by Gav Thorpe
Cypher twisted, dodging the grasp of the Knights as they rose to their feet. With a deft movement he looped the chain of his manacles over Anovel’s head and twisted his body, lifting the other Fallen from his feet over his shoulder. Sapphon heard the snap of vertebrae from several metres away and knew it was too late even as the Knights overpowered Cypher and took him to the ground.
Sapphon dashed along the chamber as one of the Deathwing Knights repeatedly clubbed a fist into the side of Cypher’s head and the other pulled apart the links wrapped around Anovel’s throat. The Fallen’s face was already purple and his head lolled unnaturally to one side as he was rolled away.
‘Get him out!’ Sapphon roared, jabbing a finger at Cypher, who was still conscious, barely. He was laughing quietly as blood streamed from half a dozen cuts to his face and head.
Kneeling beside Anovel as Cypher was dragged away, Sapphon knew there was no point calling the Master of the Apothecarion. No mortal force would save Anovel now. As the Interrogator-Chaplain watched, the curse of Anovel’s infernal pact with the Lord of Decay manifested. His skin turned to dry flakes and fell away from evaporating flesh and fat. Muscles withered into a dry husk like ancient tree roots and organs sagged, his chest and belly flattening in a few seconds.
Disgusted, Sapphon retreated, one hand clamped over his mouth as a cloud of yellow dust escaped the corpse’s lungs and puffed in a cloud from Anovel’s open mouth.
He bumped into someone and turned sharply in surprise.
Ezekiel was there, one eye a golden orb of blazing energy.
‘Witchery,’ the Librarian said calmly. The eye dimmed and focused on Sapphon, and the lenses of the bionic replacement of the other adjusted with a whirr and a click. ‘I will ensure the remains are cleansed properly. You will need to speak to Brothers Cragarion and Galbarad about the strange events they have witnessed today. There is also much to be explained to the Inner Circle, Brother Sapphon.’
‘Lord Azrael must be informed of what has happened.’
‘He will be.’ Ezekiel sighed, a sad look on his face. ‘This is most unfortunate. Along with the misadventure involving Astelan, it seems that of late you have erred greatly in your endeavours.’
‘But I was under orders from the Supreme…’ Sapphon’s voice trailed off as he understood what was happening.
With Belial and Asmodai both looking for signs of weakness in Azrael, this was no time to drag him into a fresh failure. More than ever, with Cypher captured and some plot unfolding that threatened to doom the whole Chapter, the Inner Circle required stability. Sapphon was already a marked warrior, his record far from blameless. Another transgression on his part would almost avoid remark had it not involved such a high-profile prisoner. Sapphon bowed his head, accepting his fate.
‘I was acting of my own accord in bringing Cypher and Anovel together. I hope the Supreme Grand Master will see fit to forgive my error of judgement.’
Confession And Rejection
Seeing Sabrael in his full regalia as blademaster took Annael by surprise. The Black Knight stood amongst several other warriors of the Ravenwing, his robes black, a golden sword emblazoned on the chest, the hood edged with red and silver thread. The Blade of Corswain had even been returned to him, despite the threat from Tybalain that Sabrael would never carry the artefact weapon again. He looked as if the events in Streisgant had never happened, laughing easily at his own wit while the other warriors shook their heads in mock disappointment at some poor jest.
As his surprise subsided, Annael felt a stab of anger. It had been Sabrael’s hot-headed behaviour that had led to his capture and the subsequent need for a rescue mission. Now he had been returned to the company, forgiven, and Annael was still being punished.
He leaned on the handle of the mop he had been using to clean the deck outside the Land Speeder bay, wondering what silvery words Sabrael had slipped from his tongue to earn early release from his penance.
As one of the Ravenwing warriors turned, Annael saw that it was Casamir. He was not in the robe of a Black Knight – apparently his confirmation as a member of Sammael’s elite had not yet been ratified – but he was clad nonetheless in Ravenwing robes, instead of the penitent’s garb he had last been wearing.
Annael wanted to march over to them and demand how they had bought such leniency. He was stopped only by the thought that to speak to anyone save for Malcifer was another transgression that would simply set back his cause. As much as it pained him to watch his companions returned to the brotherhood, he could not get involved.
Casamir ignored him and passed into the armoury bay when the group split, while Sabrael headed in the opposite direction, not even casting his gaze towards his friend. The others walked past Annael with scowls. Brother Zafaen almost strode into Annael, forcing the penitent to push himself into the bulkhead to avoid the collision.
Annael cast his gaze downward, avoiding any accusation of confrontation with the battle-brothers. When they were gone, seized by a fit of anger, Annael snapped the mop in his hands and tossed the pieces along the corridor with a snarl.
He instantly regretted the action, wondering what would have happened if anyone had seen. It was a childish act, unbecoming of a Space Marine. He swiftly retrieved the splintered parts, took up his bucket and headed back to the store chamber where they were kept. Stowing the mop and pail, Annael headed up through the Rock to return to the Reclusiam of the Ravenwing.
Malcifer was there, kneeling in front of the altar table, head bowed. The Chaplain looked around at the breathless entrance of Annael. Seeing the frustration written across the Dark Angel’s face he stood up and held out a hand. He beckoned Annael to approach.
‘You are grievously vexed, Annael.’
‘I wish to repent,’ the penitent replied, falling to his knees in front of the Chaplain. ‘I committed a grave act of disrespect to my brothers and superiors. I acknowledge the shame it brought upon me, and beg the forgiveness of you, my mentor, so that I might return to my brothers in honour.’
Malcifer looked at him for some time, lips pursed in thought.
‘Why do you repent?’ he asked.
‘My soul burns with the shame of my sin. If there were a way, any way I could scour this feeling from my flesh, I would do it.’
‘The scorn of your former brothers is a harsh blow to weather. You understand why they disdain the penitent so much?’
‘I have no honour. The penitent’s robe is a symbol of my guilt for all to see.’
‘For all to see?’
‘I wear my status upon my back each day, Master Chaplain. What could be plainer to see?’
‘So you accept the punishment of your peers?’
‘And my superiors,’ Annael added hastily.
‘And do you think you have made sufficient amends to those that you have wronged?’
‘Amends? I do not understand.’
‘The duties you carry out, they are a service to the Chapter, to the brotherhood of the Dark Angels. In performing them you make restitution for the offence to their honour.’
‘I wish to restore my honour, Master Malcifer. What more must I do to prove I am sorry?’ The anger returned, but Annael was careful not to direct it at the Chaplain. ‘Others have been forgiven, I saw them today. Sabrael, the catalyst for my dishonour, wears the full robes again. Casamir, fellow penitent guilty of no lesser crime, stands garbed as a battle-brother beside him.’
‘Do you wish that Sabrael is held to greater account?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Do you consider your dishonour to be the fault of Sabrael?’ The question was quietly asked, but Annael was not fooled by Malcifer’s apparent civility and innocence.
‘A series of events occurred directly as a result of his actions.’
‘Speak plainly!’ Malcifer’s rebuke caused Annael to flinch. ‘A “series” of events
? At least give voice to your crime. You must take responsibility for it. You disobeyed your Grand Master! You pursued a personal desire above the needs of your commander and your battle-brothers. Do you think that Sabrael is guilty for your loss of honour?’
Annael did not know what else he could say. Malcifer gave him no longer to compose a reply.
‘Do you remember what I told you of repentance?’
‘I do. I sincerely wish we had not disobeyed the order of the Grand Master.’
‘Do you feel guilty for what happened? Do you accept the blame, solely and on yourself?’
‘I…’ Annael could not lie. Malcifer was trained to spot the slightest falsehood and Annael was not accomplished at subterfuge. ‘I feel that in the circumstances my choices were limited.’
‘Do you deny that you were instigator of this sorry affair?’
‘If Sabrael had not been captured, events would have run very differently.’
‘And your Huntmaster? What of his guilt?’
‘He took the lead. It was natural to follow.’
‘Yet you spoke out to convince your brothers to act with you. You appealed to their brotherhood, corrupted it to your selfish goals.’
‘That is not how it happened!’
‘That is exactly what happened!’ Malcifer bellowed in reply, making Annael cower before the righteousness in his voice and manner. ‘By your testimony and others. You hoped to rescue Sabrael from the moment you discovered that he had been taken. Would you have been so vehement in your arguments for the sake of Sergeant Polemetus, or Brothers Garbadon and Orius? You wanted to rescue a friend, one with whom you share a closer relationship than with your other brothers. It clouded your judgement and it clouds it still.’
‘What do you want from me?’ snarled Annael, his anger breaking through like water rushing through a breached dam. ‘Why won’t you accept my apology and answer my confession?’
‘What have you confessed?’ Malcifer said, voice almost a whisper. ‘That you feel guilty? That you want your punishment to end? Shall I tell you why Sabrael wears the black of the Ravenwing once more?’
Annael said nothing, stewing in his frustrated impotence. Nothing he did or said would change Malcifer’s mind. It seemed the Chaplain had chosen to push Annael to the limit, though why he did not know.
‘Sabrael apologised in person to both Tybalain and Sammael. He had agreed not to contest the Blade of Corswain at the next trials. He knelt before this very altar and swore anew the oaths to his Chapter and company. Most of all, he accepted that he was not deserving of forgiveness. He did not plead or try to bargain or rationalise his act. He accepted his weakness of character and thanked me for my forbearance on previous transgressions.’
It did not matter, to Annael’s mind. Sabrael was always able to spin his words as a weaver creates beautiful cloth. From Annael’s mouth the same claims made by his brother were like the crude canvas of his penitent’s robe. Malcifer was deaf to his intent, his desperation.
‘In short,’ said the Chaplain, ‘he repented. He sought no return to honour, no cessation of punishment, just the simple act of forgiveness from those he had wronged. He did not try to earn it or buy it, he simply allowed himself to hope for it.’
‘Do you not hear me? Have I not professed my guilt enough for you?’
‘I told you before that your guilt needs no confirmation. Your regret is based upon the application of your penance, which you yet insist on viewing as temporal punishment rather than spiritual opportunity.’
The rage would be held in check no longer. He dared not lay hands on his superior. Instead, with a wordless shout Annael seized the closest bench and threw it across the Reclusiam. The pew crashed into the wall, splinters showering one of the battle-trophies hanging there, a standard from the Ullissa campaign four thousand years old.
‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, realising what he had done. He fell to his knees again, hanging his head in shame. ‘I am unworthy.’
Malcifer showed no sign of anger. His expression had become that of a benevolent older brother.
‘Trust me, Annael. I am watching. I am listening. You are making good progress, but do not dwell on what you have done or what you are doing. Study the doctrine of the Chapter and resolve what you will do. The key to redemption lies not in the past but the future. Admit your failings and seek to balance them in thought and deed.’
The Chaplain walked away, heading to the main door. Annael felt broken, exhausted more than if he had been fighting for weeks on end. It was almost impossible to contemplate carrying on, returning to the others to bear their barbed words and sneers of derision.
Almost, but not wholly impossible.
Annael pushed himself to his feet and took a deep breath. The future, Malcifer had said. His first task was to clean up the mess he had made of the shrine. Fighting back the weariness in his soul, he turned towards the door, straightened his back and settled his shoulders.
He would endure.
Censured
‘I do not defend my actions with claims of success,’ said Sapphon, ‘but I would ask the members of this council to review in full the transcript of what occurred. Before he died, Anovel confirmed much of what was alleged by Cypher. That they had been in collusion was already likely, and Anovel’s acts on seeing the other Fallen provide incontrovertible proof that they were in cohort with each other.’
‘And incontrovertible proof that you overstepped your authority once again, Master of Sanctity.’ Belial glowered at Sapphon, who made every effort not to look to Azrael for support. It had been the vote of the Supreme Grand Master that had made Sapphon the Master of Sanctity and the reason was now becoming clear. Sapphon would willingly compromise himself for the good of the Chapter, even if it meant falling on his sword when required.
The Deathwing commander was going to continue but Sapphon had already heard enough and decided that even if he was going to take the fallout from Azrael’s decision, there was no reason not to go down fighting.
‘I have every authority, Grand Master, in the remit of my rank.’ He gritted his teeth, giving extra vehemence to his words. ‘I am the Master of Sanctity, the spiritual guardian of the Chapter. On Tharsis and Ulthor I bowed to your authority in strategic and military matters. In affairs of the soul and the Fallen, you do not command, you obey.’
Belial faltered, cowed by Sapphon’s uncharacteristic bullishness. The Chaplain looked around the table and saw that the other company captains were equally taken aback. Setting an example with Belial, thought by many to be a natural successor to Azrael should fate unfold in that direction, reminded the rest of the Inner Circle of their place in the hidden organisation of the Chapter.
‘Whether the right to do as you did belonged to you is not under discussion.’ This came from Master Eradon, the Tenth Company captain. Alone amongst the Inner Circle he sported a beard, blond and cropped short. He tugged at the facial hair as he continued. ‘How you exercise that authority on behalf of the Chapter, and whether you should retain it, is the cause for this conclave. A succession of poor decisions have dogged your elevation to Master of Sanctity, and perhaps that is an appointment that must be reviewed.’
All present turned their attention to Azrael. He sat at the head of the table, hood raised so that nothing of his face could be seen. He said nothing and waved for Sapphon to continue.
‘For the benefit of all, might I remind the council of the words spoken by the Supreme Grand Master during the last full conclave.’ Sapphon glanced at Azrael who leaned forward, disapproval on his face as it was revealed by the movement, no doubt sceptical about Sapphon’s reasons for dragging up his past utterances. The Master of Sanctity tried to provide what assurance he could with a glance before he activated a vox-servitor by his side. The half-man started to speak, mouth opening and closing monotonously, nothing more than a flesh puppet. From its slack lips emerge
d the recorded voice of Azrael.
‘Let it be known that the war on Piscina progresses swiftly to conclusion with the might of the Chapter ranged against greenskin and rebel alike. However, the conflict has much delayed us in the pursuit, as I suspect was intended by those that instigated the attacks on Kadillus and the destruction of the fortress here. The gene-seed was stolen by Anovel, I conclude, and to what end we already know. I consider the thwarting of this plot to be of the utmost significance, while the Ravenwing and Deathwing can stand ready for fresh duties.’
Sapphon allowed these words to sink in before continuing.
‘“The thwarting of this plot to be of the utmost significance” was the Supreme Grand Master’s assessment of the situation. I accept that errors were made in the prosecution of this duty, but contend that despite these setbacks we succeeded in eliminating the threat posed by the machinations of Cypher, Astelan and the others. They are dead or in our custody, there is no possible way in which their plans can be carried out.’
‘Astelan is still loose,’ said Sammael.
Sapphon was surprised. He had expected the accusation from Asmodai. As it was, the Master of Repentance was strangely silent, perhaps keen that the manner of Astelan’s escape, and Asmodai’s part in it, was not reviewed again. Though there had been no formal discussion, the members of the Inner Circle from the ranks of the Reclusiam were upholding their mutual honour.
‘You voted with me to use him as a lure on Tharsis,’ Sapphon replied quickly.
‘I did, and it was a mistake. I will admit that in front of my peers. Can you do the same?’
If it had been another Master than Sammael that asked the question, Sapphon would have suspected a trap of some kind. The Master of the Ravenwing was as independent of thought as his company was rigid of command, and had no alliances and no obvious agenda within the Inner Circle. Even so, it left the Master of Sanctity in a difficult position. To continue to defend a decision that looked to have gone wrong would make him seem pig-headed. To admit it was a mistake would invite censure.
