Master of sanctity, p.12
Master of Sanctity, page 12
Telemenus had sworn many oaths during his time as a Space Marine: when he had been taken as a novitiate; when he had been accepted into the Tenth Company Scouts; when he had received his black carapace; when he had first put on his power armour; before his first engagement as battle-brother. Twenty-seven oaths in total, not including pre-battle declarations, as he repeated the words intoned quietly by Belial. Of those, this being the twenty-eighth, only this latest recitation made no sense at all. He parroted the words as earnestly as Menthius and Daellon as they knelt in front of the Grand Master, but he could not help but feel that the others somehow drew a deeper meaning than he did.
He wondered if there was a teaching from the Chaplains that he had missed during his several recent incarcerations in the penitentium, or a book of vows he had forgotten to read.
‘By the blood of my left hand I swear allegiance to Aldurukh and the Seven Signs of the Heavens. By the blood of the right hand I offer my life as penance to the fortunes of war. Unto the flat of the blade I place my honour, unto the edge of the blade I place my soul.’
Belial crouched and proffered the Sword of Silence, half of its dark blade exposed from the sheath. In turn, each of the Space Marines taking the oath laid their hands upon the sword for a moment. Belial then lifted the Sword of Silence, kissed the hilt and placed it on the floor beside him.
‘With the Key of Caliban, to bear witness for my brothers-in-arms, I take up the mantle of the charitable, the wise and the strong. With the Key of Caliban, as my brothers-in-arms bear witness for me, I take up the burden of the hopeless, the ignorant and the weak. By such rites, under the stars of the Seventh Tower, I swear on the soul of my liege and my kin to speak nought of what passes in this circle.’
Belial took up the sword again, unsheathed it fully and stood up. With the point barely touching the ground he paced around the three oath-takers, slowly orbiting with the glowing blade. By the flicker of its light, Telemenus could see thousands of such circumferences inscribed in the grey stone of the floor, each a tiny, slightly wavering ring of varying width, dependent upon the number of brothers encircled at the time of the oath, he guessed. Some were at the very edge of the light, enough for a dozen brothers and more, and he wondered if there were larger circles still in which scores of newly elevated Deathwing had sworn their vows at one time. Belial dimmed the blade, lifted the hilt to his forehead and once more slipped it into its scabbard with solemn purpose.
‘My honour is forfeit, my life sacrificed, my family disowned.’
Telemenus said the words, a little disturbed at their meaning. No Dark Angel owed allegiance to their family, not since that first oath at the beginning of their training. His life he had long considered in the hands of fate and his superiors. His honour, however, was something he thought solely his to protect and prize. Why would it be forfeit now?
‘Unto the Order, the Founder and the Lords of the Keep I shall oblige myself to all truth, secrecy and trust.’ Belial finished with a long bow, which the Space Marines returned. When Telemenus looked up again it was to see the Grand Master standing straight with arms folded across his chest.
‘Embarkation aboard the Penitent Warrior begins in thirty minutes. Brother Daellon, Brother Menthius, you will report to Sergeant Arbalan. He will give you instruction.’
The other two battle-brothers departed without a word, though Telemenus caught a glance of concern from Daellon as they turned and left. Belial gestured for Telemenus to stand.
‘Am I not to travel with the company?’ Telemenus asked, horrified by the prospect. He cast his gaze at his bare feet. ‘Have I shamed the Deathwing so greatly?’
‘I am undecided,’ Belial admitted. ‘Look at me.’
Telemenus did so, and found himself the subject of an intense stare that bored into his soul.
‘You lack commitment, Telemenus. Your brothers outstrip you in training and yet you continue to be distracted, losing focus at critical moments.’
Telemenus was about to defend himself, to point out moments of laxity from the others, but a twitch of an eyebrow and curl of a lip from Belial dissuaded him.
‘Yes, Grand Master,’ he said meekly.
‘You are not without skill, that much is certain from your past achievements and battle record,’ said Belial. ‘Your recent excursion was less than exemplary.’
‘Yes, Grand Master.’
There was a long intake of breath and the sound of Belial shifting from one foot to the other and back again as he considered what to do.
‘Please, Grand Master, I implore you not to make rash judgement.’
‘Rash? No judgement I make is rash, brother.’
‘I am a worthy warrior. Give me leave to prove it and I will. If it is not to be, my life will be the price I pay.’
‘And the lives of those that you fight alongside?’ Belial said sharply. ‘Do you offer up those as penance as well? Would you bargain the ruin of all we strive for on your ability to surpass expectation? Your life is worth much – many decades of training and experience as a warrior of the Dark Angels. It is not to be thrown away lightly. Those of your battle-brothers are so much more valuable. But yet all warriors are ultimately expendable. Your armour? Your armour… Its service to the Emperor has outlasted yours tenfold, twentyfold. A relic of the great times of the Legion, that suit you would gladly allow to be damaged, perhaps destroyed.’
‘I did not think, Grand Master.’
‘You did not, and yet sometimes you think all too much. You second-guess the wisdom of those that have honed you into a warrior these many years. Doubt. It is like a stench that surrounds you, Telemenus. I caught its scent the first moment you came to me and it still cloys now, clinging to you no matter what you do to purge yourself of its presence.’
‘I am not worthy, Grand Master. You are right, I should not endanger my battle-brothers with my presence, nor sully the honoured history of my armour. I will remain behind and continue to train.’
‘That is not your decision to make.’ Telemenus glanced up to see Belial regarding him not with anger, or pity, but a calculating look. ‘A bolter can be fired a thousand times, a thousand-thousand times and never jam, and yet on the one occurrence it does misfire it could be fatal. There is no end to the test of battle, and no means to prove beforehand which bolt will misfire.’
Telemenus was not quite sure whether that boded well or ill for him. He chose a platitude that seemed to suit the situation.
‘I am subject to your will, Grand Master.’
Belial thought some more, every passing second drawing out the agony, each moment a lifetime of uncertainty for Telemenus to endure.
‘Your brothers still hold you in high regard, and Sergeant Arbalan informs me that you make progress with each passing day,’ the Grand Master said eventually. He laid a hand on Telemenus’s shoulder, surprising the Space Marine, who jolted upright and was met by a more kindly gaze than he had come to know. ‘You will come with us, and you will continue to train. I will leave it to the reports of your brother-sergeant whether I consider you fit and ready for active duty amongst the Deathwing when we arrive at our destination. This is your only warning.’
‘Thank you, Grand Master,’ Telemenus said with a long exhalation of relief.
‘Do not thank me. We leave for perhaps the most dangerous mission any of us will undertake during service to the Emperor. You may yet have cause to regret my indulgence.’
PART TWO
ULTHOR
Painful Divination
It seemed strange that such a ceremony should be conducted in the light, when so much of the Dark Angels inner mysteries took place in darkened chambers, but Harahel had been insistent in the manner in which the chamber aboard the Implacable Justice was arranged. He sat on a plain chair, a small throne almost, beneath a great wheel-like candelabrum, another dozen candles arranged around him at the apexes of a twelve-pointed star enclosed within a circle, in turn encompassing a hexagonal device marked with runes in dribbled lead. These were, Harahel had assured Sapphon, not part of any diabolic ritual, but a means to protect both the Librarian and those that would witness his delving into the warp.
With Asmodai, Belial and Sammael, Sapphon waited as Harahel readied himself, each of them dressed in their robes except for the Librarian who wore his power armour and the wire tracery of his psychic hood. Harahel’s eyes were closed but there was a dull light glowing through the lids, briefly glimpsed more brightly as the eyelids flickered and his eyes moved from side to side.
It looked to the Master of Sanctity as though the Librarian was asleep, his hands tucked together in his lap, head resting back against the chair, legs slightly apart, mouth open just a fraction. There was no sign of the trepidation that had been evident when Harahel had entered; a trepidation Sapphon could easily understand because he felt a similar nervousness himself.
Like all Space Marines he feared no mortal threat; it was impossible for him to be afraid of death or injury or any horrifying creature of flesh and blood. Through psycho-hypnotic suggestion he could control that fear, crush it with iron discipline and drive it down into the depths of his mind where it could not affect his thoughts or actions.
The immortal was an entirely different matter.
As a Chaplain he knew intimately the workings of the Space Marine psyche, including his own, and for ten thousand years many had laboured to eliminate the fear of the supernatural and the uncanny, but no matter what therapies and mind-triggers were introduced there was always a residual reaction to the otherworldly. Sapphon had his own theories on the matter – that the daemonic and the Chaotic interfaced directly with the soul rather than through physical agency that could be barred – but whatever the cause, the fact remained that psykers and the corrupt always brought with them a feeling of unease.
‘Do not fear for my soul, Brother Sapphon,’ Harahel said quietly, sensing the Chaplain’s thoughts. ‘Every hour you spent reciting the hymnals and catechisms of the Chapter I spent hardening my spirit to temptation and possession.’
At the mention of such things Asmodai, standing to Sapphon’s right, shifted his weight, perturbed. A smile crept onto Harahel’s lips.
‘Please, Brother Asmodai, draw your pistol if it would make you feel more comfortable. I assure you, the wards are intact. The only person at risk is me.’ Regardless of the assurance offered by the Librarian Asmodai drew his bolt pistol and aimed at Harahel’s head. ‘Do not be too quick to use your weapon, brother, for there may be strange occurrences that are simply part of my delving into the warp.’
‘You seek to send your soul to a world upon the edge of the Eye of Terror,’ said Asmodai, aim unwavering, ‘and I will take any precaution I feel necessary.’
‘As you see fit, brother. Now I must crave silence and to assist me it would be beneficial if you all focused on a particular thing, to stop the turbulence caused by your disparate thoughts as I enter the immaterial.’
‘The Canticles of Nazeus?’ suggested Sapphon, and received a nod in reply.
He began the invocation, the others joining in after a few moments, their voices rising and falling as they chanted the verses, the acoustics of the chamber rebounding the words back at them in odd harmonies. Harahel was silent and still, though every few seconds a finger would twitch and his brow was deepening into a frown of effort.
The Librarian whispered something and the Space Marines ceased their chanting to listen. Around the Librarian’s head a nimbus of power emerged, a faint glow of greens and blues that shimmered with the candlelight. It seemed to Sapphon that the area within the marked circle was darker than the chamber without, the light being drained away.
‘Boundaries falling, walls breaking, the tumble of worlds and civilisations,’ muttered Harahel, his lips barely moving though his eyes were flicking rapidly behind their lids. ‘The barrier sweeps aside, revealing the light beyond, the silvery path.’
The Librarian straightened on the chair, his power armour whining with movement, limbs trembling slightly as his muscles became rigid for a moment. He relaxed again, frown softening, mouth opening with a gasp.
‘On the border it stands, neither here nor there, real and yet unreal. Claimed but still free, the world of decay, a blossom in the dead garden. Upon the brink of hope and despair it stands. Death and rebirth, the spiral of decline, until nothingness…’
‘He is losing his mind,’ said Asmodai. ‘Or something is taking it!’
‘Hold fire and tongue,’ said Sammael, laying a hand on the Chaplain’s bolt pistol. Asmodai darted a look of annoyance at the Grand Master. Sammael glared back, eyes narrowed. ‘Do not think reputation and rank greater than mine, Asmodai. Lower your weapon, Brother-Chaplain.’
With reluctance, Asmodai dropped the bolt pistol to his side. He glared at Sammael and returned his gaze to Harahel, who had been whispering throughout the exchange. The aura around the Librarian was growing, even as the hemisphere defined by the cabalistic ring continued to darken. The candles were tiny flames now, linked to Harahel with threads of light that danced and wavered as though stirred by a breeze.
‘Look, in the light.’ Belial pointed just above Harahel’s head. In the nimbus of power shapes were coalescing, forming into recognisable features. A forest, drooping leaves turned by autumn to russet and gold, mist streaming between the boles tinged with green and blackness, a diseased smog. In the distance an immense edifice soared above the woods, indistinct, giant and grotesque.
The view was ever-shifting, not a painting but more like a vid-projection on a stream, constantly changing, never quite becoming one thing or another. Sapphon saw storm clouds and rockfalls, tides coming and going, eating away at a towering cliff face of dark stone. He glanced at the others, wondering if they saw the same things: were these projections from Harahel or something else?
More movement caught Sapphon’s eye and he looked around the room. The shadows cast by the guttering light seemed unnaturally sharp, jagged at the edges, not quite corresponding to the people and objects that cast them. The glimmer of the light caused the darkness to undulate in odd ways, ragged shapes hardening and softening like a pic-capturing unit trying to attain focus. Various grotesque silhouettes half-lurked in the shadows, always on the edge of vision, disappearing when the Chaplain turned his gaze upon them. Sapphon wanted to look at the floor behind him, to see what had become of his own shadow, but thought better of it.
‘Ulthor, brother,’ said Sammael, stepping closer to the Librarian. The black of his robe seemed to suck in what little light remained, leaving his face a pale mask floating in gloom. ‘Cast your mind to the world of Ulthor. It is close, brother.’
The two strike cruisers, the Implacable Justice of the Ravenwing and the Penitent Warrior carrying seventy warriors of the Deathwing, had braved a long journey through the warp to rendezvous in wilderness space not far from the last recorded location of Ulthor. On the very edge of the immense tempest known as the Eye of Terror, Ulthor was an unknown quantity. Before making the final jump into the system, breaking into the immaterial fringe of the warp storm itself, the Dark Angels needed to know everything they could.
Harahel flinched and tensed again. His breathing came more quickly and his fingers moved from his lap to grip the arms of the chair.
‘The black rose, a thousand flies crawling on the petals. The stem bends but does not break, swayed by foetid winds carrying pollen of despair to the bright flowers of hope. A choking presence, cloying.’ The Librarian gasped loudly and flung a hand to his face, covering his eyes though they were still shut. The darkness around him was absolute, the vista of light-woven scenes playing about his head turning like a kaleidoscope, coming in and out of focus. ‘A field of maggots, lain beneath the bosom of the world, full of vitality, waiting to burst forth. They hear me. The blind worms see me.’
Beads of sweat were running down the psyker’s brow and the light leaking from beneath his eyelids took on a rusty hue.
‘The warp is claiming him,’ snarled Asmodai, shoving aside Sapphon to stand at the very edge of the psychic circle. ‘Something is burrowing into his mind.’
‘Do not break the field,’ warned Sapphon, taking a step closer. ‘We must trust to his assurances, brother.’
Asmodai darted a look at Sapphon that conveyed his contempt for the assurance of psykers more clearly than any words. Sammael moved up beside the Chaplain, eyes flashing with anger, but he did not lay a hand on Asmodai.
‘The pods, all in a row, dangling from the tree of death like the hangman’s fruit.’ Harahel was feverish now, skin ashen, limbs twitching like a palsy victim. ‘Little skins of metal, peeling back, revealing the maggot within the womb. The thorns drip with blood, coiling about the city, snaring all that would enter.’
‘The city, Harahel, what of the city?’ said Sammael, eyes flicking between Asmodai and the Librarian. ‘Think of the city.’
‘The majesty of decay, towering and fallen, standing solid upon the shifting sands.’ Suddenly the Librarian stood up, knocking the chair to the ground. Sapphon felt a moment of dread as Harahel opened his eyes, revealing milky-white corpse eyes. A rope of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.
‘No!’ shouted Sammael, tackling Asmodai to the floor. Sapphon realised that his fellow Chaplain had been about to shoot.
‘They are here!’ snarled Harahel.
Sapphon looked at the way the Librarian’s features contorted, inhuman, baring teeth, savage and unthinking. He drew his pistol while Asmodai wrestled himself free from the grip of Sammael. The Master of Sanctity aimed at the Librarian’s left eye, knowing the shot would punch through into the pysker’s brain and slay him in an instant, cutting off the conduit for whatever was trying to use his soul as a bridge into the mortal world.
