by Ben Counter
It was a vessel of the Inquisition. N’Kalo needed no communications
with the craft to know that. His flag-captain had hailed it anyway and,
as expected, there had been no reply. The Adeptus Astartes had done
their job on Molikor. Now the Inquisition took over, and they answered
to no one.
N’Kalo had seen quarantine orders enforced before. He hoped that
everyone had got off Molikor safely. Though he had little love for the
Parliamentarians, once the lead conspirators had been weeded out
those who remained would be largely blameless Imperial citizens. The
Inquisition would quarantine the world, destroy the spaceport and let it
be known that it was forbidden thanks to the bizarre warp disturbance
beneath its crust that caused it to spew its dead out as mindless
facsimiles. The Parliamentarians who had sought to exploit the pit
would be tried, questioned and probably executed for dabbling so
willingly in matters of the warp. N’Kalo did not think much about their
fates. Worse things happened to better people with every moment in
the Imperium. He would not waste his thoughts on them. This was a
grim business, but he had faith that this was the way it had to be.
The Soul Drinkers did not have faith, not in the Imperium. Perhaps
that was understandable, thought N’Kalo. He had seen the same
things they had, the same brutality and the spiteful randomness of
how the fortunes of the Imperium were parcelled out. He had not
strayed beyond the Imperial line – he had informed the Inquisition of
the threat on Molikor, after all – but he was forced to wonder,
considering the recent events there in his cell, whether he would have
to have seen many more injustices to end up renegades like the Soul
Drinkers.
‘Commander N’Kalo,’ came a vox from the flag-captain. ‘We are
receiving a communication, tagged for you by name.’
‘Send it,’ said N’Kalo.
‘Greetings, commander,’ said a voice that, until a short time ago,
had been an unfamiliar one reaching N’Kalo’s ears through the gunfire
and crunching branches of the forest gap.
‘Sarpedon,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I had not expected you to still be around.
You should be warned that the Inquisition would dearly love to listen
in.’
‘My ship has communications even the Inquisition cannot intercept
in a hurry,’ replied Sarpedon. His voice was transmitted in real time,
meaning the Soul Drinkers and their ship had to be close by. ‘I wanted
to thank you for doing the right thing by Molikor and the Eshkeen. You
could have followed the Imperial line, but you did not. That takes
something beyond mere bravery.’
‘I did not turn in the Parliaments of Molikor to garner thanks,’ replied
N’Kalo. ‘I did it because it had to be done. The moral threat on that
world could not have been left unchecked. But I am glad that I was not
the instrument of injustice and so I should pay thanks to you, for
showing me all the paths I might take.’
‘And yet I suspect that your gratitude will not prevent you from
turning in a renegade and a mutant like myself,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and
so I must leave here.’
‘I concur, Sarpedon. That would be wise. I have one question before
you go.’
‘Speak it.’
‘What happened to the Eshkeen?’
N’Kalo thought he heard a small chuckle. ‘Do not fear for them,’ said
Sarpedon. ‘My Chapter possesses the means to transport them
somewhere they can start anew, and where the Imperium will not
rediscover them for a very long time.’
‘I see. For my sake it is best I leave it at that. Fare well, Sarpedon,
and I shall pray that our paths do not cross, for I feel if they do I must
fight to bring you in.’
‘I shall pray for that too, Commander N’Kalo. Emperor’s speed to
you.’
The comm-channel went dead.
In the hours to follow, the scanners of the Judgement Upon Garadan
detected the possible signature of a ship making a warp jump near the
outlying worlds of the Molikor System. The signature suggested a ship
far bigger than any Imperial craft, however, and one that seemed dark
and shadowy as if cloaked by some stealth system beyond Imperial
technology. N’Kalo did not challenge his flag-captain when the event
was logged and dismissed as a sensor error, and the Soul Drinkers
vanished from the Chapter history of the Iron Knights.
Chapter 7
‘And what,’ said Captain Borganor of the Howling Griffons, ‘does this
excuse?’
The court was not as vocal as it had been after Varnica’s evidence.
Instead, it simmered. The Howling Griffons murmured oaths and spat
on the ground. The Imperial Fists tried to stay impartial but they could
not keep the disdain from their faces as N’Kalo’s testimony had come
to an end. Reinez had fought to remain silent, eyes closed, face
downturned and grim.
‘How many of my battle-brothers does this return from their tombs?’
continued Borganor. ‘The Soul Drinkers intervened in some backwater
spat. What does this say about them? They still fought the Imperial
divine right. All they have achieved to tickle Commander N’Kalo’s
sense of righteousness is the deliverance of one band of savages to
Throne knows what fate. Are we to absolve Sarpedon of my own
brethren’s fall? Will someone speak for the Howling Griffons?’
‘Or for the Crimson Fists?’ interjected Reinez. ‘What have the
Eshkeen done to earn a voice in this court? Every one of my fallen
brothers is worth a thousand times the heathens the Soul Drinkers
saved!’
‘If I may,’ interrupted Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine, ‘I feel I can
shed a little more light on the matters pertinent to the fate of the Soul
Drinkers.’
‘What could you say, you gilded peacock?’ spat Reinez.
‘Reinez, you will yield the floor!’ demanded Chapter Master Vladimir.
‘What has his kind suffered at Sarpedon’s hand?’ retorted Reinez.
‘He comes here for nothing more than the spectacle of this mutant!
This is entertainment for him! He treats the sacred ground of the
Phalanx like a sideshow!’
‘Your objections,’ said Vladimir coldly, ‘are noted. Commander
Gethsemar, say your piece.’
Gethsemar waited a moment, as if to ensure that all the attention of
the court was on him. The mask he wore now had no tears, and the
forehead and cheeks were inscribed with High Gothic text. ‘Indeed, my
piece is more relevant than any of the protestations Captain Reinez
has yet made,’ he said. ‘And I feel that few will recall words more
incandescent in this matter than those I have to say now.’
‘Get on with it, you popinjay,’ muttered Reinez.
‘The Sanguinary Priests of my order,’ continued Gethsemar, ‘have
long conducted studies into the link between the gene-seed every
Space Marine carries within him and the blessed flesh of our
primarchs, after whose characteristics the gene-seed of the original
eighteen Legions was mode
lled. Indeed, much had been revealed to us
of holy Sanguinius, the father of our own Chapter, and thus we gain
revelations of him that steel our souls on the eve of battle. It so
happened that the Angels Sanguine came into possession of a sample
of gene-seed originating from the Soul Drinkers Chapter, delivered unto
us in the hope that we could ascertain if their rebellion was founded in
a corruption of such gene-seed.’
‘Where did you get it from?’ said Sarpedon. ‘Which brother of mine
supplied it?’
‘No brother of yours, I fear,’ said Gethsemar. ‘It was given to us by
the Soul Drinker to whom it belonged, one who had defied your
usurping of the Chapter’s command and sought, through Inquisitorial
means, a way to exact his revenge.’
‘Michairas,’ said Sarpedon bleakly. ‘I thought I had killed him. I did
so at the second time of asking, on Stratix Luminae. I underestimated
my old novice. He still tries for revenge, even after death.’
‘And he has it,’ continued Gethsemar. ‘Space Marines of the court,
Lord Justice, the Sanguinary Priests went about their research in the
expectation that they would find the blueprint of Rogal Dorn’s own flesh
as the starting point for the Soul Drinkers’ gene-seed. But they did
not.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Sarpedon.
‘I am saying that Rogal Dorn is not your primarch,’ said Gethsemar
simply. ‘I cannot say who is. The Sanguinary Priests have yet to
complete their discourses on the matter. But Dorn’s gene-seed is
among the most stable and recognisable of all those among the
Adeptus Astartes, and there can be no doubt that the Soul Drinkers do
not possess it. This is the news I came to the Phalanx to deliver. That
is why the Angels Sanguine sought a place at this court.’
Sarpedon pushed against his restraints, half-clambering out of the
accused’s pulpit. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You have taken everything from us!
Our freedom! Our war! You will not take away Rogal Dorn!’
‘The defendant will be silent!’ yelled Vladimir, above the sound of
dozens of bolt pistols being drawn. Every weapon in the dome was
being aimed then at Sarpedon, in case he burst through his restraints
to do violence to Gethsemar. Lysander stood between Sarpedon and
Gethsemar, ready to slam Sarpedon into the ground if he showed any
signs of breaking free.
Reinez did not move. He had seen all the damage done to Sarpedon
that could be done. For the first time since he had come to the
Phalanx, there was a smirk on his face.
Brother Sennon limped through the Atoning Halls, barely drawing a
glance from the Soul Drinkers who sat in its cells, chained to the walls
waiting for a decision to be made in the Observatory of Dornian
Majesty. The news of Daenyathos’s survival had left them as confused
as elated. The Philosopher-Soldier’s presence there had been brief, a
few seconds, before the Dreadnought had been sealed away, and now
none of the Soul Drinkers could be completely sure they had seen him
at all. Their minds were occupied as the single pilgrim walked down
the corridor.
Two Imperial Fists walked behind him as guards, but Sennon looked
in more danger from his own health than from the Soul Drinkers. His
skin was bluish and sweating, his eyes rimmed with red, his shoulders
slumped as if he could barely hold up his own weight. His breath was
a painful wheeze.
He passed the cell where Sergeant Salk was held. The sergeant
was exhausted, his arms bruised from forcing against his restraints
long past the point where it was obvious he would not break free. Other
Soul Drinkers were in prayer or simply at rest, half their minds shut off
while the other half watched, a Space Marine’s habit made possible by
the catalepsean node each had implanted between the hemispheres of
his brain. The Soul Drinkers had been fed by regular servitor rounds,
but that was the sole concession made to their comfort. Since
Daenyathos had been sealed away they had been silent, every one
contemplating his situation in his own way, eager for news of
Sarpedon and the trial but unwilling to beg their Imperial Fists captors
for it.
One cell held Chaplain Iktinos. This cell had been sealed, so no
other Soul Drinker could see or hear the Chaplain. Iktinos’s rhetoric
was considered one of the biggest threats to keeping the Soul
Drinkers captive, and so a steel plate had been welded over the bars of
his cell. The Soul Drinkers who had made up his flock, those who had
lost their officers and gone to Iktinos for leadership, had been spread
out through the Atoning Halls to minimise their ability to conspire.
Sennon passed the sealed cell and touched it with two fingers,
murmuring a prayer for Iktinos’s soul.
Sennon halted at Captain Luko’s cell, and knelt on the floor.
‘Take care,’ said Luko. ‘You don’t look like you could get up again.’
‘I have come to pray for you,’ said Sennon.
‘Pray for yourself,’ replied Luko. ‘All the prayers that might help us
were used up on Selaaca.’
‘You are not beyond hope,’ said Sennon, apparently unconcerned
with the mix of pity and scorn with which Luko looked at him. Luko,
compared to Sennon, was a chained giant, and the power held within
every Space Marine was not lessened by the manacles that held him
against the back wall of the cell or the bars that stood between the two
of them. ‘There is none so close to the precipice that the Emperor’s
grace cannot bring him back.’
‘And what of those who have gone over the precipice? What about
them? To pray for them is a sin, is it not?’
‘I do not believe you are among them, Captain Luko.’
‘You know my name,’ said Luko.
‘I have read of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Sennon. ‘The Imperial Fists
made available much of their information so that my sect might better
observe the process of justice. The Blinded Eye we may be, but we do
not do our duty by remaining blind when knowledge is available.’
‘The Inquisition passed a deletion order on us, you know,’ said Luko.
‘They could probably hang you for knowing we exist.’
‘It is the Imperial Fists who hold sway here,’ replied Sennon. ‘The
Inquisition may have its due from us once we leave the Phalanx, but
that is an acceptable price to pay to see justice done in so grave a
case as this.’
‘It must be such a relief to see such a simple galaxy around you,’
said Luko, but the scorn was drying out from his voice. ‘Imagine
knowing what is right and wrong. Imagine believing, completely
believing, that one way was good and another was bad, and never
having to think for yourself about it. I have such envy for you, pilgrim.’
‘Then you doubt that you have taken the right path? Doubt is a sin,
Captain Luko.’
Luko smiled without humour. ‘Thanks. I’ll add it to the list.’
‘I shall pray for you.’
‘No, you will not. I will not be prayed for.’
&nb
sp; ‘You are in chains. You have no say in whether you are prayed for or
not.’
That, at least, was something Luko had no stomach to argue.
Sennon knelt before Luko’s cell, eyes closed and head bowed. His
breathing became quieter, and for all Luko knew the young pilgrim
might have died there before his cell.
‘I have such envy for you,’ said Luko, too quiet for anyone but
himself to hear.
Sarpedon barely registered the journey back to his cell as the Imperial
Fists marched him out of the Observatory of Dornian Majesty once
again. The first couple of times he had sized up his guards and the
route they took for the best time to attempt escape. His hands were
manacled but he still had the use of his legs – the six he had
remaining, at least – and he was faster and stronger than any of the
four Imperial Fists flanking him.
But he could not take them all down. They were armed and
armoured, Sarpedon was not. The inhibitor collar prevented his use of
the Hell, which might have sown enough confusion for him to flee.
From what he had gathered about the layout of the Phalanx, it would
be difficult to put any distance between himself and the dome,
crammed with hostile Space Marines, before the alarm was raised.
The idea of escape was now all but forgotten, filed away in that part of
an Space Marine’s mind where rejected battle plans lay waiting to be
dusted off again.
Captain Borganor was ahead of Sarpedon and his Imperial Fist
minders, at a junction of corridors where the science labs and map
rooms surrounding the Observatory met the stone-lined corridors of the
Atoning Halls.
‘Halt, brethren,’ said Borganor. ‘I would speak with the prisoner.’
‘On what authority?’ said the lead Imperial Fist.
‘On that of brotherhood,’ said Borganor. ‘I have no dispensation from
Lord Vladimir, if that is what you ask. I merely wish to put the question
to the defendant that every Space Marine on this ship has longed to
ask. I shall not hold you long. As a brother, I ask this of you.’
‘We have all heard the outrages visited upon the Howling Griffons by
the Soul Drinkers,’ said the Imperial Fist. ‘Ask if you will, but you shall
not hold us long.’
‘My thanks,’ said Borganor. The Imperial Fists backed away from
Sarpedon a little to give Borganor a semblance of privacy as he
