Four long years of initiation—four years that would soon come to an end, as the Scouts of Squad Pardus faced the final challenge, and either proved themselves worthy of bearing the mantle of the Black Carapace, or perished in the attempt.
Scout du Queste sat on his haunches along the base of the wall, towelling off his face and neck with the towel he’d taken from the brass railing that ran around the room’s perimeter. Like the other members of Scout Pardus, he was dressed in a sparring chiton of cotton dyed golden yellow, which left his arms and legs bare and free to move. Having finished his most recent bout, he sat with the other Scouts and watched while Veteran-Sergeant Hilts put Scouts Zatori and Taloc through their paces.
With the loss of Kelso in the recent mission on Tunis, there were only eight Scouts remaining in Squad Pardus under the command of Veteran-Sergeant Hilts. Besides the two Triandrians sparring at the centre of the hall, two of the other Scouts stood limbering themselves up a short distance off, Scouts Valen and Sandor, readying to take the next turn under the sergeant’s watchful gaze. The other three members of the squad—Rhomec, Fulgencio and Jedrek—sat in a ragged line along with Jean-Robur, bruised and weary after their own recent bouts.
“I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?” Scout Rhomec asked with an exaggerated sneer, leaning over and indicating Jean-Robur’s right shoulder with a jerk of his chin. “Need to scurry off to the Apothecarion to have that looked at, do you?”
Jean-Robur returned Rhomec’s sneer with one of his own, and shook his head curtly from side to side. “I scarcely felt it, I’m sorry to say. Perhaps next time you’ll do some real damage?”
Rhomec only chuckled in response, and straightened back up, leaning his head against the cold stone of the wall and burying his face in the towel, to mop up the sweat that still streamed from his pores.
Before he’d been culled by the same recruiting mission that had snatched Jean-Robur, Rhomec had been a pitfighter in a hive-world circus. Scarcely out of childhood, not yet fully a man, Rhomec had become a champion gladiator, his weapon of choice the chainsword.
As neophytes none of the Scouts had been given the privilege of fighting an honour duel in the Arena Restricta yet, so alone among them Rhomec bore the scars of single combat, cruelly jagged lightning-shaped marks that zigzagged up from the corners of his mouth towards each ear, trophies earned in his childhood when he had not yet learned to dance back out of the reach of his opponent’s chainsword.
Climbing up from either corner of his mouth, the scars gave Rhomec the appearance of always grinning widely, even when he scowled and frowned in anger. His comical-seeming appearance was somehow fitting, considering the somewhat cruel streak of humour that ran through the brutal young ex-pitfighter.
Jean-Robur had lied, of course. The wallops he’d received from Rhomec’s practice-blade in the shoulder and upper arm, though Sergeant Hilts had castigated the ex-pitfighter about his poor technique, had bruised Jean-Robur to the bone. And though his implant-augmented metabolism had quickly repaired the damage, knitting broken blood vessels and restoring vigour to the impacted flesh, Jean-Robur could still feel the impact of each and every strike, like some kind of muscle memory that kept replaying in his mind the pain of the ex-pitfighter’s attack.
Before Jean-Robur and Rhomec’s bout had been the brief contest between Scouts Fulgencio and Jedrek. On first impression, the two Scouts could not have seemed more dissimilar. Fulgencio had been born in the vast interstellar voids, far from the works of man, while Jedrek was the son of a fisherman sailor on an ocean world which knew neither land nor shore, but which was encircled entirely in seas. Fulgencio had been tall and lithe when he had first been recruited, his body elongated in the manner typical to those who grew up in low-gravity environments, while Jedrek had been short and stocky, with a sailor’s muscled forearms and fingers quick with ropes and knots despite their stubby length. But after the years of initiation, as waves of hormones had lengthened and strengthened their bones and gradually built their muscles to the peak of physical perfection, the two had grown to similar statures and proportions, though Fulgencio still somehow gave the impression of being supple and lithe, while from Jedrek somehow emanated a sense of stalwart solidity. And though one had been born in the starless void and the other on the trackless waters, they had come to realise that they were both the proud sons of far-voyaging sailors, of a sort, though their fathers had sailed on very different seas. In the years of their initiation, the two had become as close as brothers. But like brothers in blood, though either of the two would defend the other against all corners, refusing to hear any unfounded comment or criticism of his fellow sailors’-son, the two often bickered in bitter disagreement, squabbling over minor points of order that others would scarcely have even deigned to notice.
At the moment, the two were arguing over whether or not Scout s’Tonan’s most recent attack had exemplified the technique that Rhetoricus in The Book of Five Spheres had called “striking without thought or form”, or had been as Sergeant Hilts suggested an example of mindless “hitting”. Overhearing them, it hardly seemed to Jean-Robur to make much difference whether one struck without thinking because it was a technique to catch one’s opponent off-guard… or because one simply forgot to think—but to the two sailors’-sons it seemed a matter of the gravest significance.
From the walls of the exercise hall echoed the sound of metal against metal as Scouts Taloc and Zatori again and again brought their blunted swords crashing together, punctuated every few moments by the low but carrying voice of Veteran-Sergeant Hilts commenting on their form, praising this attack or criticising that parry and block.
Watching the bout, Jean-Robur could not help but admire the precision of Zatori’s attacks. There was an economy of motion to the Sipangish’s movements that wasted nothing, employing only the effort and energy needed to move the blade to this particular point in space, to strike that particular point on his opponent’s body. But at the same time, though Taloc’s movements were less disciplined and refined, there was a ferocity and power to his strikes and blows that Jean-Robur had to envy. At times the Eokaroean seemed like a force of nature unleashed upon the sparring hall, whipping his practice sword around like a broken branch caught up in a cyclone, battering at his opponent from all angles and all sides.
When the two of them faced off against each other, Zatori with his gaze narrowed in concentration, Taloc with his pale blue eyes wide and crazed, it sometimes seemed as though the Sipangish were competing in a courtly competition for points and pride, and that the islander truly intended to do his opponent real harm.
How strange then, Jean-Robur reflected, that when Zatori sparred against him that the Sipangish did not fight with narrowed concentration, but instead with a wide-eyed passion that suggested he wanted nothing more than to see Jean-Robur broken and bloodied before him.
* * *
“Remember the words of Rhetoricus, Scouts,” Sergeant Hilts called, his voice as measured and steady as a tolling bell. “When fighting another human, you must become your opponent. Put yourself in your opponent’s place, and think from his point of view.”
Scout s’Tonan seethed through gritted teeth, pale blue eyes wide and glaring at the calm and composed features of Scout Zatori. From the sound of Zatori’s laboured breathing, though, Taloc could tell that the Eokaroean was growing as wearied from the bout as he was. The two neophytes stood a pace apart from one another, their practice swords held at the ready, each waiting for the other to make the next move.
“Remember, too, the principle of releasing deadlock,” Hilts went on. “When you find yourself in a deadlock, with no progress being made, you must immediately change your approach. The victor will be he who is the most effective in choosing which is the correct tactic to use.”
Unbidden, the image of his father Tonan came to Taloc’s mind. After four years of indoctrination and initiation, though, the Scout found it difficult to recall the exact features of his father’s face,
the precise colour of the old man’s eyes or the pattern of the tattoos that marked across his pale skin. Sometimes Taloc would lie awake at night during the rest period, trying to piece together a complete picture of the man who had so dominated his childhood, but try as he might Taloc could not refrain from mixing elements of Rogal Dorn in with his father’s features, or Captain Taelos as he had looked when he had snatched Taloc from the life he had known, or even Veteran-Sergeant Hilts who had ruled over Taloc’s days and nights in the months since he had become a Scout. But while his mental image of his dead father was hazy and incomplete, still the memory of Tonan’s death burned in Taloc’s mind, and still did Taloc feel the weight of his father’s blood-debt burdening his shoulders.
Also, Taloc remembered too well that he had chosen not to take payment on his father’s blood-debt on the battlefield of Eokaroe, but had instead opted to stand with the two faithless invaders against the interlopers from beyond the sky. That decision had altered the course of Taloc’s life, and when it became clear that he could not end the life of the Sipangish faithless onboard an Imperial Fists ship without ending his own life as well, he had opted to bide his time. He knew that he had only to wait until both he and the Sipangish were invested as full battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists and then he could challenge Zatori to an honour duel, and in the duelling blocks of the Arena Restricta finally put paid to his father’s debt of blood. But four years on and it seemed as though that day would never come, and Taloc grew quietly more and more impatient.
In the normal routine of the Scouts’ day, Taloc was able to keep his hunger for violence against Zatori in check, hidden beneath the shell of discipline and self-control that he had learned from his superiors in the Chapter, burying his desire to kill deep in the core of his being.
But today, when Veteran-Sergeant Hilts put a blade in his hands and set him against Scout Zatori in a bout, it had not mattered in that instant that it was merely a blunted practice sword, or that this was merely a sparring match and not a life-and-death duel. In that instant, all of the pent-up resentments had come bubbling forth, and when Hilts had signalled the bout had begun, Taloc could hear the voice of his father echoing in his head, demanding that his blood-debt, long overdue, now be at last paid in full.
And so while Hilts commented and critiqued, and Zatori studiously parried and blocked, Taloc suddenly acted as if he had forgotten all that he had ever learned of the art of the blade, and went on the attack like a man possessed—which in one sense, at least, he was. Taloc was a man possessed by the fading memory of his dead father, and by the imperatives of the warrior-clan that he had left behind.
“Desist,” Veteran-Sergeant Hilts called, clapping his hands together. “Scouts, bow to your opponent and…”
Before Hilts could complete his instructions and order the two combatants to retire to the corners of the room, Taloc surged forwards, ignoring the fact that Zatori had stepped back and lowered the point of his practice blade to the floor.
Taloc’s blunted blade whistled through the air, aimed directly at Zatori’s head. The Sipangish didn’t have time to raise his own sword to block, or to duck out of the way, or even to cry out.
Though his thoughts were clouded by his sudden inchoate rage, Taloc knew that when his blade struck Zatori’s head, at this speed and force, it would be the Apothecarion for the Sipangish.
In the eyeblink-short instant that remained before Taloc’s heavy practice sword smashed into the size of Zatori’s head, Hilts collided with Taloc, knocking the Eokaroean to the ground and sending his practice blade clattering across the tiled floor of the exercise hall.
Taloc scrambled to jump back to his feet, bleary and muttering, “But how—”
“Stay down,” Hilts ordered, standing over the fallen Scout.
Though clad only in a sparring chiton himself, arms and legs bare, and lacking the carapace armour he typically wore, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts was still a battle-brother of the Imperial Fists, a proud warrior of the Adeptus Astartes with more than a century of combat experience. Though the muscles of the Scouts’ augmented and engineered bodies were nearly the equal of Hilts’ own, at least in theory, they lacked his expertise and experience, his agility and his innate speed. The fact that he could cover a span of six paces before Taloc could complete two should have come as no surprise to any of them. Should have come as no surprise, but Taloc was clearly caught flat-footed.
“Five minutes in the pain-glove,” Veteran-Sergeant Hilts said in calm, measured tones, “for failing to stand down as ordered. Then report to Apothecary Lakari for a check of your adrenals. You might need a reinforcing round of hypno-conditioning.” Hilts paused, glancing from the supine Taloc to Zatori and then back. “Now stand.”
As Taloc climbed to his feet, his pale cheeks burned red with embarrassed shame. During the implantation stages of the initiation process, neophytes often fell afoul of severe emotional fluctuations, as their already belaboured bodies struggled to cope with the new organs introduced to the system. Sudden rages were a frequent occurrence among neophytes in the midst of those stages, and frequent sessions in the hypnomat were prescribed by the Apothecary as a matter of course. But to be a full Scout, supposedly with all but one of his implanted organs functioning at full efficiency, was to Taloc a shameful indignity, a sign that he was not as developed and progressed as his brethren.
Of course, Taloc reasoned, better that Hilts ascribe his murderous rage to an imbalance of his bodily humours, than to suspect that Taloc had truly wished his fellow Scout harm. And there was the fact that Taloc could not say with any degree of certainty that his rage had not been influenced or enflamed by such an imbalance, for that matter.
“My apologies, veteran-sergeant,” Taloc said in a low voice, bowing from the waist with his hands at his sides. “I accept discipline with humble shame.”
Hilts nodded. “As you should. Now, off the floor, the both of you.” He turned to the pair who stood waiting to spar in the next bout, practice swords in hand. “Scouts Valen and Sandor, take the floor.”
As battle practice drew to a close, and the Scouts prepared to enter the ablution chambers, to don once more their tunics and boots before proceeding to midday prayers, a Chapter serf came to the exercise hall with a data-slate for Veteran-Sergeant Hilts.
As Valen and Sandor caught their breath, and mopped their sweaty brows and necks with towels and joined their squadmates along the wall, Hilts studied the data-slate with his characteristic speed and concentration. Then he handed the slate back to the Chapter serf without a word, and turned to address the eight squadmates before him.
“It seems we have a change of routine,” Hilts said, clasping his hands behind his back once more, his habitual stance when addressing the squad. “From the ablution chamber you are to proceed directly to the armoury, where you will don your full Scout armour and be issued with bolt pistols and blades. We will muster at 12.30 hours in the departure bay.”
A few of the Scouts cocked eyebrows at the announcement, but none of them gave voice to their curiosity over what the change in their routine suggested, or whether they were bound for some undertaking or action. They knew it would mean a session in the pain-glove were they to speak out of turn, and after their four years of initiation there were none of them foolish enough to speak without being first given leave.
Even so, the fact that they hesitated in following the sergeant’s orders was, in itself, suggestive of the curiosity that was burning within each of them.
“Why do you delay?” Veteran-Sergeant Hilts asked needlessly, a barely detectable trace of humour laced through his evident annoyance. “Dismissed!”
Leaving their sodden towels and practice swords scattered on the tiled floor for the Chapter serfs to address, the Scouts of Squad Pardus hurried from the exercise hall in tight-lipped silence, their minds racing with thoughts about what might lie ahead of them.
With time to spare before 12.30 hours was chimed, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts and the eight squa
dmates of Scout Squad Pardus emerged through a massive hatchway into the cavernous departure bay.
Like all of the neophytes in the squad, Scout Zatori wore the gold armour of the Space Marine Scout. It was not the power armour worn by full battle-brothers. Instead, the Scout armour was simpler, more light-weight and quieter in movement, with a greater freedom of motion, but in exchange not nearly so formidable and durable. Formed of thick plates of carapace armour that were capable of stopping a slug projectile, the armour offered no motive power or strength enhancement, and perhaps as importantly left the wearer’s head bare and unarmoured. Each of the Scouts had a bolt pistol bolstered at one hip, and a combat blade hung at the other.
Unlike his battle-brothers in their suits of power armour, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts wore the same carapace armour as the Scouts he commanded, and like his subordinates in Squad Pardus, Hilts’ head was bare. At Hilts’ left hip hung a power sword, at his right was bolstered a bolt pistol.
Scout Zatori had been in the departure bay only a handful of times in his four years onboard the fortress-monastery Phalanx, most of them in the last few months either departing on or returning from an undertaking under the command of Veteran-Sergeant Hilts. But even though he’d seen the departure bay several times before, each time he entered it was for Zatori like the first time, and he was all but completely overwhelmed by the sheer size and scale of the place.
Though he knew intellectually that the Phalanx was a mobile space station the size of a small moon, bristling with towering spires and buttresses, living onboard the fortress-monastery it was a difficult fact to hold in mind. Certainly while meditating in the Solitorium, that long starlit gallery that ran along the base of the fortress-monastery where the naked stars glinted through high lancet windows of stained armour-glass, one was always conscious of the fact that the Phalanx was surrounded on all sides by the cold void of the vacuum. But even given the majestic dimensions of the chapels and cathedrals, the Assimularum and Scriptoriums, it was too easy when living onboard to forget the sheer immenseness of the fortress-monastery. It was easy to imagine oneself living in a large city, perhaps, or a gigantic temple structure on some planet.
[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn Page 13
