[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn

by Chris Roberson - (ebook by Undead)

  “Long before the primarch of the Ultramarines, the honoured Roboute Guilliman, formulated the Codex Astartes, the battle-brothers of the VII Space Marine Legion were governed by traditions of honour and discipline handed down from the most ancient traditions of Terra itself. Those first Imperial Fists revered the purity of the blade, and regarded the sword as the noblest of all weapons. Founded on Terra itself, the VII Legion inherited from the ancient Terran warrior-cults a tradition of honour duels, ritual combats that bound brothers together through the giving and receiving of honour.”

  Zatori felt a frisson of recognition, remembering the combat ethos of the warrior-elite that he had learned from his master Father Nei, and the veneration with which the swordsmen of Sipang had always regarded their tachinas.

  “But while the adoration of the blade and the tradition of honour duels has been with the Imperial Fists since earliest days, in the estimation of most within the Chapter it was not until Rhetoricus codified the Rites of Battle that the accumulated wisdom of our noble traditions was finally distilled into one text. In the sacred pages of The Book of Five Spheres did Rhetoricus record all that he knew of weapons and war.”

  Taelos drew the massive sword which hung at his side, holding the blade upright before him, the tip pointed towards the vaulted ceiling high overhead.

  “Rhetoricus teaches us that the soul of the Imperial Fist can be found in his sword. And it is for this reason that Imperial Fists seldom if ever go to battle without a blade at their side. But it is not only into battle that an Imperial Fist carries his blade. Onboard the fortress-monastery Phalanx, and in the strike cruisers and larger ships of the Imperial Fist fleet, can be found the Arena Restricta, sacred halls hung with ancient and storied blades, temples dedicated to the worship of the sword. And upon that hallowed ground, battle-brothers draw their blades against one another, their feet secured in blocks of gleaming steel, while their brethren sit in solemn witness from above. We duel to settle a dispute, or to prove the strength of one proposition against its counter, or merely to test the mettle of one battle-brother against another. And though the wounds inflicted in the honour duel are seldom fatal, it is rare to find an Imperial Fist of years who does not bear somewhere on him the badges of honour won in the Arena Restricta.”

  Captain Taelos reached up a gauntleted hand and brushed a metal-shod fingertip against the crisscrossed scars that marked his cheeks.

  “Not until your implants have taken hold and your muscles have completed their accelerated growth will you be introduced to the art of the blade as practised by our Chapter,” the captain went on. “And many of you who had some experience with the use of swords in your previous lives may well have to unlearn what you have been taught, if your former skills prove a hindrance to gaining true proficiency in the art. But while you will begin to practise the sword’s art while still neophytes, and as Scouts will even have the privilege of carrying a blade into battle if the circumstances demand, only full battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists are allowed to step into the duelling blocks of the Arena Restricta. Not until you have gained the final implant, and the Black Carapace lies beneath your skin to bind you to your holy power armour, will you be allowed to participate in an honour duel. Any aspirant or neophyte who raises a blade against his brother until that time does so in contravention of Chapter precepts, and will be summarily stripped of standing and rank.”

  Zatori glanced to his right, across the hall to where Jean-Robur sat on a hard metal bench between a pair of other aspirants. Could this honour duel be the solution to Zatori’s dilemma? A way to put the spirit of Father Nei to rest without sacrificing his own honour—to say nothing of his life? But if it was, it would be a solution long in coming, as there were many years remaining until Zatori would take on the Black Carapace. And it would mean that he could not make a move against Jean-Robur until that time. Worse still, Zatori could only accomplish his ends if both he and Jean-Robur survived the implantation procedures and any combat missions on which they might be sent as Scouts, and both lived long enough to be welcomed as full battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists.

  So be it, Zatori thought, turning his attention back to Captain Taelos, giving no outward sign of the plans he was formulating aside from a slight narrowing of his gaze, as if in deep thought. I will wait to take my revenge, and the vengeance will taste no less sweet for the delay.

  Zatori did not notice the island warrior Taloc looking in his direction with a similarly thoughtful narrowed gaze.

  “The hallmark of an Imperial Fist is discipline and self-control,” Sergeant Hilts said, standing with his hands clasped behind him before the serried ranks of aspirants. “Allowing unchecked impulses to govern your action, or succumbing by giving into desire, is the path to excess, which is one of the principal doorways to Chaos. Whether fighting alone or in formation with your brothers-in-arms, it is imperative that an Imperial Fist at all times remains conscious of his actions and their effects, that he follows the orders which have been issued to him, and that he not make any rash or ill-considered action. Your enemy, however, will be aware of this, and will be forever tempting you to abandon your discipline and control and act in a thoughtless and inopportune manner. But the Space Marine has the faith and resilience to resist such temptation.”

  Jean-Robur du Queste stood at attention alongside the other aspirants in the cavernous assembly hall of the strike cruiser Capulus. Before them on a dais stood Captain Taelos, flanked on one side by a pair of veteran-sergeants, and on the other side by Librarian Borgos, Apothecary Lakari and Chaplain Dominicus.

  There were only twelve aspirants now, their number winnowed from the hundred or so of a month or more ago to the dozen deemed most suitable to continue with the initiation process. On either side of Jean-Robur stood the only other Triandrians to have made it this far, the barbaric Taloc and the calculating Zatori. Around them stood the sons of mining worlds and hive worlds, of agri-worlds and death worlds. A dozen youths thoroughly vetted, sampled, tested and examined, who had been found to be without any physical defect or mental aberration which would prevent them from beginning the long process which would gradually transform them from human into superhuman, from mere mortals into Adeptus Astartes.

  “From this moment forwards,” Captain Taelos said, his helmet under his arm and his scarred-cheeked face bare to the world, “you are no longer aspirants, no longer candidates. From this moment onwards, you are neophytes of the Imperial Fists Chapter.”

  The twelve youths had received enough instruction from their superiors that they knew better than to respond, in word or movement, unless ordered to do so. Instead, they stood silently at attention like a row of graven statues, their arms rigid at their sides and their eyes fixed on the captain before them.

  “The ease and tranquillity of the previous weeks are now at an end,” Captain Taelos continued. “Be advised that the comfort and relaxation of your time as aspirants is no more, and that the life of a neophyte is one of constant toil and testing.”

  If the newly-minted neophytes found any irony in the fact that the month of torment and torture they had just endured, straining their minds and bodies to the limit, was being described as “comfort and relaxation”, they gave no outward sign of it. For his part, Jean-Robur could only suppress a shudder, imagining what the coming days held if what the captain said were true.

  “The Capulus has re-entered normal space,” the captain went on, “and is now in final approach to rendezvous with the rest of the Imperial Fists fleet. In short order, we will dock with the fortress-monastery Phalanx, and you twelve will be presented to Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh himself. When you boarded this ship, whether voluntarily or under duress, you were the sons of distant worlds, far-flung outposts of humanity, each with your own language and culture, your own identities and traditions. You now share a common language, and what is more you also share a common culture—that of the Sons of Dorn—and a common tradition—the proud history of the Imperial Fists. Even more
important, though, you now share a common identity. As neophytes, you are taking your first steps towards becoming members of a most respected Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. But as recruits, you cannot be coerced into accepting this proud destiny. You must choose it for yourselves.”

  Captain Taelos raised a gauntleted hand and held it palm-outwards towards the twelve youths. Dressed identically in belted tunics, loincloths and boots, and all of them now with shorn hair atop their heads, the former aspirants were of varying colouration and facial features, but still they had come to resemble one another in some ineffable way. Though this one had a lean face and this one a round one, this one fine hair and this one coarse, they still could have passed as brothers. Perhaps it was the inner fire that burned in the eyes of each of them, the same that Jean-Robur had noted. Perhaps their faces and features were different, but in some more substantial way their spirits were the same.

  “If you would accept the destiny being offered to you,” Captain Taelos said, hand still stretched out towards them, “take one step forwards, and you will then accompany me onto the Phalanx. If you cannot accept, remain standing, and a place will be found for you among the Chapter serfs on this strike cruiser.”

  Keeping his gaze fixed ahead, Jean-Robur immediately took a long stride forwards. Then, planting his feet together, he stood once more at attention.

  Captain Taelos nodded once. “Look to your right and to your left,” he ordered.

  Jean-Robur glanced to one side and then the other, at the former aspirants who stood in a neat rank with him, Taloc on one side and Zatori on the other.

  “All twelve of you have taken the first step together,” the captain said. He tightened his outstretched hand into a gauntleted fist. When he spoke again, his voice grew gradually louder and louder, the echoes of his words booming back from the far corners of the hall.

  “May the Emperor and primarch grant that you all take the final step together, as well.”

  The captain lowered his helmet over his head, and then drew his sword. With the handle of his sword in his right hand, and his left hand curled into a fist and held overhead, he shouted the final words as loud as a battle cry.

  “May you emerge transformed by the crucible of pain as battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists!”

  PART THREE

  “The craftsman, in his work, must comprehend measurements and design, and have a mastery of each of the tools at his disposal. In the same way, the warrior must comprehend tactics and strategy, and master each of the weapons in his arsenal.”

  –Rhetoricus, The Book of Five Spheres

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The days onboard the Phalanx began early, after just four hours of rest period. The Scouts of the 10th Company, joined by those neophytes who had not yet been inducted into the combat ranks, mustered in the fortress-monastery’s immense cathedral. There they were led by the company Chaplain Lo Chang in renewing their oaths to the God-Emperor. Any battle-brothers not currently away from the fortress-monastery on an undertaking also gathered in the cathedral, even those under the treatment of the Apothecarion for injuries sustained in battle. That morning, there had been nearly six full companies of Imperial Fists gathered to hear Chaplain Chang invoke the name of the primarch and to entreat the continued support and guidance of the Emperor.

  “Oh Dorn, dawn of our being,” the Chaplain had intoned, reciting the words of the Primarch’s Prayer, “be with us, illuminate us.”

  After the prayer service came the morning firing exercises. Each of the Scout squads adjourned to one of the Phalanx’s many firing ranges to hone their marksmanship. Though the Chapter revered the blade, even the most traditionalist and romantic of Imperial Fists readily admitted that close combat was not always the appropriate tactic to employ, and so neophytes were required to gain proficiency in ranged weaponry before ever being inducted into the ranks of the Scouts. And in particular they were expected to attain mastery over the bolter, holy weapon of the Adeptus Astartes, bringer of the Emperor’s own divine retribution.

  Even after the neophytes had been inducted into the Scouts, and sent into combat situations to gather intelligence or assist in a support capacity for the battle-brothers of the Chapter, there continued to be the constant emphasis on improving their skills and proficiency. After all, if the full battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists participated twice daily in firing exercises, why should their junior brethren be any exception?

  After two hours of firing exercises, the Scouts moved to one of the myriad of exercise halls in the fortress-monastery to engage in five hours of battle practice. For the past weeks the Scouts of Squad Pardus had engaged in live-fire exercises along with the Scouts of Squads Vulpes, Luscus and Ursus. Wearing their full combat Scout armour, the squads had been divided into two teams and set against each other in mock combat, with the intent of the exercises being not only to drill in various tactics, but to gain essential practice in coordinating action between elements of a fighting group when out of line-of-sight, using voxed exchanges to establish the position and movement of one’s teammates. Today, however, Sergeant Hilts had announced that Squad Pardus would be drilling alone, and rather than working on cooperative tactical exercises, they would be sparring one-on-one, practising the art of the blade—albeit with blunted practice swords instead of combat weaponry.

  As heavy as combat blades were, though, the blunted practice swords were designed to be even heavier, so that the Scouts would become accustomed to the greater heft and, in overcoming the weight, be that much more agile and lithe with combat weaponry on the battlefield.

  “Mind your blade’s angle of attack, Scout Zatori,” Sergeant Hilts called out, hands clasped at the small of his back as he watched the bouts progress. “From that position the arc-path of your blade could be too easily parried by a simple upswing of your opponent’s sword. And Scout s’Tonan, remember that there is a difference between striking and hitting. Your movements should be conscious and deliberate, not merely forceful.”

  When battle practice finally reached its end, the Scouts would prepare to adjourn and hear the midday prayer for an hour, and would then gather with the rest of the 10th Company in the Assimularum where the Chapter serfs would serve the midday meal. Then the day would continue on as it always did, with more prayers and more training, indoctrination in the hypnomats and study in the scriptoriums, more firing exercises and rituals, before finally returning to their dormitories to rest for four hours before rising and doing the whole thing again. The routine onboard the Phalanx seldom deviated, nor had it for millennium after millennium.

  But for the Scouts of Veteran-Sergeant Hilts’ Squad Pardus, their routine would eventually be abandoned, and what the coming days would hold none of them would be able to guess.

  It had been some four years since the neophytes had boarded the Phalanx, and with the blessing of Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh had begun the lengthy initiation of the Adeptus Astartes. Four years of surgical procedures and chemical treatments, near-endless hypno-conditioning and long indoctrination sessions. The neophytes had now undergone all but one of the implantation procedures, with sixteen organs added to their young bodies. Neophytes of other Chapters would have been implanted with eighteen organs by this stage of the initiation process, but in ages past the Imperial Fists had lost the Sus-An Membrane, the “hibernator” that allowed other Astartes to enter a state of suspended animation, and the Betcher’s gland, the “poison-bite” that allowed Space Marines of other Chapters to spit corrosive venom. But as Rhetoricus had written, the Imperial Fists did not bemoan the loss of these two abilities. The Imperial Fists used what talents and abilities that remained to mercilessly crush their enemies.

  With the sixteen organs successfully implanted and deemed to be functioning properly, the neophytes had been inducted into the Scouts, and sent onto the field of battle in support positions. Already the Scouts of Squad Pardus had participated in several expeditions, though they had not yet seen much of actual combat, and were stil
l untested in battle.

  But though their actions had been largely limited to reconnaissance and surveillance operations, with only limited engagements with the enemy and then for only brief encounters until the battle-brothers of the Chapter had arrived to take charge, not all of their squadmates had survived. Scout Kelso had fallen in an undertaking on the planet Tunis, for one, though he was honoured in death by the Chapter, his name entered into the rolls of the fallen dead. But still more of them had perished before ever becoming Scouts, when their implants failed to develop properly, and their metabolisms raged out of synchronisation; the memory of the last hours of those unfortunates was still fresh in the minds of all the neophytes, months and years later, as their fellow neophytes either lapsed into endless catatonia or burned themselves out in fits of irrepressible hyperactivity.

  The neophytes would remain Scouts until the time that they had at last proven their valour and skill on the field of battle, at which point they would be marked out for the seventeenth and final implantation procedure. Only when the Black Carapace was implanted beneath their skin, the subcutaneous membrane allowing their internal organs to interface directly with the holy power armour with which they would then be entrusted, would they finally be elevated to the exalted level of full battle-brothers and take their place among the combat companies of the Imperial Fists Chapter.

  Four long years of hypno-conditioning to aid them in weathering the emotional fluctuations as their bodies struggled to integrate and initiate their new organs. Long years of chemical treatments to aid the body’s acceptance of the implanted organs, while the implants were constantly monitored for any sign of imbalance or corrupt development. Four years of physical training to stimulate the implants and test their effectiveness, and of indoctrination in the hypnomat and hypno-casque to train their minds to function at peak efficiency, learning to control their sensory and nervous systems to degrees unthinkable by normal humans.