by Various
He is firing the bolt pistol. It bucks in his armoured gauntlet like a living thing, eager as if it could leap from his fingers if so allowed. Echoing crashes of shot blast thunder-calls cross the reeking battleground, and with each expended round a death follows closely. Skulls explode into pink haze. Limbs are turned to red slurry. No moment of kill-power is wasted. It is how he was trained; it is how his primogenitor fought. Fury, marshalled and controlled like lightning in a bottle. The power of rage, harnessed. A darkest of potentials hidden beneath a mask
And yet, the mask may slip. At his side, a brother fights with greater and greater abandon. His knows this man: Celcinan, of the Third. He is far from his unit, perhaps propelled by the fog of war and the crush of battle. But Brother Celcinan does not seem to pay it any mind. He watches Celcinan fighting as he reloads the pistol.
Celcinan has removed his helmet, but not for any good reason that can be intuited. The warrior’s face is drenched in crimson, the back-spray of hearts burst open to the air. His armoured fists end in steel claws, barbed talons that can tear the hulls of tanks. They are smoking with newly spilled blood, hot vapour steaming off them into the cold air. Celcinan is in a fury, and it comes from the Blood Angel like radiation.
He feels it like the aura of an inferno, lapping against him. Rage, black as space. Thirst, red as blood. Celcinan is deep, swimming in it, awash in it. His battle-brother’s anger is something quite magnificent to behold.
Until Celcinan is killed. A brilliant rod of purple light bursts from within the cultist lines as a heavy lascannon discharges at near range. He flinches away, nictating membranes flicking closed over his eyes to protect him from the dazzle-flash. When he blinks back to full sight a tenth of a second later, Celcinan is quite dead.
A charred hole large enough to fit a fist through has cored Brother Celcinan’s torso, penetrating armour, flesh and bone. He topples like a felled tree and sinks into the squelching, blood-thick mud. Celcinan’s last act is to look at him, and something unseen crosses the gap between the two Blood Angels.
That ghostly thing is anger.
The moderated wrath of the warrior suddenly ebbs away and he feels himself fill with a kind of rage that only titans can know. His battle-brother is lost, and now all he wants is to take back the blood cost of Celcinan’s murder. It is a death undeserved, for every warrior of the Adeptus Astartes is worth a thousand of these screaming, mewling whorechild zealots. He wants to take the payment now.
The Blood Angel forgets his bolter; this is a deed to be done close at hand, eye to eye. Those who perish must go to their warped gods knowing who killed them and why.
Bellowing his primarch’s name, the son of Sanguinius hurls himself into the enemy line, his sword becoming a bright and shining blur. Death follows close. The killer with the lascannon is unmanned by the thunder of the Blood Angel’s battle-roar, and not even the hypno-imprints of the dark acolytes that turned him can blot out the sound of such anger and such revenge.
The warrior’s sword goes through the cultist’s sternum and explodes from his spine in a welter of crimson fluid. They draw closer, into a murderous embrace, and by freak chance the traitor still lives. The warrior acts without thought, and with his free hand he rips open the cultist’s throat.
Blood.
Blood erupts in a steaming fountain from his enemy’s ruined flesh, spattering across his faceplate and staining his vision red. It clogs the breather grille, the hot coppery perfume saturates the inside of his helm. His mouth instantly floods with saliva, and he wants nothing more than to tear off his armoured helmet and drink deep of the spill. He savours the desire for that rich taste, and the wine-dark flow of the vitae across his tongue and down his throat.
He feels the mask slipping off his face. The perfect, patrician mask of nobility and humble heroism, the outward eternal character of the Blood Angels cast in the likeness of Great Sanguinius. He feels it crumbling, becoming dust. Beneath, the curse-power of his primarch’s burning blood rises to the surface. The gift of strength and courage that makes him a superlative warrior now turns dark.
Rage, black as space. Thirst, red as blood.
In this moment, he balances on the edge of the abyss. An Angel of Death, cursed and blessed in equal measure, doused in the vitae of those deserving his fury.
The battle without will be won this day; victory was never in doubt. The battle within…
It lingers still, hidden beneath the mask.
Chapter Master Caedis was dead.
The call went out. The brethren gathered.
The Blood Drinkers Chapter entire was in the Arena of Horandor. The thin light of San Guisiga's suns poured through the arena windows, illuminating the sand in bands of weak light. Dark and light, the opposing aspects of life; dark and light, the opposing facets of the Chapter.
Radin Castor, captain of the First Company, was on the fighting floor. He wore the tabard and loose trousers that were the robes of his Chapter, his torso bare. San Guisiga was a hot world, and its sons were hot-blooded. He carried a simple steel sword. Of great mass and length, a mortal man could not have borne it, but in his giant fist it seemed of natural proportion.
Opposing him was Captain Sorael of the Fifth Company. Castor snarled. Upstart. Mastery of the Chapter was his right. Who was Sorael to challenge him? He would not have thought so harshly of Sorael, but the blood haze was on him, a subtle filter on his senses, red more pronounced, the smell of iron enticing. Heartbeats rang loudly.
Reclusiarch Mazrael came between them, robed in black silk from head to foot, his feet bare. Twenty metres to the Reclusiarch, another twenty to the pretender. Castor thought already of attack.
Mazrael's words to the crowd were indistinct. Castor's ears buzzed. The combatants had been denied the Rite of Holos for weeks. Sorael bore the signs of the Red Thirst as clearly as Castor: flushed skin, pupils dilated so as to crowd out the iris, long canines growing longer. Sorael seemed a monster. Castor did not feel himself to be one, but he knew what he was well enough.
Mazrael held up a red flag pinched between forefinger and thumb, the chalice and blood drop of their order upon it a nonsense of creases and broken yellow lines. He spoke again, unintelligible men's words. Castor and Sorael were moving away from the realms of men.
The flag fluttered to the sand. Mazrael withdrew. Castor saw Sanguinary Master Teale stand, nostrils flared in excitement. He was there to treat wounds, but in truth Teale rather more enjoyed inflicting them.
Horns blared. The crowd roared, many throats, one voice.
This was the nature of the challenge - martial prowess was not to be tested, but the retention of humanity in the face of the Thirst. The Chapter Master must be able to fight the Thirst under the most testing circumstances. He must be Blood Calm.
Sorael was direct, leaping halfway across the distance between them, his muscles preternaturally strong because of the Thirst. Sword raised double- handed, he came at Castor, face feral.
Castor's head reeled. The beast within him snapped, bloody muzzle threatening to burst through. Castor pushed it back. Restraint. Calm. Blood Calm.
He sidestepped Sorael's wild charge. Sorael checked himself, feet digging a furrow into the sand as he skidded to a halt. Another jump, sword descending. Castor parried it, a clang of steel. He twisted. Sorael landed badly. Castor dropped low, swept a leg out to take the Fifth Captain's feet from under him, but Sorael hopped over them, sending another blow at Castor's head. Castor raised his blade, pushing off on Sorael's with his own to roll away and spring to his feet.
They circled. Sorael crouched, blade gripped two-handed. Castor had one arm behind his back, sword swept out in front of him, point down. Sorael lunged, blond hair sweat-slicked to his brow. Castor ignored the attack.
Chapter Master Caedis had been his friend. The mastery was his right as First Captain. To fail would dishonour them both. He would not be drawn. Restraint, calm. Blood Calm.
The thirst bubbled in him. His veins were on fire. He chased the pa
in from his body, imprisoned it behind bars of will.
Calm.
Sorael lost patience and attacked.
Castor drew his blade across the other warrior's arm with a deft flick as he pivoted out of the way. Sorael snarled. Both of them were rocked by the bright red that welled up in Sorael's wound and pattered upon the sand.
Castor's mouth filled with saliva. His gums ached with longing. He spat out a clear mouthful of saliva, surprised that it was not red.
Sorael came at him again. Castor held his ground, driving his blade down onto Sorael's with all the force he could muster.
Steel shattered, Sorael jumped back, arms wide, but Castor threw himself forward, shoulder into the other's sternum. The impact collapsed Sorael's lungs. They went down. Castor threw his sword aside, and they were grappling. Their skin was slippery with sweat and blood, fingers skidding from flesh. And then Castor had him. He wrapped his arms around Sorael's neck, choking him in the crook of his left elbow, his right hand applying pressure to the lever of his left arm.
It takes a long time to choke a Space Marine. Sorael fought like a daemon, all fury and unholy strength, nails raking at Castor's arms, scrabbling futilely for Castor's eyes. But Castor was calm, Blood Calm.
Sorael's struggles weakened. His head lolled. Castor kept the pressure on for ten seconds longer, wary of trickery.
He let the unconscious Sorael slide to the floor. He stood.
The crowd roared their acclamations, but Castor did not hear. He stared at the blood pumping slowly from Sorael's arm.
Blood.
His resolve wavered. He imagined it on his tongue. It was all he could do not to fall upon the other and lap at the cut before Sorael's Larraman cells finished their work.
His calm fractured. He fell forward, sank his teeth into his opponent's neck and drank deep. He closed his eyes with shame as the beast within him exulted. He had failed.
A hand on his shoulder. Mazrael. Castor had not fallen. He was upright. His brow creased in confusion. Mazrael was speaking. He thrust a chalice at Castor's mouth. The smell of blood was intoxicating. He took it with shaking hands and drained it.
Sound crashed back on him. The Thirst receded suddenly. The crowd was chanting his name over and over. Sorael was being seen to by the Apothecaries.
'Blood freely given, blood taken,' said Mazrael.
'Blood is life, life is duty. I choose blood. I choose life. I choose duty,' said Castor, his tongue thick and voice hoarse.
Mazrael raised Chapter Master Castor's hand. The assembled Blood Drinkers fell to their knees before their new lord.
Calm suffused Castor. Blood Calm.
‘None fall as far or as fatally as those who soar the highest, for pride does not precede the fall. Pride is the fall.’
– The Lethean Revelation – Psalm 451
I will make my stand today, Montaig vowed to the heavy tome in his hands. I will not cast another neophyte to the Thorns.
The forbidden book had been an anchor to him throughout this benighted decade, a tangible relic of past glories. He ran his fingers over the gilded text, marvelling at the crisp, cursive elegance that other hands had wrought – the hands of a Space Marine like himself. He had never possessed the talent for such things, yet many amongst his Chapter were fine artisans. It was a gift from their progenitor, Divine Sanguinius, passed down the millennia to illuminate the path of His descendants. A gift that Neophyte Phelion would have exemplified in saner times.
Such beauty honours our lineage, Montaig mused. While other Chapters fought for glory, faith or the sheer joy of slaughter, his own had made nobility its creed. And alone amongst the scions of Sanguinius his battle-brothers had been entirely free of the madness that haunted the Angel’s bloodline. No Space Marine in the blue and the gold had ever succumbed to the Black Rage.
But that was when we were still Resplendent, Montaig admitted, returning his treasure to its hiding place. Now so many of us have fallen that we have our own Death Company. Perhaps within the century we shall have nothing else. And then what? An ignominious doom that will consign us to a sordid footnote on the Imperium’s roll of honour? He glanced across at the neatly arrayed segments of his power armour, scowling at the murky, umber-streaked black plates. We won’t even die bearing our true colours.
Reverently he replaced the loose flagstone, sealing the tome beneath his chamber. It was a minor work, but it was the only book Montaig had been able to save during the Great Purge and that made it priceless. Perhaps in some future age it would be restored to the librarium – after the librarium itself was restored and the fortress-monastery of Kanvolis cast off the Crown of Thorns.
But I shall not live to see any of it, Montaig knew.
‘Beauty blinds the body, hope binds the soul.’
– Psalm 31
The flickering torches along Montaig’s path served only to taunt the shadows as he descended towards the Halls of Contempt, tramping through a mulch of rotting tapestries and pulverised statuary. The Undying Martyr had pronounced this effluvium of desecrated glories sacrosanct – a mockery of treacherous pride. The Great Purge had swept Kanvolis clean of beauty, yet it had left the fortress filthy, just as the Martyr’s words had befouled the Chapter itself.
He has poisoned us with sour faith, Montaig thought, but we chose to drink deep of his lies so perhaps the venom was always in our hearts.
The Undying Martyr had come among them a decade ago, crawling from the churning waters of the River Tristesse that served Kanvolis as a moat. Brother-Sergeant Montaig had led the squad that challenged the intruder, bolters poised to fire upon his word. He could sense his brothers’ fury at this trespass, for it should have been impossible. Few Space Marines could master the Tristesse, so how had a mortal survived the feat?
But was he truly mortal? Montaig had been struck by the raw presence of the man who stood swaying on the riverbank, head bowed and face shrouded in a cascade of black hair. He was a giant amongst ordinary men, powerfully muscled and only a few heads shorter than a battle-brother. His flesh was a patchwork of cuts, boils and blisters and the bleeding wound in his midriff looked fatal, yet he burned with vitality. Only the crude pendant hanging from his neck stayed Montaig’s hand, for it was unmistakably an aquila. In that moment of hesitation the stranger looked up and pinned him with savage, compassionate eyes.
‘Do I still dream?’ he asked.
I should have ended him then, Montaig thought bleakly. Instead he had taken the intruder to Chaplain Malvoisin for interrogation and the fall of his Chapter had begun.
‘Penitence and pain are the hammers and nails of devotion.’
– Psalm 27
‘It is time,’ Montaig called from the door of the cell.
Phelion reeked of stale sweat and fresh shame. Like all neophytes he was forbidden to cleanse his body until he had earned the black carapace. And like so many who strove under the edicts of the Undying Martyr he had been found wanting, but whereas most fell foul of some minor ritual, Phelion’s sin was catastrophic. Absurdly, it made no difference, for all sinners, great and small alike, were summoned before the Crown of Thorns, the conclave of Chaplains that now presided over the Chapter. Invariably they were offered the same choice.
‘Take the Path of Chains,’ Montaig urged.
‘And condemn myself to be an ankoryte until I fall?’
‘You would still be serving your Chapter.’
‘Then tell me, sergeant, which path would you take?’ Phelion challenged. For that Montaig had no answer.
I should have stood with Athanazius, he thought bleakly. It would have been better to die with my Chapter than live to watch it shrivel and devour its own.
But Montaig had not seen it then, for he had been as blinded by Chaplain Malvoisin’s fervour as the rest, just as Malvoisin had been blinded by the Martyr. The Chaplain had conversed with the stranger for nineteen days before proclaiming him a prophet of the God Emperor who bore terrible new insights into the Imperial Creed.
Those truths were dark indeed, for he revealed that mankind was corrupt beyond redemption and that its greatest guardians, the Adeptus Astartes, were the basest of all sinners, for had they not faltered and fragmented in the war against the arch-betrayer Horus?
‘Those who stood unblemished yesterday shall fall tomorrow or the day after,’ Malvoisin had declared, ‘for treachery hides in our blood, cloaked in pride.’
There could be no hope of ascension into the Emperor’s light, only penitence and pain for sins past and future. The war was already lost and the only victory was fighting on in the knowledge of certain defeat.
Was it the lurking shame of the Black Rage that drew us to such a barren creed? Montaig wondered. Were we always so broken?
‘Rise,’ he commanded the neophyte. ‘Your path awaits.’
‘Better to serve in shame than rule in sin.’
– Psalm 19
It would have been different if the Knight Resplendent had been with us, Montaig mused as he led his prisoner through the darkness. He would have cast out the snake. But Chapter Master Varzival had been absent for years, campaigning with the First Company. There had been no word of them since the Purge and Malvoisin had declared them lost, but Montaig didn’t believe it. The Knight Resplendent would return some day to reclaim and redeem his Chapter.
But I am unworthy of seeing it…
In the absence of the Chapter Master, only Chief Librarian Athanazius and his brethren had spurned the Martyr’s testament. Inevitably they were denounced as heretics and Montaig had stormed the librarium alongside his brothers, driven by a loathing he’d never felt before, even in battle with the xenos.
Was that the first stirring of the Black Rage?
Athanazius and his followers had awaited them, absent arms or armour, yet shielded by a contempt that brought the charge to a standstill. The attackers waited for the frigid electric tang that presaged a psychic assault, but when Athanazius spoke it was only words: ‘We will rise on burning wings.’ Only words, but they were the Chapter’s credo, delivered with a conviction that drained the poison from Montaig. It might have been enough, but then Malvoisin bellowed the new credo, the one revealed by the Undying Martyr: ‘The Emperor condemns!’
