by Gav Thorpe
Another idea occurred to him. Time passed here, but what of the world outside these walls. What was the rest of the Inner Circle doing?
Waiting for his return. Or... had he failed? Was this not the test but the consequence of his shortcomings?
Was he to remain here forever while another took up the rank of Supreme Grand Master? Surely previous aspirants had been found wanting.
‘I am not infallible,’ he said.
Was it a test of acceptance? To settle for this fate rather than command? What drove him to desire his freedom? Duty? Self-
aggrandisement? Arrogance?
‘I failed.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper, choked with the realisation. He swallowed hard and did not look at the Watchers. Azrael felt the desire to plead his case again, to argue against their judgement, but he remained silent all the same.
Was that pride? A stubborn glee from his own martyrdom?
How long had he been here? How much longer would he have to endure?
Until dehydration killed him. Even with his post-human physique he could survive for only a few days without water. His body would start to cannibalise itself in the last twenty-four hours as it desperately sought to survive – as though it were another organism apart from the creature that was Azrael.
Madness would likely claim him. All the training and psycho-conditioning could do nothing against the physiologically-created manias that would assail him. Body chemistry, altered or not, ruled the mind more than willpower.
Such an end was ignoble, the nadir of what he had desired for his life. Reduced to animalistic craving and insensible delusions when he had fought so hard for nobility and civilisation.
Azrael slid the sword partway from the scabbard, exposing about half a metre of shining blade. Looking at the keen edge, a darker thought occurred.
Was this a quicker, more noble death?
Ezekiel was the most powerful psyker of the Chapter. He must have seen something in Azrael’s future – or lack. It had been an act of mercy to pass him the sword.
How long? How long to make that decision? Was his resistance to the temptation the proof required by the Watchers?
He hated all of the questions that wracked his thoughts, despised himself for his need to know these things. More evidence of pride being in control. It was not his choice; he was the instrument, the tool, the weapon.
The weapon... Azrael’s gaze moved back to the blade. His reflection seemed haggard, cheeks sunken, hair grey. He had been here far longer than he had realised. Or the madness had already begun conjuring phantoms of his own fears.
He looked up, suddenly convinced that he was alone. The Watchers regarded him impassively.
He could endure no more scrutiny.
Perhaps the quicker way.
But it had not yet come to that end. Azrael did not give up easily, and he was not about to surrender to despair at the first setback.
He slammed the Sword of Secrets back into its scabbard and took a breath.
It was important to be objective, to challenge assumption. The Wardens in White had told him that he must tread the road between Hope and Despair. Was that the meaning of the visions?
The Watchers had brought him here to undergo their trials. What were they looking for? Weaknesses. They had said as much. Flaws in his character that would impinge his ability to lead the Chapter. They had doubts and had shared them.
Even so, they had insisted that they had not chosen the visions. It could be a lie, a manipulation intended to distract and dishearten him, but that seemed unlikely. He had no reason to think the Watchers were being false with him. In that case, they were genuine in the assertion that they had not selected the nature of the visions.
He closed his eyes, trying to still his thoughts. If by act of sheer will he could come upon the answer, he was determined to do so.
Pride. Was it pride talking? Was it pride that made failure so unacceptable? Not just pride, but stubbornness. But it was not wrong to be steadfast in his beliefs and principles. The conflict this caused threw his thoughts into another spin, unable to settle on one matter for some time.
He opened his eyes and started counting the stones. It was a simple technique that Chaplain Analleus had taught him. The mundane, repetitive task was better than any mantra or canticle, and required just the right amount of concentration to clear his thoughts.
It was time to start again with the analysis.
The Watchers had not chosen the visions. Who had? He felt that if he could solve that puzzle he would take a step closer towards passing the trials.
The visions had come from his memories. One was even a memory he could not consciously recollect. The Watchers had certainly been complicit, giving shape to those embedded thoughts. But they had not chosen them. By what criteria had they been selected and by whom?
He mentally retraced his steps, back to an earlier assumption. If the trials were not set to expose the doubts of the Watchers...
‘My doubts,’ he said, standing up. ‘They are the lingering threads of my past life. They are the worst parts of me given form, the doubts that have accrued over the centuries.’
He stepped towards the closest Watcher in the Dark.
‘I understand. But the answers I gave were not justifications, they were the truth. We all have doubts, and if you are a leader it is not that you have them, but how you deal with them. My doubts are what keep me true to the cause. I question my motives. I examine my deeds. I keep my doubts close for they are the guard against complacency, the sentry I place to ward away arrogant certainty.’
The Watcher looked up, the bright coals of its eyes met his gaze and dizziness struck the Grand Master. The room started to revolve, faster and faster, until he lost balance and fell.
Date Ident: Unknown
A breeze stirred Azrael. Stronger than a breeze. Cloth lightly touching his face.
He opened his eyes and saw the hem of a robe, dark green. The Grand Master thought it a Watcher in the Dark, but as his senses returned and he looked up, he found himself looking at a tapestry depicting the Angel of Death.
A quick glance around revealed more of the same, twelve in total, hanging by golden ropes from hooks on the plain plastered walls of a chamber a dozen metres across.
There was no sign of the Watchers.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
The question came from every direction, an assault on his hearing. He caught movement in the corner of his eye and spun, but there was nothing to see, only a gently undulating hanging.
‘I am a Space Marine. I know no fear. You cannot intimidate me.’
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
He shuddered at the force of the demanding voice. Azrael’s hearing buzzed for several seconds after, though he was sure there was no echo despite the spacious dimensions of the chamber.
More movement on the edge of vision. This time he turned more slowly, alert to any change. He saw nothing.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
He was about to give an answer but instinct threw him aside; only a moment later his conscious mind registered the whisper of a blade cutting the air. He turned as he rolled, whipping the Sword of Secrets from its scabbard.
Coming to his feet, he confronted empty air, his blade raised to a guard position. A second later, he turned again in anticipation of a fresh attack, slashing with the sword at throat height.
The meteoric metal crashed against another blade. Azrael stepped back, reeling from the spectral sight before him.
One of the Angels of Death loomed large in the centre of the chamber, its ornately hilted sword gripped in two skeletal hands, a yawning black emptiness beneath the rippling hood of its dark green robe. White wings quivered behind it.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE? it demanded, cutting its sword towards Azrael’s midriff.
He parried without thought, turning the blade past his thigh. The counter-attack was equally instinctual, the tip of his blade thrust towards the chest of his adversary. With impossible speed the Angel o
f Death blocked the attack and whipped its own sword at his shoulder.
Though he parried this latest assault, Azrael gasped as the pain of his recent wounds flared through the muscle of his arm and chest.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
‘The Emperor!’ Azrael shouted back, stepping aside to avoid an incoming stroke towards his aching chest. ‘I serve the Emperor!’
Leaping out of reach, Azrael saw another Angel of Death flow from a second tapestry. It was as if the threads came to life, unravelling and bulging from the canvas, reknitting as a towering apparition.
The Grand Master dived between the two wraith-like figures, cutting his sword through the robe of the one on his right, where knees should have been. The Sword of Secrets parted cloth, slicing effortlessly through the thick fabric, but passed on through the robe without meeting resistance.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
The pair of angels spoke in unison, their wings fluttering with agitation as they turned on the Grand Master and assumed identical poses with swords pointed at his face.
‘Mankind,’ he gasped. ‘The Space Marines serve mankind.’
Azrael managed to block one of the swords, but the other struck him in the arm. The long blade left no mortal injury, but at its touch a numbing chill spread along the limb, deadening it between elbow and fingers. He tried to flex his hand, to regain life, backstepping rapidly as a third Angel of Death manifested itself in the chamber.
With the Sword of Secrets in one hand, he stayed in motion, jabbing and feinting, using short and quick steps to keep himself out of harm’s way, not allowing the three apparitions to surround him.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
‘The Imperium?’ Azrael was tiring quickly despite his superhuman physiology. The slightest graze of a ghostly blade sent a shiver through him, leeching his strength, wearing down his resolve.
The fourth Angel of Death came at him directly from behind. Azrael threw himself at one of the others to avoid being speared in the back, shoulder-charging the spectre with a roar.
Cloth fluttered around him, its touch oddly delicate amidst the fury of battle, and then he slammed into the wall behind, meeting hard stone at full speed. He rebounded and turned, lifted up his weapon in a wild defence to catch the crossguard of a descending blade.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
Sword locked with the apparition of the Angel of Death, he stared directly into the fathomless depths beneath its cowl, seeking some light, some indication of what it was. What it wanted of him.
‘The Dark Angels.’ He pushed with all of his strength, dragging his blade free from the entanglement of the ghost sword. ‘I serve the Dark Angels.’
As swiftly as they had manifested, the Angels of Death retreated to their banners, becoming one with the woven cloth in seconds. Panting, Azrael regarded them warily, flexing his fingers as life returned. The pain in his shoulder subsided and his hearts slowed from their frantic thrashing.
Something had changed, and it took a moment until he saw what it was. Where before the embroidered figures had held their blades with the point to the ground, they were now upraised.
The Angels of Death saluted him.
Date Ident: Unknown
Azrael wondered how he had not noticed the door before, between two of the hangings. It was not so much a door, though, but a line of shadow delineating its outline and nothing more. He pushed and felt a little resistance. Putting more weight behind his effort he felt the stones behind the plaster give way. The section of wall receded, leaving a gap just a little taller than him, and just wide enough for him to pass through. It stopped, meeting another wall, to leave an alcove a couple of metres deep.
He stepped into the opening and examined the newly revealed sides and floor, but there was nothing but more smooth, naked plaster.
‘This way.’
The unfamiliar voice behind him caused Azrael to spin on the spot, sword at the ready. He had thought he could not be further confounded by the trials of the Watchers, but to come face to face with a copy of himself was a revelation.
The doppelganger was perfect in every way, as far as he could tell. Every small scar and lesion from centuries of war marked his tanned skin. The eyes, the wrinkles at the corners of eyes and mouth, perfect down to the smallest detail.
‘I am a projection,’ the doppelganger told him. ‘A representation. What I look like is inconsequential.’
‘Of course,’ Azrael said, feeling foolish. He sheathed the Sword of Secrets and noticed that his counterpart was unarmed.
‘The trials turn my doubts against me, test my loyalty. What are you for?’
‘That is curious – I was about to ask you a similar question. What is it to be Supreme Grand Master?’
Azrael stepped back into the chamber. It was as before, the hangings on the plain walls, still with swords raised. He circled his doppelganger. The other Azrael did not try to keep him in sight, but stared vaguely ahead, like a hololithic avatar.
‘Why do you not answer my question?’
‘Because it is really my question, I think, and I am wondering what I really mean by it. The Watchers have constructed this trial not to test me, but for me to test myself. What is it I actually want to know?’
‘Then answer the question. What is it to be the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels?’
‘It is to be the Lord of the Tower of Angels, the Master of the Unforgiven. Commander of a thousand Space Marines, spiritual lord to thousands more.’
‘Your commands will guide them, shape the course of countless souls. One day the future of the Chapter, of the Imperium, may rest on your decisions. What will you do with that power?’
‘Defend the realms of the Emperor, protect mankind and prosecute the alien and impure.’
‘Trite nonsense, Azrael. You want to be Supreme Grand Master, not a Novitiate Prefectus. Answer properly. What is your greatest power?’
‘To destroy worlds. This fortress-monastery alone can sterilise entire star systems.’
‘Short-sighted, beneath one that would assume command of such a potent force. What do you hope to achieve?’
Azrael thought about this for far longer, as unsatisfied with his answers as the doppelganger. It was impossible to obfuscate, to deceive, when arguing with himself.
‘I was called, chosen by the others of the Inner Circle. I do not seek this honour – I must bear this burden.’
‘Better.’
‘The Hunt. The Hunt is the greatest mission of the Dark Angels. While it goes unresolved, while the Fallen remain at large, there is an open wound in our Chapter that spills our lifeblood, distracts us from our true calling.’ He took a long breath. ‘My greatest power is to unite the Unforgiven, to bring us together in common cause. All that we achieve is as nothing if we cannot expunge the stain upon our honour. And with me is also the power to destroy it all, to unravel the very fabric of the Imperium itself with revelation and truth. Secrets and lies, these are the unfortunate weapons I have in my armoury, as much as boltguns and chainswords.’
‘So what will you do as Supreme Grand Master?’
‘End the Hunt. Restore our honour.’
‘End the Hunt? Is it possible?’
‘I must believe so. To think otherwise is to submit to the ultimate ruination of the Chapter. Ten thousand years we have endured. Not under my watch shall we finally succumb to the treacheries of the past.’
While he had been speaking, his attention had wandered, his focus moving away from the doppelganger. It returned now as the figure started to change, becoming a shadow that divided and divided again like a duplicating cell, creating a dozen vague likenesses of itself around him, each somehow merging with the angels depicted on the banners.
As though waking from a dream, Azrael blinked, clearing his vision, his body and mind dull with fatigue.
Twelve members of the Inner Circle waited around him, hoods covering their faces, hands lost within voluminous sleeves. By their tabards he knew them: the Grand M
asters of the companies, the heads of the Librarius and Reclusiam.
A gleam of red and gold drew his attention to Ezekiel’s half-hidden face. The Chief Librarian nodded once and lowered to one knee, gaze cast to the ground. Like a ripple expanding outwards from him, the others followed, showing obeisance to their new commander.
‘Praise Azrael,’ they intoned, ‘Supreme Grand Master, Lord of the Dark Angels.’
Ezekiel straightened but did not stand.
‘My lord, you have passed the trials of the catacombs. You are the Supreme Grand Master, Commander of the Unforgiven. Your word is our law. Your oath is our honour. We are your servants, as you are the servant of the Chapter. What would you bid us do?’
Azrael stroked his chin in thought, aware that every word he said carried an unimaginable weight. To speak in haste could bring disaster.
‘I shall think on the matter. Tomorrow you shall have your orders.’
Was that a hint of a smile on the face of Ezekiel, or a trick of the dim light? It came and went in a moment, and there was nothing but the Chief Librarian’s usual stern demeanour when he stood up. The Inner Circle nodded their respects and passed wordlessly from the chamber.
When they had departed, Azrael noticed a small, solitary figure in one corner, almost invisible in the shadows. Red eyes gleamed, brighter for an instant. He felt a sensation of contentment for just a second, and then the figure was gone.
Date Ident: 939939.M41
They sought him out in his private chambers, Ezekiel and Dagonet. The Left Hand and the Right Hand, they had sometimes been called when Naberius had been Supreme Grand Master. Azrael greeted them, offered them wine and chairs and then stood at a window looking out at the stars.
His gaze passed down the expanse of the Tower of Angels, turret after turret, battlements and walls laid down on foundations that predated the Imperium by a millennia or more. All that was left of ancient Caliban, a space-borne scion of a destroyed world.
‘Who shall know what sights once lay beyond this window?’ he said quietly. ‘Fields, perhaps, or the green forests of which the oldest chronicles speak. Mustering grounds where armies that conquered the galaxy for the Emperor were gathered.’
