Soul Drinker

by Ben Counter

  All except Dorn. For the Emperor was wise and just, and outwitted the dark forces to make one of His sons the true model of perfection He had intended. Though Marines car­rying the gene-seed of other primarchs would die rather than admit it, Dorn was the best of them all. He did not crave power, only justice. He fought not with savagery or malice, only with honour. His legion excelled in all things - doughty defence, merciless attack, cunning stealth and everything in between, skills which existed to this day in the many Chap­ters formed from the Imperial Fists.

  Yes, Dorn was the best man who had ever lived save the Divine Emperor himself - by following only Dorn's example, the Soul Drinkers could ensure that they, too, would be noth­ing but the best. At the heart of the Chapter was Dorn, his words and deeds burning as bright as they had when he was alive. Matters of the greatest gravity were conducted before the gaze of Dorn, who watched from his halls of judgment in the afterlife, so he might see how his sons followed his example of justice and righteousness in everything they did.

  And so it was that the Chapter Master and the traitor met in the Cathedral of Dorn in the heart of the battleship Glory, to settle the Chapter's greatest crisis in the only way they saw fit.

  GORGOLEON IN FULL battle-array was as fearsome as Sarpedon had remembered. His armour was polished and gleaming in the light of a thousand candles, the crest of Rogal Dorn bright on one shoulder pad, the golden chalice glinting on the other. Gorgoleon still wore the bone-carved Crux Terminatus around his neck, from the days long before when he had worn one of the Chapter's few suits of terminator battle armour. The ceremonial armour he wore now was the same bulk as Sarpedon's, but shone with artificer's craftsmanship and the constant attention of the Chapter's Tech-Marines. One hand was massive and pendulous with the power fist he wore - the fist had a built-in power field which, when switched on, would let the Chapter Master punch through walls and tear through tanks, and certainly dismember Sarpe­don with one good shot. The field could be flicked on and off at Gorgoleon's whim, leaving his hand dextrous one second, destructive the next.

  In the centre of the vaulted cathedral, Gorgoleon waited as Sarpedon was marched in flanked by a six-Marine guard. Sarpedon had left his bolter for the ritual combat did not allow for guns - his sole weapon was therefore the force staff which would have to serve its master well one more time.

  The Soul Drinkers were arrayed all around the cathedral, exercising their right to witness the honour-combat that was a tradition as old as the Chapter. Rogal Dorn himself looked down upon the scene, a titanic figure in stained glass ren­dered on the window above the altar. A faint gauze of incense hung far above, and the whole cathedral was bathed in the warm, pulsing glow of candlelight.

  The place was quiet, the assembled Marines hushed to respect the few moments before the fight. This time was ded­icated to the watching Emperor, because that was why this combat held the central place it did in the traditions of the Soul Drinkers. Now, more than ever, He would be watching, because He would be the true judge here, and His will decided the victor.

  Then the moment was over. Sarpedon's guards stepped back and joined their battle-brothers around the cathedral. An ancient Chaplain, one of the very few who had survived long enough not to end his days on the battlefield, stood for­ward on servo-assisted limbs and intoned the ritual words.

  'Lord High Emperor, to whose plan our brothers are bound, and Rogal Dorn, he whose blood is our blood. Observe with us this tradition, lend Your strength to the arm of the righteous, and through victory show us Your way.'

  The Chaplain stood down, Gorgoleon activated the field of his power fist, and the fight had begun.

  Sarpedon ducked Gorgoleon's first blow, but he realized too late he was supposed to. Gorgoleon's kneepad soared up and into the side of his face, snapping his head back. The cathedral's interior whirled as Sarpedon staggered - the vaulted gothic ceiling, the stained glass face of Dorn looking down fiercely, the rows of purple-armoured Marines that turned the nave into an arena.

  He could feel their eyes on him, watching every move, fas­cinated and appalled by the magnitude of what would be decided here. Even a non-psyker could have tasted the ten­sion in the air.

  A lesser man would have flailed blindly. A Marine could think the world into slow-motion and see the next blow before it was struck - and so Sarpedon caught Gorgoleon's follow-up strike on his forearm, felt the ceramite buckle under the Chapter Master's strength, stepped sideways and brought his force staff up to parry the power fist uppercut. The power field and force-circuit clashed and a great shower of sparks erupted, pushing both men onto the back foot.

  Gorgoleon was smiling. He knew he would win. The mas­sive power fist flexed its fingers and Sarpedon could see the hundreds of golden rivets struck into its surface - one for every foe of note it had despatched.

  'Give in, traitor,' said Gorgoleon, not even out of breath. 'We could make it quick for you.'

  Marines in the crowd were yelling - demanding a fast end or a long and bloody one, making claims to parts of the dead traitor's corpse. Disciplined as they were, there was nothing like a good honour-scrap to get their blood rising. They said it was older than the Chapter itself, as old as Mankind – two men settling a matter of the deepest honour, armed with their favoured weapon, in holy combat ended only by death. So sacred an act was it that the Emperor himself would give strength to the fighter who was in the right, and the trans­gressor would be struck down by righteous power.

  The Emperor knew. The Emperor was watching. And through this honour-combat, the Emperor would act.

  Sarpedon stabbed with the butt-end of his force staff, aimed deliberately wide so Gorgoleon would dodge into the strike - but Gorgoleon had fought a thousand foes on a hun­dred worlds and turned the blow aside. Sarpedon realised he was left wide open as Gorgoleon shifted his weight, barged forwards, caught Sarpedon full-on and bowled him back­wards.

  The Soul Drinkers cheered as Sarpedon tumbled down the steps, down amongst the hardwood pews. All cheered save the separate section of the crowd - Sarpedon's Marines, brought here to watch their treacherous leader die.

  When he was dead, they would follow.

  No. It would not end this way. If Sarpedon lost here they would parade the few remaining body parts through the Glory, so the serfs and novices could see what happened to traitors, even as the Marines of Sarpedon's three companies were put to the sword. That would not happen. No matter how impossible it seemed, Sarpedon would survive.

  Time slowed. Gorgoleon's bulk bore down on him, framed by the stained glass window at the far end of the cathedral and the crowds of watching Marines all around. The power fist's field was a halo of lightning, Gorgoleon's eyes flashed with triumph.

  They would kill his battle-brothers, and Yser's flock along­side them. The Architect of Fate would be forgotten. The truth would die out and the Soul Drinkers would return to serving the whims of evil men.

  Again, something deep inside him spoke. It would not end this way.

  With a speed he didn't know he possessed, Sarpedon grabbed the nearest pew and wrenched it from its fittings, swinging in into the falling body of Gorgoleon, swatting him aside like a fly. Wood splintered as the Chapter Master crashed through the pews and hit a pillar.

  They were shouting with anger now. They were hissing and yelling for his head.

  If they wanted it, they could damn well come and get it.

  Gorgoleon was quick but Sarpedon was quicker now. He strode over Gorgoleon's prone form and grabbed him by his arms, lifting him up and slamming him into the pillar at his back. Shards of stone flew and Gorgoleon's head snapped back and forth with the force.

  'You dare call me traitor?' shouted Sarpedon. 'I am the only true man here!'

  Gorgoleon's body slammed into the pillar again and a frac­ture ran up the stone surface.

  'You are slaves to corruption! You are puppets of greed!'

  Suddenly Gorgoleon's free hand was at Sarpedon's throat, and the two men's eyes met
- frenzied, fanatical, all sem­blance of discipline gone. They were the eyes of men fighting for the survival of everything they believed in.

  'Wretch!' snarled Gorgoleon. The power fist's energy field roared into life and Sarpedon dodged backwards as the fist's gauntleted fingers threatened to tear a chunk out of his torso. Gorgoleon grabbed the collar of Sarpedon's breastplate with his other hand and headbutted him square on the eye.

  Sarpedon reeled. He sensed the battle-brothers had broken ranks and were swarming closer now, a baying crowd just metres from them, a wall of huge purple-armoured bodies. They would tear him apart.

  Ha! They could try.

  Gorgoleon's backhand swipe could have ripped Sarpedon in two - he turned just in time and it caught him on the back, throwing him into the crowding Marines. Armoured bodied pressed in on him as he clambered to his feet, expecting the pendulous weight of the power fist to tear through his body any moment.

  Sarpedon recognized the men around him and realized he was among his own battle-brothers now, if only for a second. Dreo and Givrillian helped Sarpedon to his feet and spoke a few encouraging words. They had been stripped of their weapons, but they could still help him for their very presence gave him strength. He would survive.

  His brothers. They had fought all these years, only to find they were fighting for a lie. He felt their anger, as the same anger raged inside him. He would use it, as Daenyathos had taught.

  Purity through hate. Dignity through rage.

  Gorgoleon hurled Dreo aside and the crowd parted to give the combatants room to fight.

  Both were bruised and bleeding. Neither would ever give up. Gorgoleon's fist would be death if it got a good hit in - but Sarpedon's force staff could punch through even Gor­goleon's artificer armour if the Librarian timed his mind's focus with the blow. They ducked and struck, parried and dodged, the crowd following them as the fight flowed across the cathedral's flagstones. The ancient place, its peace usually broken only by the Chaplains' fiery words, echoed to the crunch of cracking ceramite and the cheers of the assembled Space Marines. The stink of sweat and blood mingled with the incense, and the candles guttered with the shock of the might brought to bear.

  Sarpedon could feel the blood crusting around his eye, and knew the hit to his back had cracked his rib-plate and rup­tured at least one of his lungs. Gorgoleon was bleeding from a gash to the cheek, but if he was suffering internally he did not show it.

  Sarpedon's anger. That was the key. What had set it all off? Why had there been such bloodshed on the Geryon? Why had the inquisitor's executioner met with such a savage refusal? Sarpedon had been willing to meet death rather than back down, and his battle-brothers had followed him. Why had they done that? What had made their actions so extreme?

  It had to be anger. It was the only force strong enough. But was it just the loss of the Soulspear that had driven them to such excesses? To tell the truth, Sarpedon had hardly thought about the Soulspear at all in the last few months. Its loss felt more like one thread of a whole web of injustice.

  What could he tap into that would give him anger enough to win? He had to think quickly, for Gorgoleon would surely kill him soon.

  Sarpedon realised his concentration had slipped when Gorgoleon suddenly jinked behind him and there was an arm around his throat.

  Gorgoleon hauled Sarpedon into the air, hoisting him high above the heads of the cheering Marines. The soaring vaults of the cathedral ceiling span before him as Gorgoleon ran towards the altar end of the nave.

  Sarpedon straggled. It didn't work. Gorgoleon reached the altar and lifted Sarpedon high above his head.

  'For Dorn!' he bellowed, and hurled Sarpedon through the stained glass window.

  The world turned into razor-sharp shards of colour. An iron floor slammed into him and Sarpedon felt something else rapture.

  No. Don't go under. Not yet. Not when there is still hope.

  He saw startled, young faces staring at him, their scalps newly-shaved, implants raw. Novices.

  He was in the Hall of Novices, where the Chapter's new recruits gathered to contemplate the traditions of the Chap­ter and the magnitude of their task in becoming full Space Marines. Sarpedon had spent untold hours here as he was honed into someone fit to wear the chalice of the Soul Drinkers. Statues of saints and Chapter heroes glared sternly down from alcoves in the grey walls and fat prayer-drones hovered, belching incense from their bulbous bodies.

  The purple-robed novices scattered, clutching copies of the Catechisms Martial. They must have gathered to pray for their Chapter Master - but they had never thought they would be blessed with witnessing the combat itself.

  Sarpedon grabbed his staff and hauled himself to his feet. He could feel he was bleeding internally and his inner breast­plate of fused ribs was shattered. His system was cutting out the worst of the pain but he knew he was badly hurt.

  And for a second he was back on Quixian Obscura, an alien neck snapping in his fist, feeling a terrible futile empti­ness. ..

  He had fought across a hundred planets and been savagely wounded dozens of times. He had seen battle-brothers dead by the score and killed enemies by the thousands.

  Why? Why had they died? Why had he killed?

  Gorgoleon vaulted through the frame of the shattered win­dow and landed nearby. The other Marines were swarming into the Hall of Novices, eager to watch the kill.

  The servants of the Emperor had died on Quixian Obscura, on the star fort and the Geryon platform. And all across the Imperium - on Armageddon and Ichar IV, through the depths of the Sabbat Worlds, Tallarn and Valhalla and Vogen. At the Cadian Gate they had died, in the hives of Lastrati, on the plains of Avignon, and on sacred Terra in the final acts of the Heresy - millions of Space Marines and untold billions of men had given their lives to protect the sanctity of the Imperium, and yet the Imperium was built of lies.

  But that was not the worst of it.

  Gorgoleon's strides seemed slow and loping. Sarpedon could feel it, the power Daenyathos had written of - the sacred anger that drove a man's feats beyond the limits of pos­sibility. It was filling him, coursing through his body and the aegis circuit. Sarpedon could feel the light of the Architect of Fate shining on him, and knew that there really was hope.

  Because he knew what had been boiling at the back of his mind, something so terrible that he had not dared contem­plate it. At the heart of all that futile death and meaningless war, the Soul Drinkers had fought braver than their brothers, kept purer than anyone, striven to be the best there was.

  But they had won only shame, for they had held the deca­dence and corruption of the Imperium together. They had thought they were following Dorn's example with fanatical zeal, little knowing that all this time...

  Gorgoleon's fist swung in a massive uppercut. Sarpedon caught it with the staff, turned it aside, and ripped the staff's head deep into Gorgoleon's torso.

  'All this time,' yelled Sarpedon, 'we were nothing!'

  He grabbed Gorgoleon by the arm and threw him through the wall of the Hall of Novices, sending him tumbling into the dormitories and study-cells beyond.

  Had he ever been this strong? No, it was the Emperor, the Architect of Fate, filling him with such power that it felt like he could hardly contain it. Sarpedon strode through the shat­tered wall and saw Gorgoleon, battered and bleeding, pulling himself to his knees. The specter of panic crossed the Chap­ter Master's face. He had never faced anything like Sarpedon. No one had.

  What did Gorgoleon fear? He feared failure.

  And so, the Hell.

  Barren, scarred rock lay beneath their feet. Above was the ire black of space, the stars swollen and dying. Deformed alien craft streaked across the star field and warp storms opened immense weeping wounds in reality, bleeding form­less hordes of Chaos out into the universe. It was a galaxy lost to the alien and the daemon, cold and evil, sucked dry by the foes of humanity. It was an image calculated to horrify the stoutest Imperial servant, a place where all their effo
rts had failed.

  The sound was the worst. The cackling of alien slavemasters. The gibbering of mindless daemons. The distant scream of a dying mankind. Even Gorgoleon's face registered shock at the horror around him.

  Sarpedon had never gone this far, never constructed a whole world of fear out of the Hell. But he knew that noth­ing less would serve against Gorgoleon, and he felt the Emperor's strength inside him, fuelling him until his psychic power was a white-hot star inside his mind, its power stream­ing out into the Hell. All that power was focused on Gorgoleon himself - the Hell was for him and Sarpedon only, utterly real to them but only a faint haze to the battle-brothers watching them.

  'You can't win with witchcraft, Sarpedon!' shouted Gor­goleon against the din of a suffering universe.

  Sarpedon could feel the power growing, building up inside him so he felt fit to burst. It pushed against his skin and the bones of his altered skeleton. He was full of fire. The power was ready to explode out of him.

  Gorgoleon clambered to his feet and swung again with the power fist, gouging great rents from the ground. His face streamed with blood and his teeth were gritted - his was the face of a man confronting death, as he had many times before. Every last gramme of the Chapter Master's strength went into the assault, battering at Sarpedon, swiping the stabbing force staff away, desperately trying to keep the Hell around him out of his mind by letting himself fill with rage. But Sarpedon couldn't be beaten back - there was a boiling sea of fire in his veins, and the hand of the Architect of Fate was upon him.

  The two Marines ducked forwards and locked, face to face, for a split second. Gorgoleon's face was lit from beneath and Sarpedon realized that light must be streaming from his own eyes, such was the massive build up of power within him. It rose impossibly high as the ceramite of Gor­goleon's armour fractured within his grasp - it was too much for him to contain, the screaming in his ears too great to stand, the fire inside him too vast to bear.