenyathos’s shall begin. That is all you shall know!’ Vladimir banged
a gauntlet. ‘I will have order under the eyes of Dorn! Lysander, bring
me order!’
‘Silence!’ yelled Lysander, striding across the courtroom. ‘The
Justice Lord will have silence! There is no Space Marine here too lofty
of station to be spared the face of my shield! Silence!’
‘This farce must end!’ shouted Borganor. ‘So deep the corruption
lies! So foul a thing the Soul Drinkers are, and now we see, they have
always been! Burn them, crush them, hurl them into space, and
excise this infection!’
Lysander vaulted the gallery rail and powered his way up to
Borganor. The Howling Griffons were not quick enough to hold him
back, and it was by no means certain they could have done so at all.
Lysander bore down on Borganor, face to face, storm shield pressing
against Borganor’s chest and pinning him in place. Lysander had his
hammer in his other hand, held out as a signal for the other Howling
Griffons to stay back.
‘I said silence,’ growled Lysander.
‘My thanks, captain,’ said Vladimir. ‘You may stand down.’
Lysander backed away from Borganor. The two Space Marines held
each other’s gaze as Lysander returned to the courtroom floor.
‘There will be no further need for calls to order,’ said Vladimir. ‘You
are here at my sufferance. When my patience runs out with you, you
return to your ships and leave. Captain Lysander is authorised to
escort you. Scout Orfos, you are dismissed.’
Orfos saluted and left the gallery, the Imperial Fists bowing their
heads in respect to him and his lost brothers as he went.
Reinez had watched the tumult with a smile on his face. Nothing
could have pleased him more than seeing Sarpedon’s distress, except
perhaps Sarpedon’s severed head.
‘Who will speak next?’ said Vladimir. ‘Who can bring further
illumination to the crimes of the accused?’
Varnica of the Doom Eagles stood. ‘I would speak,’ he said. ‘The
court must hear what I have to say, for it bears directly on the nature of
the Soul Drinkers’ crimes. I bring not rhetoric or bile. I bring the truth,
as witnessed by my own eyes.’
‘Then speak, Librarian,’ said Vladimir.
The courtroom hushed, and Varnica began.
Chapter 4
The beauty of Berenika Altis was a strange thing, like a work of art not
understood. It had been built in the shape of an enormous star, two of
its five points extending out to sea on spurs of artificial land. Each
point of the star was devoted to a different trade, the five legendary
guilds that had built and financed this city. The shape was a reminder
of its original purpose as an exclusive retreat for those who deserved
better than the other bleak, stagnant cities of the planet Tethlan’s Holt.
At the centre of the star was the Sanctum Nova Pecuniae, once a
palace existing purely for the beautification of Berenika Altis, and one
that now served as the seat of government of Tethlan’s Holt.
Fifteen days ago all communication had ceased with Berenika Altis.
Eight million people had vanished. The planetary authorities, those
who had not disappeared with the rest of the government, reacted as
any good Imperial citizen did when confronted with the unknown. They
sealed off the city, quarantined it, and resolved to pretend that it had
never existed.
The Doom Eagles were not satisfied with such solutions.
‘A brittle beauty,’ said Librarian Varnica as the Thunderhawk droned in
low over the north seaward spur of Berenika Altis. The rear ramp was
down and Varnica had disengaged his grav-couch restraints, holding
onto the rail overhead to lean forward and get a better look at his target
from the air.
‘I see only stupidity,’ replied Sergeant Novas. His voice did not
sound over the gunship’s engines, but the vox-link carried it straight
into Varnica’s inner ear. ‘A shift in the sea floor and two-fifths of that
city would sink into the ocean.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Varnica, ‘that’s the point. Nothing speaks of wealth
like spending a great deal of it on something that might be gone any
moment.’
‘Looks like they got their wish,’ said Novas. ‘Eventually.
It wasn’t the
sea that got them, but something did,’
‘Quite the conundrum,’ said Varnica. ‘What a puzzle box they built
for us.’
As the Thunderhawk swooped lower, the streets were revealed.
Each spur of the city had been dedicated to a different guild and
though centuries of rebuilding and repurposing had followed, the
original imprint remained. The Embalmers’ Quarter was arranged in
neat rows, the buildings resembling elegant tombs. The Jewelcutters’
neat rows, the buildings resembling elegant tombs. The Jewelcutters’
Quarter was all angular patterns, triangular sections of streets and
many-sided intersections echoing the complex facings of a cut
diamond. The Victuallers’ District was a gloomy, sheer-sided area of
warehouses and long, low halls. The industrial feel of the Steelwrights’
Cordon was entirely an affectation, with rust-streaked metal chimneys
and crumbling brickwork concealing the salons and feasting halls
where the great and good of Berenika Altis had celebrated their
superiority. The Flagellants’ Quarter, founded with the money taken
from those who paid to have their sins scourged from them, echoed
the flagellants’ frenzy with twisted, winding streets and asymmetrical
buildings that seemed poised to topple over or slide into rubble. The
Sanctum Nova Pecuniae held the disparate regions together, as if it
pinned them to the surface of Tethlan’s Holt to keep them from
crawling off to their own devices.
The streets were visible now, the buildings separating into distinct
blocks. The streets seemed paved with a haphazard mosaic of blacks
and reds, the same pattern covering every avenue and alley.
It was a mosaic of corpses.
The smell of it confirmed the few reports that had reached the Doom
Eagles. The smell of rotting bodies. It was familiar to every Space
Marine, to every Emperor’s servant whose business was death.
Varnica looked on, fascinated. He had seen many disasters. When
not called upon to attend some critical battlezone, it was disasters
that attracted the Doom Eagles. Some Chapters sought out ancient
secrets, others lost comrades, others the most dangerous sectors of
the galaxy to test their martial prowess. The Doom Eagles sought out
catastrophe. It was less a policy of the Chapter’s command, and more
