[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn

by Chris Roberson - (ebook by Undead)

  Zatori was still not accustomed to the fact that his mind could immediately comprehend the words his ears heard. Ever since Apothecary Lakari had removed the hypno-casque from his head, whenever he heard a new word for the first time it was as though a hidden door in Zatori’s mind was unlocked, and understanding that he’d not previously realised he possessed came flooding into his thoughts.

  “Hidden doors,” the blind man said, a faint smile playing around the corners of his thin mouth. The sight of that smile sent pinpricks of terror creeping up Zatori’s spine. “A more apt metaphor than you may realise.”

  Zatori realised with a start that he had not spoken those sentiments aloud, but had kept them harboured in his thoughts. But how did he know…?

  “I can hear your thoughts,” the blind man said, answering Zatori’s unasked question. “That is how I know. I am Librarian Borgos, epistolary of the Imperial Fists Librarium, and I am a psyker. In your culture, one such as I might be called…” The Librarian paused for a moment, lids fluttering over his eyes, and Zatori could feel something touching his mind lightly, like the wings of a butterfly brushing momentarily against an outstretched fingertip, “…a ‘dreamstealer’, I believe?”

  Zatori regarded the blind man with renewed interest. He’d heard stories about dreamstealers since early childhood, of course, as every Sipangish had, but he’d dismissed them as mere fancy, like green-skinned monsters and daemons from beyond the sky. To think that there might really exist individuals who could reach into a living mind and draw forth thoughts and dreams like a child pulling forth a speckled koi from an ornamental pond…

  “Thoughts are often slippery,” Librarian Borgos said with a faint smile, “and as difficult to hold.”.”

  Zatori suddenly felt even more exposed than ever, his mind laid as naked and bare as his shaven flesh. Had he not seen the proof of it for himself, he’d never have believed it was possible. “What… what do you want with me?”

  “If your thoughts are like fish swimming beneath the surface of your mind,” the Librarian answered, “there are other things that can lurk in the farther depths, hidden beyond the light of your conscious mind, so deep that you yourself might never suspect they were there. The material reality we inhabit—planets, stars, moons, and the empty space in between—is but a surface, beneath which stretch unplumbed depths. This region above which we float is known by many names—the immaterium, the aether, the empyrean—but perhaps the most fitting name is the one most commonly employed—the warp.”

  The word conjured associations in Zatori’s mind, doors unlocking and meaning flooding his thoughts. Warp—a twist, a bending, a perversion of the mind, a distortion of reality.

  “The warp is like the reflection of our world in a broken mirror,” Borgos continued, “a horrifically shifting domain in which the laws which govern our material world are twisted and perverted. And though mankind has learned to exploit this dark mirror-realm to our advantage, harnessing the ability to traverse the warp bodily and reduce to a mere fraction the time needed to travel from one point in our material world to another, this advantage comes at a terrible price. For the presence of a living mind, in either realm, can attract the dire intelligences which make that place their home, drawing them like moths to a flame.”

  Zatori was reminded of the chilling stories he’d been told as a child, of the daemons who dwelt beyond the sky.

  “Once a mind has been touched by the warp, it is forever after susceptible to those dire intelligences. You consider the unpacking of implanted knowledge in your thoughts as ‘hidden doors’, but the analogy is even more apt when considering the taint of warp and Chaos. You might never be aware that such a door existed until it opened, and the Ruinous Powers came streaming out.”

  The blind Librarian reached out a hand and brushed fingertips as cold and dry as parchment paper against the skin of Zatori’s forehead.

  “Those who are called as aspirants by a Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes must be thoroughly screened for such taint or stain. Eternal vigilance is the price we pay to ensure that we do not unknowingly invite vipers into our home, who might rise up and poison us when we least expect it.”

  His fingertips still pressed lightly against Zatori’s forehead, Borgos closed his blind eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “As Apothecary Lakari has already begun the process of probing deep into your flesh for any defect or weakness, so must I begin the process of probing deep into your mind, seeking any sign of the touch of Chaos in your thoughts. Still your body and mind. And if some warp-taint should be found, rest assured that your remains will be disposed of promptly.”

  Before Zatori realised the full implication of the Librarian’s words it was too late, and he felt Borgos’ mind already closing around his like a fist around a sword’s handle.

  Jean-Robur du Queste felt as though he’d been naked for days. And for all he knew, he realised, he had. Naked and hairless as a puppy just squeezed from some bitch’s hindquarters, searching weak-eyed for mother’s teats. The injections and infusions he’d received while in Apothecary Lakari’s tender care had staved off any effects of thirst and starvation, come to that, so at least he didn’t have hunger pangs to go along with the pin-pricks and needle-tracks which marched up and down his goose-pimpled flesh like the footprints of an army of ants. But if he could only get clothed again then the maddening strange circumstances in which he found himself might not be so difficult to take.

  The sessions with the blind man who’d introduced himself as Borgos had mercifully ended a short while ago, and Jean-Robur had been ushered out of the Librarian’s smoke-filled chamber as another naked puppy was escorted in. It seemed that the “mind-reader” had failed to find any stain in Jean-Robur’s thoughts—at least any stain of the “warp”, that is, since it would not take a very proficient mind-reader to find stains of other sorts in the young Caritaigne’s disordered thoughts.

  Jean-Robur had been escorted by man-machines—by servitors, his new-found facility with this Imperial Gothic insisted—to a great hall, an enormous echoing chamber of hard curves and strong lines. Entering the hall, Jean-Robur felt like a gnat crawling into a grand palace, scarcely worthy of notice. The sounds of his footsteps were swallowed by the vast space, and the hall seemed draped in a respectful silence, like a church or a graveside service.

  Already gathered in the hall were a little under a dozen other youths, all of them as naked and hairless as Jean-Robur, watched over by a pair of towering Space Marines in armour coloured golden yellow and trimmed in jet-black. It was difficult to say without uniforms and other bits of identifying fashion, but from their skin-tones and the shapes of eyes and noses and such, it seemed to Jean-Robur that the other youths were more or less equally divided between sons of Caritaigne, Sipangish and barbaric Eokaroean islanders. If all of them had been infused with a knowledge of Imperial Gothic as Jean-Robur had, he reasoned that he could simply speak to any of the others if he so chose—but when one of the others opened his mouth to speak, a sharp bark from one of the Space Marine ordered them all to remain silent. Not that Jean-Robur really felt he had much to say to the others as it was. What did they have to discuss, after all? “What sins did you commit in your former life to merit ending up here?”

  After Jean-Robur was deposited with the others, a final Triandrian youth was escorted to them, leaving their number at an even dozen. And for a long while the twelve of them just stood there, bare feet cold against the smooth metal floor beneath them, each boy’s arms wrapped around his chest and sides as much for a sense of security as for any warmth the position afforded. All the while the pair of Space Marines stood watch over them, arms at their sides, faces hidden behind an inexpressive helmet.

  Jean-Robur wondered where the rest of the youths captured on Eokaroe might be, as there were easily two or three times this number stacked in the sky-craft that had carried him into orbit. And there had been perhaps a half-dozen of the craft on the green field of battle, as well, and who
knew how many others landing at other spots around the planet. Hundreds of youths could have been captured, perhaps even thousands. But if so, why were only a dozen gathered here? Were the others being held in other halls, or perhaps still being tested by Apothecary or Librarian?

  Then another Space Marine approached, encased in gold like the first two, though this one’s armour incorporated various emblems and ornate honours that set him apart from the others. And unlike those who had stood watch over the dozen pups, this one had removed his helmet, and approached with his head bared and face exposed.

  It took Jean-Robur but an instant to recognise the face of the Space Marine that had defeated and captured him on Eokaroe, along with the Sipangish swordsman and the barbaric whelp. Jean-Robur wondered now what the giant had said to the bound and helpless combatants, before the sweet-smelling gas had robbed them of their senses.

  Following close behind the bare-headed Space Marine was a trio of servitors, each carrying a large vessel of some sort, but though the vessels were open at the top, from his vantage point Jean-Robur couldn’t see what was held within.

  The pair of Space Marines who had stood watch over the dozen youths stepped aside deferentially as the bare-headed Astartes joined them, taking up positions a pace behind and to either side. It was clear that Jean-Robur’s estimation of the bareheaded Space Marine’s standing based on his ornate heraldry and decoration had not been unfounded.

  The bare-headed Space Marine glanced over his armoured shoulder, and motioned for the trio of servitors to approach. Then he turned back and regarded the dozen naked youths gathered before him.

  “You will each step forwards and take an article from each of these three receptacles.” When none of the dozen youths moved, the Space Marine narrowed his gaze and barked, “Now!”

  Jean-Robur and the others rushed forwards, gathering around each of the three vessels as orderly as possible and reaching inside. From one Jean-Robur pulled a long rectangular strip of golden-coloured fabric, from another a waist-length shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and from the third a pair of ankle-high black boots tied together on a notched belt.

  “Now dress yourselves,” the bare-headed Space Marine ordered. “Tunics first, then use the belt to secure the loincloth in place, then the boots.”

  The dozen youths glanced at one another in evident confusion, but after some brief experimentation all of them were able to get into the clothing without too much difficulty. It was hardly Caritaigne cotton and silk, Jean-Robur decided, but it was better than nakedness.

  While Jean-Robur and the other youths were dressing, the bare-headed Space Marine exchanged a few quiet words with one of the other two, who then departed quickly on some errand.

  “That’s enough,” the Space Marine said as the now-clothed youths settled back into order. “Now, I am Captain Taelos of the Imperial Fists 10th Company, Chief of Recruits. You twelve have been granted the honour of being accepted as aspirants to the most respected Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, the scions of Primarch Rogal Dorn himself. The rest of those gathered by the recruiting mission on your world have been found wanting, by one measure or another, and have been removed from your ranks.”

  None of the dozen spoke. Some of them even hesitated to breathe.

  “We are now en route to rendezvous with the Imperial Fists’ fortress-monastery, the Phalanx, and in the time our journey takes you will be tested further, in mind, body and spirit. Those who survive the coming examinations will be granted the greatest honour of all, and accepted as neophytes to the Imperial Fists.”

  The voice of Captain Taelos boomed, reverberating even in an enormous hall large enough to swallow all lesser echoes and sounds.

  “The way forward is difficult, and while many are called, few are chosen. If you survive, though, you will be transformed in a crucible of pain and fire into a sublime being, a living extension of the Emperor’s will and a divine instrument of justice and vengeance. You will become battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists, welcomed into the brotherhood of Dorn, to serve Chapter, primarch and Emperor. You will be given the opportunity to lead a life of pure duty and service, and to one day die with honour and pride on the field of battle.”

  Jean-Robur glanced to the youths on either side of them. Their oddly familiar faces wore rapt expressions, commingling respect and fear, and it was only then that Jean-Robur realised that he himself was wearing just such an expression.

  “Today you are mere humans, little more than children. But if you show courage, and strength, and win through the trials that you will face, you will become something more than merely human. You will become proud Sons of Dorn!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Zatori Zan could feel the hatred burning within as though it were a literal flame, a conflagration that engulfed his insides and clouded his thoughts with dark, black smoke. Though shorn of all body hair and now clad in different clothing, the person standing next to him was, without a doubt, the Caritaigne swordsman who had treacherously murdered his master Father Nei with a cowardly attack from the rear. With the pair of giant Space Marines facing them, Zatori knew that he could not yet give in to his thirst for vengeance, but as soon as their attention was diverted he would strike. Already his fingers clenched into vicious claws at his sides, and he could almost feel the meat of the Caritaigne’s throat beneath his hands as he imagined choking the life from his nemesis.

  This Captain Taelos still faced the dozen young men who’d been taken from the fields of Eokaroe, but as soon as the eyes of the Space Marines were off them, Zatori planned to put Father Nei’s spirit to rest, and to send the ghost of the Caritaigne murderer off to the land of the spirits to meet its own well-deserved damnation.

  “You will live by certain rules aboard this vessel,” Captain Taelos was saying, his voice booming through the empty air. “And those who cannot abide by those rules will suffer the consequences.”

  Taloc s’Tonan could scarcely contain himself. Only a short distance away, on the far side of the familiar-looking youth whose colouration suggested Caritaigne ancestry, stood the Sipangish who had bested his father Tonan on the field of combat. Tonan’s blood-debt demanded that Taloc take the life of this Sipangish at his first opportunity. Without an ironbrand in his grasp, though, Taloc knew that he would have to accomplish the task with his bare hands. He would first need to get the Caritaigne in-between them out of the way, and from the looks of the two Space Marines who faced them, Taloc felt certain that any of the twelve youths gathered in the chamber who stepped out of line would be dealt with quickly and, to all indications, harshly. He would need to wait for the right moment to strike, or else Tonan’s blood-debt might remain unpaid.

  In his thoughts, Taloc rehearsed the motions he would use, the blow to the Sipangish’s nose with the heel of Taloc’s hand to disorient his opponent. And while the Sipangish dealt with his broken nose and the flow of blood from his nostrils, Taloc would follow with a blow from the hard back of his forearm against the Sipangish’s glottis, crushing the windpipe and cutting off his air supply. Then, assuming he had not yet been stopped and he was able to get his hands into position, he would simply wrench the Sipangish’s head around on his shoulders, snapping the Sipangish’s neck and ending his life in one swift movement.

  If it all went according to Taloc’s plan, the Sipangish would not even have the opportunity to react, much less flee from the attack.

  But for the moment the two Imperial Fists were still keeping their eyes on the twelve, and the bareheaded Captain Taelos was still talking.

  “Aspirants will conduct themselves as befits candidates for acceptance into the ranks of the Astartes,” the Imperial Fists captain went on. “Neither fraternisation nor aggression will be tolerated.”

  Jean-Robur du Queste was still mourning the loss of his body hair when Captain Taelos left off talking as the Space Marine he had sent on an errand returned, dragging another tunic-and-loincloth-wearing youth. This youth, though, was not as freshly shaven as Jean-Rob
ur and the rest of the dozen Triandrians, but had a short fuzz of rusty-brown hair growing from his scalp, at least three or four weeks worth of growth. And the brassy colour of his skin did not resemble in the least the pale hues of Caritaigne, his reddish hair nothing like the smooth black hair of Sipang, and his dark green eyes were nothing like the pale blue eyes of the barbarians of Eokaroe.

  Jean-Robur had almost got to the point that he could accept that the Imperial Fists had come to Triandr from beyond the skies. The massive ship and its mechanical monsters were proof enough of that, to say nothing about the helmet which distilled strange words and concepts into the wearer’s mind. But the realisation that the rust-haired, brassy-skinned youth before him was from another world, too, was more difficult to take.

  Perhaps it was that the larger-than-life Astartes looked like they belonged to some other sphere than the mortal world Jean-Robur had known all of his life, and fit in well enough with the stories and legends of the distant past that Jean-Robur had heard as a child. But this youth was no larger than Jean-Robur, no more visibly powerful, and did not appear to have at his disposal technologies and knowledge far beyond the grasp of any Triandrian. But his strange coloration and unusual features suggested that he was from another world, and no branch from any family tree that had taken root on the world of Jean-Robur’s birth.

  So taken aback was Jean-Robur by the startling realisation of the newcomer’s otherworldliness that he didn’t at first pay much attention to the fact that the rusty-haired youth was being dragged bodily behind one of the Space Marines. But then Jean-Robur noticed the expression of defeat, deep-seated fear and simmering anger on the brassy-skinned newcomer’s lean face. And though the newcomer did not appear to be resisting—and really, Jean-Robur wondered, what would be the hope of an unarmed mortal youth struggling against the impossibly strong arms of one of the armoured giants?—it was clear from the newcomer’s face that he would rather be anywhere but in this chamber, being dragged before Captain Taelos in the full view of the dozen Triandrians.