by Gav Thorpe
‘Prey,’ replied his squadron-brother with a broad grin. ‘The last time we fought like this we ended up capturing a renegade at Hellenis. Something happened at Hadria Praetoris, I would wager. It has been one warzone to the next ever since.’
‘If traitor Space Marines were involved, that would explain our unseemly reception in Kadillus,’ said Zarall.
‘Such speculation is counter-productive,’ said Araton. ‘It is guesswork at best, and meaningless distraction at worst.’
‘I think Sabrael is right, for once,’ said Annael. His brothers were slow to reply, caught up in their own thoughts he assumed, and he continued. ‘It makes sense really. The rebel leader that tried to escape by gyrocopter could have been a renegade himself, or an ally or follower of one.’
Annael realised that his squadron-brothers’ lack of response was not accidental. They were pointedly ignoring what he said, glancing past him towards the rear of the Thunderhawk. Annael became aware of a figure standing at the end of the companionway leading to the rear of the gunship. He turned his head and was met by the scowl of Tybalain. The jewelled daggers piercing the scarred face of the Huntmaster sparkled like droplets of blood as the Black Knight approached.
‘Loose talk,’ growled the Huntmaster. Annael avoided the gaze of the veteran, realising that he had been chattering like an excited novitiate. ‘Be sure to keep better control of your tongues in the presence of the Fifth Company.’
‘Apologies, Huntmaster,’ said Cassiel, placing a fist to his brow as a gesture of remorse. ‘I have been too lenient with my brothers of late.’
‘How you lead your squad is not my concern, brother-sergeant,’ said Tybalain, the natural timbre of his voice a harsh rasp that made anything he said sound like an admonishment. He sat next to Sabrael on the bench opposite Annael. Sabrael, locked in his safety harness, looked uncomfortable though the Huntmaster did not spare the warrior a glance. ‘If Brother Malcifer overhead your mutterings you can be sure he would have harsher words.’
‘I will heed your wisdom, Huntmaster,’ said Cassiel.
‘Turn thought to the tourney instead of conspiracy,’ Tybalain advised. ‘Brother Telemenus earns the Fifth Company great honour with his award. It would be well to not allow the glory of the day to escape the Ravenwing.’
‘You seek to set challenge?’ asked Zarall, animated by the prospect. ‘Against whom?’
‘The Grand Master has named me seneschal for the tourney,’ Tybalain said with a lopsided smile. ‘I will contest with Sergeant Seraphiel, as champion for the Fifth. It will be close, but I think I have the bettering of him.’
‘Would it be indelicate to offer advice against my former company?’ asked Annael.
‘You are Ravenwing now, brother,’ said Cassiel. ‘Speak without shame.’
Annael waited until he received a nod of confirmation from Tybalain.
‘Seraphiel’s right shoulder is not as articulate as it once was,’ Annael said quietly. ‘On Gomgrath an ork shell pierced the joint. Ever since, he has not been able to raise his arm more than level.’
‘That is useful to know, brother,’ said Tybalain, leaning forward to pat Annael on the shoulder. ‘A skilled fighter can take advantage of such.’
The Huntmaster stood up, nodding to each of the squadron in turn before returning to his Black Knights sitting on the far side of the gunship’s compartment. Sabrael breathed out heavily, evidently relieved by the departure of the Black Knight.
‘He has the ear of the Brother-Chaplain and the Grand Master,’ Sabrael said in answer to the inquiring looks from his brethren. This being insufficient explanation, the Dark Angel was forced to continue by the blank looks of the others. ‘Surely each of you harbours the desire to become a Black Knight? Even a harmless incident such as this, a minor remonstration, could count in the tally against promotion.’
‘You think you will become a Black Knight?’ Araton’s voice conveyed the same doubt that Annael silently harboured. ‘You frequently flout doctrine and even disobey orders, Sabrael. You are no candidate for the upper echelons of the company.’
‘And you are?’ snapped Sabrael.
‘Keep words soft,’ cautioned Cassiel, raising a finger to Sabrael in warning. The sergeant pointed at the Black Knights where Tybalain had rejoined his squadron.
Sabrael nodded and remained silent, though his glare at Araton betrayed his thoughts.
Annael had not even considered moving on to the Black Knights. His transfer to the Ravenwing was unintended, and he harboured no particular ambition to ascend the hierarchy of the Chapter any further. If he was called upon to serve in the cadre of the Grand Master, he would be honoured, but he did not seek out favour or position.
It occurred to him that Sabrael’s flamboyance was a means of attracting attention, though often of the wrong kind. Annael did not think Sabrael ambitious, not by the measures of ordinary men who might desire power. It was not authority or even respect that Sabrael desired. Instead, his squadron-brother seemed set on gaining glory, at the expense of all other consideration. Regardless of the work of the Tenth Company and the Chaplains, something still remained of the privileged son of nobility who had no doubt been the centre of attention since his birth. Fighting for decades as one amongst many had brought forth that hidden desire for recognition.
Looking at Tybalain, Annael knew that Araton spoke the truth. The Black Knights were the bravest warriors, the most skilled riders, but they were also something else. There was hardness in their eyes that Sabrael lacked. Annael was well aware that there were greater truths than those he had already learnt from Malcifer and the Black Knights had been taught those truths. There was something unforgiving in their demeanour; unforgiving of themselves as if they harboured some deep guilt that they could not share. As with Malcifer and Sammael, the burden of knowing something great and terrible weighed on their minds and often showed through the facade of control.
These thoughts fled Annael’s mind as the Thunderhawk touched down. Today was not a day for grim contemplation, but a time of celebration. It was a tourney, and he was very much looking forward to the event.
Disembarking, they were led by orderlies of the Fifth to the grand hall, situated just below the command deck and officer’s quarters of the strike cruiser. Clad in their black robes and boots, shoulders and heads covered with dark green cowls, the Ravenwing made solemn procession to the venue of the tourney, led by Sammael, Malcifer and Harahel, followed by the Black Knights. Each warrior bore a short blade at his hip and a bolter in his hands, ceremonially armed if not truly prepared for combat.
The Fifth Company lined the wall of the hall, standing beneath their squad banners with blades drawn and raised in salute as the Ravenwing entered.
‘Make honour!’ barked Sammael, drawing the Raven Sword. He raised the hilt to the level of his eyes.
Following his lead, like silver rippling along a snake’s body, the Ravenwing presented their blades to the Fifth Company, squad-by-squad as they entered the hall. Sammael led the Second Company to the left, where they lined up opposite the Fifth.
The formalities and schedule of the tourney were well-established by Chapter tradition. After a brief exchange of brotherhood vows between Sammael and Seraphiel, challenges would be issued and met first. Any Dark Angel present was allowed to call out any other warrior attending the tourney, whether of the same or different company, even a superior. It was often that a Space Marine with a grievance against his sergeant would seek redress at the next tourney, providing a valuable outlet for expressing dissatisfaction without being insubordinate. It was rare that superiors issued challenges to the lesser ranks; they had more straightforward authority to deal with warriors that spoke out of turn or otherwise tested the patience of a sergeant or officer.
The tourneys ensured that grudges were not borne and vendettas stifled, maintaining the discipline and fraternal relationships of
a company. No reason needed to be given, and often challenges were fought as wager or simply for the honour of a squad or company. Once the matter of the challenges had been dealt with, and all scores settled, the attending Dark Angels could relax and enjoy the remaining festivities without harbouring any dissent with one another. Feasting, the award of commendations, recitals and the customary duel of champions would follow.
Sergeant Seraphiel, having instigated the tourney, was the presiding judge, and as the only Grand Master present Sammael would also stand witness to the challenges and their subsequent duels. Brother Malcifer finished the trio who would recognise the efforts of the challengers and challenged and ultimately arbitrated on who was victorious.
The Black Knights acted as marshals, providing the blunted training blades with which the duels would be fought and keeping watch to ensure the code of challenge was not breached by participants and spectators alike.
As host, Seraphiel invited the first challenger to make his presence known. Next to Annael, Sabrael stepped forwards, fist raised.
‘I offer challenge!’ shouted Sabrael. Though no explanation was needed, the challenger was allowed to make brief reference to the nature of his grievance if he desired. ‘I seek satisfaction against Telemenus of the Fifth Company. He gave personal offense and through ill-discipline endangered the mission just completed.’
This caused a very non-traditional hubbub to course along the hall. Sammael and Seraphiel had a whispered conversation, the former shrugging and shaking his head throughout. It was most unusual for a warrior due to be honoured by the assembled warriors to be sought in a challenge, but evidently not against the code.
Telemenus stepped forward from the line of the Fifth, somewhat hesitantly.
‘I intercede!’ shouted Annael, stepping up beside Sabrael, earning himself a scowl from his squadron-brother. ‘I have prior claim to satisfaction from Brother Sabrael.’
‘How can such a claim be made?’ demanded Seraphiel. ‘The tourney has just this moment commenced.’
‘Should proof be needed, I refer the brother-sergeant to communications logs recorded during the last mission,’ said Annael. He briefly looked at Sabrael, lip curled with anger, before addressing the veteran sergeant. ‘I made clear to Brother Sabrael a demand for recompense for abandoning his post against orders and my request.’
‘What recompense do you seek?’ asked Seraphiel.
‘A full apology,’ said Annael. There was little reaction from Sabrael, and Annael realised that his battle-brother was quite prepared to make a public apology if it meant that he could still humiliate Telemenus on the occasion that celebrated his marksman’s laurels. Annael sought something else that Sabrael regarded more highly than his reputation, gaze flitting briefly to the sword in Sabrael’s hand. ‘And he must surrender the bladesman’s honour, for his actions have brought shame to the title.’
There was a hushed murmuring, for this was a grave insult amongst the Dark Angels. Nobody could comply with such a demand and retain any dignity, least of all Sabrael. Annael had made it clear that he wanted to fight, and Sabrael realised as much.
‘You do know what this blade is, brother?’ asked Sabrael quietly, holding the ornate sword in front of Annael.
‘It is the Blade of Corswain,’ replied Annael, his voice equally soft-spoken. ‘I do not need to be reminded of its pedigree nor its history. You are vain and ill-mannered, Sabrael. Qualities that disqualify you from bearing such an honour.’
‘This sword marks me out as the best bladesman amongst the ranks of the company,’ said Sabrael. ‘You cannot hope to defeat me.’
‘Still, that is my intent.’ Annael raised his voice. ‘The challenge is issued as before.’
‘And accepted!’ barked Sabrael.
‘Then let us begin,’ announced Seraphiel.
The two warriors stood in the space cleared between the two companies, ten metres apart, weapons at the ready. Sabrael had surrendered the Blade of Corswain to one of the Black Knights, so that both competitors were armed with short duelling blades, each a metre long with a broad crosspiece, basket guard and heavy pommel. The two would fight until one conceded defeat or two out of the three judges named a victor.
‘Do not think to make a name for yourself at my expense, brother,’ Sabrael said casually.
‘It is time that you were taught some humility, brother,’ replied Annael.
Seraphiel stood between the two of them. He checked that each duellist was ready, receiving nods from both.
‘Commence!’ said the veteran sergeant, stepping out of the way.
Sabrael attacked swiftly, as Annael knew he would. It was all Annael could do to bring up his blade to guard before his foe had advanced and was sweeping his sword towards Annael’s chest. He parried and adjusted his stride, fending off Sabrael’s next lightning-fast attack with the basket of his sword, mere centimetres from his face.
Sabrael backed away, stepping lightly from one foot to the other, always on the move, shifting balance from right to left and back again. It annoyed Annael that his brother was obviously toying with him, and there were some amongst the watching companies that started to shout condemnation. It was also equally clear to Annael that Sabrael had not been boastful. He was clearly one of the finest swordsmen in the Chapter, never mind the Ravenwing, and Annael would never beat him blade-to-blade.
There was little enough time to regret his challenge as Sabrael leapt forward, thrusting low towards Annael’s groin. Annael managed to block the blow with the edge of his sword and span, slashing the point of the blade at Sabrael’s head. His opponent ducked, the blade slicing air a few centimetres above Sabrael’s scalp.
Annael jumped back as Sabrael’s sword flicked towards his chest, and managed to fend off two rapid thrusts, though on the back foot he was not able to mount any offensive of his own. Sabrael’s expression grew intent as he feinted low and then quickly raised his sword towards Annael’s throat. In desperation, Annael ducked forwards, past the blade, driving the pommel of his own blade into Sabrael’s chin. The blow knocked his opponent backwards to the floor.
‘Win for Annael,’ announced Seraphiel. Sammael and Malcifer were not so quick to declare victory though, as Sabrael rolled to his feet, stepping into the attack once more.
‘A dishonourable strike,’ said Sabrael as the two of them met blades and closed, faces less than a sword’s width apart.
‘Victory is honour,’ Annael replied. He pushed hard, forcing Sabrael back and the two of them circled, wary of each other.
Annael parried the next attack and smashed the elbow of his sword arm back across Sabrael’s face. Sabrael span with the blow, however, slapping the flat of his sword across the back of Annael’s head, stunning him.
‘Victory to Sabrael,’ announced Malcifer.
All eyes turned to Sammael. The Grand Master stood with arms folded, dispassionate almost to the point of boredom. He slowly, casually shook his head, lips pursed.
‘Your dirty tricks cannot help you,’ laughed Sabrael. ‘At least lose like a true warrior.’
Annael did not reply, but threw his blade, point first, at Sabrael. Surprised, his foe dodged aside, only to be hit in the midriff with Annael’s shoulder as he charged full-speed. The two of them tumbled to the ground. Annael raining punches, blocked by Sabrael’s upraised arms. Annael trapped Sabrael’s sword arm between his left arm and his body, and rolled away, forcing the weapon from his opponent’s grasp.
He snatched up the weapon as he rolled to his feet, spinning to present the blade point first at Sabrael. He was met by the other Dark Angel coming straight for him, a blade in his hand. Annael realised that Sabrael had snatched up the weapon he had thrown, too slow to stop the strike as it smashed into the side of his head.
‘Victory to Sabrael!’ declared Sammael.
Warriors converged on the two duellists, offering congratul
ations and commiserations in equal measure. Dropping his sword, Sabrael grabbed Annael in a tight embrace, pounding slaps against his back.
‘You had me worried for a moment, brother,’ said Sabrael, grinning broadly.
‘For a moment?’ Annael asked. His head started to throb from the victorious blow to his temple. ‘Only a moment?’
‘Do you think I have not faced brawlers before, brother? Class always beats aggression.’ Sabrael pulled away as his arm was raised in victory by Seraphiel. The veteran sergeant dispersed the crowd, leaving the two fighters facing each other once more.
Sabrael winked as he bowed and Annael returned the gesture with more formality.
‘For what it is worth,’ Sabrael announced, growing serious, ‘I offer apology to Brother Annael for my dereliction of duty. It was remiss of me to desert my post, and for that I offer sincere regret.’
Annael was expected to reply. He could refuse the apology, but after suffering defeat it would be very churlish. There was a hush from the surrounding Dark Angels as Annael weighed up his decision. He paused, thinking about what happened in the tunnel station. Had Sabrael stayed where he had been ordered, would the consequences have been so very different? It was impossible to say, and Sabrael had proven his quick wit and skill just moments earlier. The Ravenwing were not the Fifth Company. Independence of thought and improvisation were sometimes needed more than regulations and doctrine. Could he really blame Sabrael for what happened, or was it just one of those incidents of war that befell a warrior every now and then?
‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Annael, and he meant it. Through his skill at arms, Sabrael had proven his act justified, his argument backed up by the will of the Emperor. ‘I retract my accusation. You are a worthy bearer of the Blade of Corswain, and you will bring honour to that sword many more times.’
The other Dark Angels pressed forwards again, shouting support as Sabrael was returned the Blade of Corswain. As Sabrael held the badge of honour aloft for all to see, Annael felt a tug at the arm of his robe. He turned to find Telemenus gesturing for him to follow. They moved out of the crowd, and Telemenus seemed humble, eyes cast to the deck.
