by Ben Counter
as they come. It must be a comfort to be in the presence of
Space Marines who jump when Terra demands it.’
‘I find no comfort while enemies yet live,’ replied Aescarion sharply.
‘But I have nothing but admiration for the Imperial Fists, it is true. I find
a little of my faith in humanity restored.’
‘I have faith in humanity as well, Sister. It is not the people of the
Imperium I have ever had a problem with. It is the structures by which
the Imperium maintains itself, clinging to existence through blood and
cruelty. I have seen them over and over. And you have too, Sister
Aescarion. Worlds condemned to misery or death. Freedom and
rebellion given the same names and crushed beneath the mass of the
shiploads of captives sent to Terra to–’
‘Enough! Do not speak of such things.’
‘And pretend, instead, that they never existed?’ Sarpedon reared up
and put his face close to the window in the cell door.
‘No! Accept them as necessary for the survival of the human race,
and turn our minds instead to the glory of our survival! That is how the
Sororitas are taught.’
‘You think this is survival?’ Sarpedon held his arms wide, indicating
not just his cell but everything beyond. ‘The human race is in its death
throes! It inflicts miseries upon its people to protect them from its
enemies, and yet it is those miseries that bring such enemies into
being! Why do so many desperate people turn from the Emperor’s light
and make pacts with the Dark Powers? Why do they cry out to be
delivered and so walk right into xenos hands? The Imperium inflicts
these wounds upon itself. It is nothing more than the slow death of
mankind.’
‘You will need to find a far better orator than yourself, Sarpedon, to
sway the mind of a Sister of Battle,’ retorted Aescarion sourly. ‘I did
not come here to let you practice your closing arguments on me. I am
here about my late master, Inquisitor Thaddeus. You know of him?’
Sarpedon sat back down on his haunches. ‘Yes. I knew him.’
‘Personally?’
‘A little.’
‘Thaddeus had the chance to take you down on Stratix Luminae.
Perhaps kill you. But he did not take that chance. I was with him at
the time and I did not understand his decision. I still do not. I want to
know why Inquisitor Thaddeus, a servant of the Emperor and sworn
enemy of all that hates mankind, chose to let you go.’
Sarpedon’s memories of Inquisitor Thaddeus were of a man who, at
first sight, was completely out of his depth. He had looked like a
functionary of the Administratum, some middle-ranking nobody. Some
Inquisitors proclaimed their office with the most obvious and terrifying
battlegear they could find, huge retinues of warriors and experts, even
fleets and armies of their own. But Thaddeus walked softly in his
duties.
‘After Stratix Luminae he tried to keep track of us, even after the
Inquisition ordered us deleted from Imperial history,’ said Sarpedon.
‘When he found us on Vanqualis he had been hunting down every
rumour of us. He had found… there were legends of us in places I was
sure the Chapter had never been. One was of the Black Chalice.
Another was the Ashen Grail. I did not give much thought to them at
the time but now I fear there is some web that has been spun out
there, in which the Soul Drinkers have their part but of which they are
ignorant. Thaddeus was trying to unravel it.’
‘But he did not succeed,’ said Aescarion.
‘No. I imagine he is dead. The Howling Griffons crossed our path
there, perhaps Captain Borganor can tell you more after he stops
complaining about me cutting off his leg.’
‘But Thaddeus knew none of this on Stratix Luminae. Why not kill
you then when he could?’ insisted Aescarion.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Sarpedon, ‘he knew we were right?’
Aescarion lost her cool for a second. She slammed the palm of her
hand into the cell door. ‘You dare!’ she hissed. ‘He would never have
thrown in his lot with your kind. Thaddeus was a good man. The best
of men.’
‘But you want me to tell you that he was not corrupted. That hardly
suggests you have great confidence in the man.’
‘You are just toying with me, Sarpedon. I will not provide you with
any more amusement. You don’t know Thaddeus’s motives and I will
content myself with that.’ Aescarion turned, about to rejoin her Imperial
Fist minders and leave.
‘He tried to warn us,’ Sarpedon said. ‘The Ashen Grail and the Black
Chalice, and everything else he found, it all pointed to something he
was trying to warn us about. I don’t think even he knew what he had
found, but his misgivings were deep enough for him to defy the deletion
order and seek us out.’
‘Then he was leading you into a trap,’ said Aescarion.
‘And you have misgivings too. Otherwise you would not have sought
me out here. How many lashes would a Sororitas receive for
conversing with a known heretic? And yet you come to my cell looking
for answers. You see it too, just like Thaddeus did. Something about
this trial is wrong and you know it. Daenyathos’s return, here of all
places, is no coincidence.’
‘There is no coincidence. You came to the Veiled Region to seek
him out. You and he both are puppets of that thing Abraxes that
Varnica spoke of.’
‘Well, sister, if you have made up your mind about everything
already there hardly seems a need to question me at all.’
Aescarion shook her head. ‘Part of me wishes to know what must
have to happen to an Adeptus Astartes before he can turn from the
Emperor’s light. But I fear that such knowledge itself has the power to
corrupt. I should have let you keep your silence, traitor. I hope this trial
ends before you can do any more damage.’
‘Then I doubt you and I have anything more to say to one another.’
Aescarion didn’t bother to reply. She turned smartly on an armoured
heel and walked out of sight down the brig corridor. One of the Imperial
Fists slammed the window shut, and Sarpedon was alone again.
When visitors sought an audience with Chapter Master Vladimir on the
Phalanx, he often chose to receive them in the Sigismarch Forest.
This artificial woodland occupied an area amidships on one of the
uppermost decks, its greenery illuminated by an artificial sun that
made a circuit once every twenty-four hours. A river ran though it, fresh
water diverted from the crew’s drinking supply to create the illusion
that the forest was just part of a far greater lush and peaceful land
where, even on board a vast weapon of war, a place of contemplation
might be found.
‘So,’ said Vladimir, taking his place sat on a tree stump by the river
bank where he was accustomed to receive his petitioners. ‘Speak.’
In the clearing before Vladimir stood Reinez. Behind him were the
officers of the Adeptus Astartes who had come to the Phalanx for the
trial. They included Varnica, whose e
vidence had prompted this reevaluation
of the whole trial. None of the captains and Librarians had
brought their retinues with them, for this was not the place for a
competitive show of arms.
‘I put it to the Justice Lord,’ began Reinez, ‘that the accused
Sarpedon must be considered a moral threat. Librarian Varnica’s
evidence proves the accused’s complicity with powers of the warp.
This trial must cease and the executions be administered
immediately.’ Reinez spoke with a snarling bluntness that made it
clear he had thought this from the very start.
‘I see,’ said Vladimir. ‘Indeed, Varnica’s statements have changed
the complexion of this trial. And yet I must see to it that justice is not
only done, but that no man can find any reason to suggest that the
course of justice has not been followed. For evidence of warpcraft, I
have but the evidence of one Adeptus Astartes. As high as the esteem
in which I hold you, Librarian Varnica, you are but one.’
‘That I cannot deny, my lord,’ replied Varnica. ‘But I know what I
saw. The stink of the warp hangs over this whole affair.’
‘And when was suspicion ever insufficient evidence in matters of a
moral threat?’ added Reinez.
‘I know that you long to see Sarpedon dead, Reinez,’ replied
Vladimir, pointedly omitting any rank when he addressed the Crimson
Fist, for since Reinez had become a penitent he had abandoned all
rank within his own Chapter. ‘But this trial is not held to give you your
vengeance. If you are to remain in the position of prosecutor you must
be patient.’
‘Patient? Must I have the patience to endure that heretic speaking in
his own defence? And from whence shall I gather the patience, Justice
Lord, to sit unmoved through all the lies of the Soul Drinkers? Is
Daenyathos to speak, too? Luko, and Salk, and all the Soul Drinkers,
are they to have their chance to utter corruption as well?’
‘If that is what it takes for me to be satisfied that justice is done,’
said Vladimir, ‘then yes.’
‘The Soul Drinkers are not the only ones who will have their time to
speak,’ said another voice, one who had not joined in the discussion
as yet. It was that of Captain N’Kalo of the Iron Knights. The Iron
Knights were, like the Soul Drinkers, a successor Chapter of the
Imperial Fists, and the stain on Dorn’s honour had seemed enough to
bring a delegation from the Iron Knights to the Phalanx. Suddenly, the
other Adeptus Astartes present were not so sure that N’Kalo was here
just as a matter of course.
‘You have seen the Soul Drinkers for a moral threat?’ asked Reinez.
‘No,’ replied N’Kalo levelly. ‘I will speak in their defence.’ N’Kalo’s
expression was impossible to guess at since his face was covered. He
wore, even in the presence of the Chapter Master, a helm with an eye
slit reminiscent of plate armour from some feudal world. Everywhere on
him were hung campaign medallions, laurels and purity seals, the
steel of his armour only just showing through the brocade of his many
honours.
‘Their defence?’ snarled Reinez.
‘N’Kalo, brother, what are you saying?’ demanded Siege-Captain
Daviks.
‘I say just what I say,’ replied N’Kalo. ‘I wish to speak in defence of
Sarpedon and the Soul Drinkers. Will you deny me that right?’
‘I shall!’ barked Reinez. ‘As the prosecutor in the Emperor’s name I
deny you any right to interfere in the punishment of that heretic!’
Reinez jabbed a finger in N’Kalo’s face, but the Iron Knight did not
flinch.
‘Reinez!’ shouted Vladimir. ‘This is not your decision to make.’
‘By the Throne, I say it is! Upon my honour as an Adeptus Astartes,
you will have to go through me before you utter one word that does not
condemn the traitors!’
‘If I may,’ interjected Commander Gethsemar of the Angels
Sanguine, ‘I believe that the precedent exists for him to do just that.’
Gethsemar, like N’Kalo, had spoken little, and his voice was a
smooth, honeyed sound quite at odds with the warrior heritage of his
Chapter.
‘Is that what you desire, Reinez?’ said Vladimir. ‘An honour-duel
with Captain N’Kalo?’
‘If that is what it takes,’ replied Reinez, still face to face with N’Kalo.
‘If the Emperor lends strength to my arm, N’Kalo stays silent and the
Soul Drinkers are condemned no matter what he wishes.’
‘And if I best you,’ said N’Kalo, ‘I say my piece.’
‘It does not matter what you will do,’ said Reinez. ‘I have torn the
throats from warp-beasts a million miles from any Battle-Brother. I
stood on worlds as they died and fought through armies of the damned
to survive. You are a child compared to me. You cannot win. Drop to
one knee now, acknowledge me your superior, and there need be no
duel. I will accept your surrender without your having to suffer at my
hand.’
‘I would not deny you the pleasure of breaking my bones,’ said
N’Kalo, voice still calm.
‘Where is this duel to be held?’ said Gethesemar.
‘Here,’ replied Reinez. ‘This is the place where Sigismund, the first
Templar, came to contemplate his duty, is it not?’
‘It is,’ replied Vladimir.
‘Then perhaps Captain N’Kalo will have the chance to contemplate
his own duties as he lies on this ground beneath my boot.’
‘Enough talk, Reinez!’ said Vladimir. ‘Gethsemar, since you
proposed it, you shall oversee the duel. Brothers, gather your Adeptus
Astartes so that all will witness the result. N’Kalo, Reinez, select your
weapons and make yourselves ready. Then we shall have no more
discussion of this matter. The honour-duel shall be final. This is the
Emperor’s justice, and all aboard will hold to it as His word.’
‘Amen,’ said Reinez with a smile.
Gethsemar revelled in his role as master of ceremonies. He changed
his mask for one with a stern brown and downturned mouth, ruby eyes
and a stylised scar on one cheek. His Sanguinary Guard stood watch
alongside him, glaives drawn, framed by the wing-like stabilising fins
on their jump packs. Their gilded armour gleamed almost painfully
bright as the forest’s artificial sun came overhead and bathed the
riverside glade in light. Lysander waited behind them, knowing that
although he was here to enforce Vladimir’s will just as much as the
Angels Sanguine, there was no need to impede Gethsemar’s sense of
showmanship.
Around the edge of the clearing were stood the Space Marines
attending the trial. There had not been enough room for all the Howling
Griffons so Borganor looked on flanked only by his honour guard. A
single squad of Imperial Fists attended Vladimir. Kolgo was there too,
with his Sisters of Battle in attendance. The Iron Knights who had
accompanied N’Kalo stood a little apart, perhaps aware that if their
commander lost this duel they would be leaving the Phalanx very
quickly.
&n
bsp; Reinez had chosen his thunder hammer to fight with. It was a wellused
weapon, its adamantium head well-scored in hundreds of battles.
Reinez made a few warm-up swings, loosening his arms and
shoulders, and the weapon thrummed through the air as if it was
purring with pleasure at the impending combat.
N’Kalo had chosen a double-handed sword from the armoury of the
Phalanx, a weapon normally wielded by the Imperial Fist chosen to
serve as the Emperor’s Champion while on campaign. As an Iron
Knight who called Rogal Dorn his Primarch like the Imperial Fists,
N’Kalo had the right to wield such a weapon. It was a compromise –
his own power sword, now held by one of his Iron Knights, was onehanded,
and might have been shattered or knocked from his hand
trying to parry Reinez’s thunder hammer. The champion’s blade would
not break, but it would be slower.
‘In the sight of Rogal Dorn,’ intoned Gethsemar, ‘beneath the aegis
of Blessed Sanguinius and of the Emperor of Mankind, our battlebrothers
here seek justice through the clash of holy arms. May the
Emperor lend strength to the arm of the righteous! Begin!’
For a long moment, neither Space Marine moved as they gauged
each other’s stance, deciding which way to go. Reinez crouched low,
hammer held behind him ready to strike. N’Kalo’s sword was up in a
guard, the point hovering level with Reinez’s eyeline.
Reinez moved first. N’Kalo barely reacted in time, bringing the blade
down to block the blow that Reinez aimed at his legs. N’Kalo pivoted
and caught Reinez with an elbow, but it clanged harmlessly into the
Crimson Fist’s breastplate. Reinez hooked N’Kalo’s leg with his
hammer and threw him head over heels backwards, to sprawl on the
grass.
Reinez’s hammed arced down. N’Kalo rolled aside as it slammed
into the ground, throwing up a great shower of earth and leaving a
crater in the dark soil. N’Kalo swung wildly, a vast steel crescent that
Reinez sidestepped with ease before landing a kick so hard in
N’Kalo’s side that the Iron Knight was thrown to the ground again.
‘I’ll hear your surrender any time,’ gasped Reinez. ‘There is no
shame in it. Any time.’
N’Kalo responded with a reverse strike from the ground, the sword’s
point arrowing up behind him towards Reinez’s throat. Reinez batted it
