He found he did not have a will to fight. Here, in this non-place, coiled inside himself, he only was. Marking time, waiting, healing; that was how it had been after Pasiphae, and so that was how it should be now.
How it should be.
But he knew something was different even as the thought drifted through him. That shattering pain down in the dome, that had been like nothing he had ever experienced before. Hundreds of years of warfare had not prepared him for the Warsinger’s brutal kiss. Garro knew now, too late, after the fact, that she had been an enemy of a kind he had never before encountered. Where her power sprang from, what form it took… These were things new to him in a universe where the Astartes had thought himself incapable of being surprised. That would teach him not to be complacent.
In his own way, the battle-captain marvelled at the play of events. It was incredible that he had survived to fall into a healing trance after challenging the Warsinger. Other Death Guard, other Emperor’s Children, had also met her might and died of it. He thought of poor Rahl, crushed like a spent ration can. There would be no more wagers or games for him. As those brothers lay dead, Garro lived still, clinging to the raw edge of life. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Why me and not them? Why Nathaniel Garro and not Pyr Rahl?’
Who made the choice? What scales were balanced by a man’s death or his life? The questions hooked into him and pulled the Astartes back and forth, burrowing deep. It was such foolishness to ask these pointless things of an uncaring universe. What scales? There were no scales, no great arbiter of fates! It was pagan idolatry to consider such notions, to insist that the lives of men ran in some kind of clockwork beneath the winding fingers of a deity. No: here was truth, Imperial truth. The stars turned and men died without a creator’s plan for them. There were no gods, no here-fores and hereafters, no futures but those we made for ourselves. Garro and his kinsmen simply were.
And yet…
In this place of death sleep, where things were at once murky and clearer, there seemed instances where Nathaniel Garro felt a pressure upon him that came from a place far distant, beyond himself. At the corners of his sensorium, he might perceive a small fragment of brilliance thrown across countless light-years, the merest suggestion of interest from an intellect that towered over his. Cold logic told him that this was wishful, desperate thinking dredged up from the crude animal core of his hindbrain. But Garro could not quite let go of the feeling, of the raw hope that the will of something greater than he was acting upon him. If he was not dead, then perhaps he had been spared. It was a giddy, perilous thought.
‘His hand lies upon all of us, and every one of us owes Him our devotion.’
Who spoke those words? Was it Garro or someone else? They seemed strange and new, echoing from a distance.
‘He guides us, teaches us, exhorts us to become more than we are,’ said the colourless voice, ‘but most of all, the Emperor protects.’
The words disturbed Nathaniel. They made him turn and shift in the thick sea, his comfort fading. He sensed the pressure of dark storms brewing out in the impossible spaces around him, the visions of them coming to his mind through someone else’s eyes; through a soul not far from his, yes, bright like the distant watcher, but only a single candle against the greater light’s burning sun; black clouds of churning emotion, seething and pushing at the warp and weft of space, looking for a weak point through which they could flow. The storm front was coming, inexorable, unstoppable. Garro wanted to turn away but there was no place in the drifting fall where he did not find them. He wanted to rise up and fight it, but he had no hands, no face, no flesh.
There were shapes in the gloomy shifting coils that rose and fell, some resembling the spirals of symbols he had seen inside the dome on Isstvan Extremis, others he had glimpsed on the uncommon banners of the Lupercal’s Court, and repeating, over and over, a three-fold icon that seemed to be seeking him out wherever his attention moved: a triad of skulls, a pyramid of screaming faces, three black discs, a trio of bleeding bullet wounds, and other variations, but always the same arrangement of shapes.
‘The Emperor protects,’ said a woman, and Garro felt her hands upon his cheek, the salt tang of her fallen tears on her lips. The sensations came to him from far, far away, drawing him to them and out of the haze of the threatening storms.
Nathaniel was rising now, faster and faster, the warmth turning chill upon him, the pain coiling around his legs and stomach. There was… there was a woman, a head of short hair framed in a penitent’s hood and…
And agony, awakening.
‘Eyes of Terra!’ gasped Kaleb, ‘he’s alive! The captain lives!’
‘I WOULD LIKE to see him,’ said Temeter stiffly.
Sergeant Hakur frowned. ‘Lord, my captain is in no state to—’
Temeter silenced him with an upraised hand. ‘Hakur, old blade, out of respect to you for your service and record, I won’t consider your obstreperous manner to be discourteous to my rank, but do not mistake what I just said for a request. Get out of my way, sergeant.’
Hakur gave a shallow bow. ‘Of course, captain. I forget myself.’
Temeter stepped around the veteran and strode purposefully into the Endurance’s tertiary infirmary, throwing nods to men from his own company who were still healing from wounds taken on the jorgall world-ship. Most would not return to combat status, but would suffer the comparative ignominy of becoming permanently stationed as ship crew, or else return to Barbarus to live out their days as commandant-instructors to the noviciates. Ullis Temeter hoped that Garro would not share such a fate. The day that the battle-captain was forced to step off the battle line would be the day the man’s spirit perished.
He entered a cordoned-off medicae cell and found his comrade there in a support throne, surrounded by brass technologies and glass jars of fluids piping gently into the sockets of Garro’s implanted carapace. The battle-captain’s housecarl jumped as Temeter swept in and came to his feet in a jerk of shocked motion. Kaleb clutched a fist of inky papers to his chest and blinked with watery eyes. Temeter immediately had the sense that he had caught the serf doing something wrong, but he decided not to press the matter.
‘Has he said anything?’
Kaleb nodded, tucking the papers into an inner pocket in his tunic. ‘Yes, sir. While the captain was healing, he spoke several times. I couldn’t divine the meaning of it all, but I heard him speak names, the Emperor’s chief among them.’ The housecarl was anxious. ‘He has not been in contact with anyone else beyond the medicae staff and myself since his healing coma concluded.’
Temeter looked at Garro and leaned closer. ‘Nathaniel? Nathaniel, you old fool. If you’re done sleeping, there’s a crusade on, or haven’t you noticed?’ He kept a note of good humour, masking his own concern. His smile became genuine when Garro’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on him.
‘Ullis, can’t you handle a fight without me?’
‘Ha,’ said Temeter. ‘Your wounds haven’t dulled that wit of yours, then.’ He laid a hand on Garro’s shoulder. ‘Word from that peacock Saul Tarvitz. He’s back on the Andronius, but he wanted to thank you for softening up the Warsinger for him.’
The captain grunted in amusement, but said nothing.
‘Your lads were concerned,’ Temeter continued. ‘I hear Hakur was afraid he might have to step up and take the eagle cuirass.’
‘I can still carry it, if only these sawbones would let me go.’ Garro winced as a wave of pain shocked through him. ‘I heal better standing up.’
Temeter shot a look out into the infirmary proper where Voyen hovered silently. He took a breath. ‘How’s the leg, Nathaniel?’
Garro’s face went a little grey as he looked down the chair. His right limb was misshapen and out of place. Instead of a form of strong, firm muscle and sinew, there was a skeletal construct of dense steel and plates made of polished brass that mimicked the planes of a thigh and calf. The augmetic leg was of excellent quality, but it was no less shocking to see i
t there. Conflicting thoughts warred over Garro’s expression. ‘It will suffice. The chirurgeons tell me that the nerve bonding went without incident. According to Brother Voyen, in time I will not even be aware of it.’
Temeter heard the thinly veiled disbelief in his comrade’s voice, but chose not to respond to it. ‘That’s the battle-captain I know. What other man can leave a good cut of himself on the field and still come back for a rematch with teeth bared?’
Garro gave a wan smile, his voice strengthening. ‘I hope that will be soon. Tell me, brother, what have I missed while I was healing? Did I sleep through Isstvan’s pacification and the rest of the Great Crusade?’
‘Hardly.’ Temeter worked at keeping a light tone, even as he saw where Nathaniel was taking the conversation. ‘Orders from the Warmaster have come down from Lord Mortarion. The fleet’s at high anchor over Isstvan III as we speak. All the turncoat’s local orbitals have been taken down by the Raven squadrons and what system ships we encountered are wreckage. The skies belong to Horus.’
‘And the attack on the Choral City? If you are here then I assume it’s still to come.’
‘Soon, brother. The Warmaster himself has chosen the men who will form the speartip against Vardus Praal’s forces.’
Garro frowned slightly. ‘Horus is picking the units? That is… atypical. That’s usually a task for the Legion Master.’
‘He is the Warmaster,’ Temeter replied with a hint of pride. ‘Atypical is his prerogative.’
Garro nodded. ‘He chose your unit, didn’t he? No wonder you’re so happy about it.’ The captain smiled. ‘I look forward to fighting alongside you again so soon after the jorgall assault.’
And there it was. As much as Temeter didn’t want to show a reaction, he knew he did, and he saw that Nathaniel caught it.
The ends of Garro’s smile tightened. ‘Or not?’
‘Nathaniel,’ he sighed, ‘I thought I should be the one to tell you, before that dolt Grulgor made sport of it. The Apothecaries have not declared you fully healed and therefore you are deemed unfit for battlefield operations. Your command remains at a limited duty standing.’
‘Limited.’ Garro bit out the word and shot a savage, angry glare at Voyen, who hurriedly turned and walked away. ‘Is that how I am considered, as limited?’
‘Don’t be petulant,’ snapped Temeter, heading off his friend’s anger as quickly as he could, ‘and don’t take it out on Voyen. He’s only doing his duty to the Legion, and to you. If you tried to lead the Seventh Company now, you’d risk failing them and that’s a chance the Death Guard can’t take. You’re not going down to Isstvan III, Nathaniel. Those orders come direct from First Captain Typhon.’
‘Calas Typhon can kiss my sword-hilt,’ growled Garro, and Temeter saw his housecarl blink in shock at the normally stoic captain’s insult. ‘Get this cage of ornaments off me,’ he continued, forcing away the medicae monitors and philtre vials.
‘Nathaniel, wait.’
With a grunt of effort, Garro shoved himself off the support throne and on to his flesh and metal feet. He took a few firm steps forward. ‘If I can move then I can fight. I’ll go to Typhon and tell him that in person.’ Garro pushed away and paced out of the cell, fighting off a hobble in his walk with each angry step.
KALEB WATCHED HIS master rise from his sickbed and stride away, the steel and brass of his new limb as much a part of him as his iron will to survive. Alone again for a moment in the small chamber, he pulled out the sheaf of papers tucked in his pocket and spread them smooth on the rough matting of the support throne. With furtive care, from a chain around his neck the housecarl drew a small metal fetish carved out of a bolt shell case. It was a rudimentary thing, rough in form but cut with the sort of care that only devotion could bring. Held to the light, thin lines of etching and patterns of pinholes showed the outline of a towering figure haloed by rays from a sun. Kaleb put the small icon down on the top of the papers and ran his palms over one another.
Now he was convinced, as ridiculous as the idea was that he might have required further proof for his faith. As his honoured master had dallied between death and life there before him, Kaleb had stood sentinel over Captain Garro and read in hushed whispers the words that traced across the dog-eared leaflets. ‘His hand lies upon all of us, and every one of us owes Him our devotion. He guides us, teaches us and exhorts us to become more than we are, but most of all, the Emperor protects.’
Indeed, the Emperor had protected Nathaniel Garro. He had answered Kaleb’s entreaty to save the life of his master, and shown the Death Guard the way back from the brink. Now the housecarl fully understood what he had only suspected before. Garro is of purpose. The Astartes lived, not through chance or caprice of action, but because the Lord of Mankind wished it to be so. There would come a moment, and the housecarl instinctively knew it would be soon, when Garro would be set to a task that only he could fulfil. When that time came, Kaleb’s role would be to light the man’s way.
Kaleb knew that to speak of this to his master would be wrong. He had kept his quiet beliefs to himself for this long, and the moment was not yet right to speak openly of them. But he could see it. He was sure that Garro was gradually turning to the same path that he already walked, a path that led to Terra and to the only truly divine being in the cosmos, the God-Emperor Himself.
When he was sure he was not being observed, the housecarl began to pray, his hands spread wide across the pages of the Lectitio Divinitatus, the words of the Church of the Holy Emperor.
GARRO’S FACE WAS hard with chained anger, and he felt it surge each time the new leg made him limp. The minute gyroscopic mechanisms in the limb would take time to learn the motions and kinetics of his body movement, and until they did, he would be forced to walk as if lame. Still, he reflected, at least he could walk. The ignominy of relying on a cane or some other support would have been difficult to bear.
Temeter kept pace with him. The captain of the Fourth had given up trying to convince him to return to the infirmary, and followed warily at his side. The uncertainty on Temeter’s face was clear. Garro’s battle-brother had not seen him in such a foul humour before.
They reached the Endurance’s commandery, the nexus of private chambers and sanctorum their primarch took as his own while he was aboard, crossing the small atrium to the entrance. Garro saw another Death Guard walking in front of him, intent on the same destination, and to his concern he realised it was Ignatius Grulgor. The commander of the Second Company turned at the sound of a steel foot on the marble tiles of the floor and gave Garro a disdainful, appraising look.
‘Not dead, then.’ Grulgor folded his arms and looked down his nose. He was still wearing his wargear, where Garro had only simple duty robes.
‘I hope that’s not too great a disappointment to you,’ Garro retorted.
‘Nothing could be further from the truth,’ lied the commander, ‘but tell me, in your invalid state, would it not be safer for you to keep to your sickbed? In such a weakened condition—’
‘Oh, for once in your life be silent,’ snapped Temeter.
Grulgor’s face darkened. ‘Watch your mouth, captain.’
Garro waved the other Astartes away. ‘I don’t have time to spar with you, Grulgor. I will have the primarch’s ear.’ He continued on towards the doors.
‘You’re too late for that,’ came the reply, ‘not that the Death Lord would have deigned to spare his attention to a cripple. Mortarion is no longer aboard the Endurance. He’s with the Warmaster once again, in conference on matters of the Crusade.’
‘Then I’ll talk to Typhon.’
Grulgor sneered. ‘You can wait your turn. He summoned me here only moments ago.’
‘We’ll see who waits,’ snapped Garro, and slammed the commandery doors wide open.
Inside, First Captain Typhon’s head jerked up from the battle maps laid out on the chart table before him. Typhon’s hulking armoured form was framed by a tall stained-glass window that looked ou
t over the length of the warship’s dorsal hull. ‘Garro?’ He seemed genuinely surprised to see the battle-captain up and walking.
‘Sir,’ replied Nathaniel, ‘Captain Temeter informs me that my combatant status has not been restored.’
Typhon gave Grulgor a slight sign with his hand, a command to wait. ‘This is so. The Apothecaries say—’
‘I care little for that at this moment,’ Garro broke in, ignoring protocol. ‘I request my command squad be immediately tasked to the Isstvan III assault!’
A quick, almost imperceptible look passed between Typhon and Grulgor before the first captain spoke again. ‘Captain Temeter, why are you here?’
Temeter hesitated, wrong-footed by the question. ‘Lord, I came with Captain Garro, in, uh, support.’
Typhon gestured to Garro with a wave of his hand. ‘Does he need support, Temeter? He can stand on his own two feet.’ He gave a sharp nod at the commandery doors. ‘You are dismissed. Attend to your company and the preparations for the drop.’
The captain of the Fourth frowned and saluted, giving Garro a last look before he exited the chamber. When the doors banged shut, Nathaniel met Typhon’s gaze again. ‘I’ll have an answer from you, first captain.’
‘Your request is denied.’
‘Why?’ Garro demanded. ‘I am fit to lead! Damn it, I stood and fought on Isstvan Extremis with a leg torn from me, and yet I cannot prosecute the Emperor’s enemies with this tin prosthesis bolted to my torso?’
Typhon’s hard amber eyes narrowed. ‘If it were up to me, I would let you do this, Garro. I would be willing to let you stumble into that war zone and live or die on your own stock of bravado, but the word comes from his lordship. Mortarion makes this command, captain. Would you oppose the will of our primarch?’
‘If he were here in this chamber, aye, I would.’
‘Then you would hear the same words from his lips. If time enough had passed and your injury was fully healed, then perhaps, but not here and now.’
The Flight of the Eisenstein Page 12
