Master of sanctity, p.23
Master of Sanctity, page 23
Asmodai left, leaving the others secure in the knowledge that he did not make idle threats.
Contemplation
The clamour of rivet-binders, molecular drills and lascutters had passed. The Techmarines and servitors had left. Armoury bay seven of the Implacable Justice was almost completely silent. Almost.
There was the ever-present thrum of plasma drives and the almost imperceptible hiss of gases and liquids passing through the pipes overhead. The quiet scrape of a slightly misaligned fan in one of the overhead air circulators broke the still. Muffled by bulkheads came the clatter of machinery from the servants of the armoury continuing their labours in bay six.
Annael knelt beside Black Shadow, alone with his steed. Seven days out from Ulthor and it was the first time he had an opportunity to offer thanks to the bike for saving his life – and the life of Sabrael. He whispered devotions to the machine-spirit of the bike. Arranged on the deck in front of him were four jars, each containing a different sacred libation. The Techmarines had taken some convincing to part with them, but Annael’s impassioned pleas to make dedication to his steed had proven enough.
He had already flushed the engine with the Oils of Vitality and polished the metalwork with the Unguent of Readiness. He had applied the Lubricant of Swiftness with a square of soft material stitched with four sacred runes, the meaning of which remained a mystery to him. The last, the Tonic of Cleansing, remained stoppered for the moment.
In his right hand Annael held the litanies he had hastily scribbled as they had been recited on the other bikes, and he was sure he had misheard. It was impossible though, his hearing was pitch perfect. He spoke the words, knowing that he lacked understanding of their deeper meaning, in the hope that Black Shadow’s machine-spirit would be pleased.
Finishing the chant, he pulled the stopper from the bottle, his gauntlets making the task a little awkward. He poured a little of the contents onto the bristles of a small brush in his left hand. He stood upon and started to clean around the runepad and dial controls of the bike’s main display. A gentle froth built up, which he delicately wiped away with the blessed cloth.
Sharing this moment with his steed allowed Annael to think about what had happened on Ulthor free from guilt or concern. Away from his battle-brothers he could look back at the memory and glean what he could from the experience. He found it hard to imagine that Sammael had led them into such a debacle. From the moment they had entered the city the Ravenwing had been at a disadvantage.
Annael told himself that whatever had been on the planet – whoever this Fallen Angel was they had been seeking – it must have been important. It was hard though, to have faith without question. Since the Seventh Rite, since learning the truth about what had happened during the Horus Heresy – the deeper truth not shared even with the rest of the Second Company – he had felt tainted by the knowledge. He understood why it had to remain secret, on an intellectual level. It was a dangerous thing to know, that even a Dark Angel could be flawed. It was one of the seeds of doubt the Chaplains had repeatedly warned against during Annael’s centuries of service. The seed of doubt was nurtured by selfishness, secrecy and unbrotherly thoughts. But the same Chaplains that had taught him this now demanded that he keep silent what he had learned.
In the fraternal prayers and briefings he had felt uneasy amongst his battle-brothers. He was worried that a strange mania would seize him; cause him to blurt out to everybody the truth of what he had been told.
He sought reassurance, applying himself to the cleansing of Black Shadow with focus and vigour. He wanted to talk about the changes he was undergoing, but it felt foolish to speak of them with the other Black Knights. Tybalain and the rest seemed untroubled by their burden. They were made from much sterner stuff, Annael recognised. He had thought to broach the subject with Chaplain Malcifer but when opportunity presented itself each day after massed benediction he would find himself leaving with the others, his concerns bottled up.
He needed a confidant that would not judge him, or pity him; someone that he could share his secrets with and so aid in the carrying of the burden.
‘Would that you could carry it too,’ he said to Black Shadow. He ran the brush down the side of the vid-screen, picking out flecks of dirt. It occurred to Annael that perhaps it was not such a strange notion. His steed bore him into battle, and through its strength Black Shadow carried him to victory and brought him back to safety. Perhaps it could offer more. Certainly it would not speak to any other of Annael’s confessions.
‘If you could speak, what tales would you tell,’ Annael said, feeling foolish but pressing on with hope that he had found an answer to his problem. ‘A spirit seven thousand years old, given new body after new body. There is little you have not seen, faithful steed. Traitors and allies, victory and defeat, honour and shame. I wonder how I compare to those that rode before me. Am I worthy? Have I proven my courage and dedication as well as they did?’
He applied the brush with determination, sharing in the action of cleansing.
‘Many brothers died on Ulthor. Some of yours too will not return to the armoury. Do you feel their loss? I used to think that not a battle-brother died without purpose. I am not sure that is true. What will be said of their deaths when we return to the Tower of Angels? What will they put in the Roll of Heroes? “They died in battle”. We all die in battle, it is the fate every Space Marine shares. Even you, Black Shadow, perpetual mount, will die some day. Not while I can prevent it, of course. You have saved me and I will repay the debt a thousand times if necessary.’
Annael placed the bottle and brush on the deck and swung a leg over his bike to sit in the saddle. He gripped the handlebars, feet still on the floor, and felt welcome.
‘What goal did we serve, coming here?’ There was no plan behind his words, just a flow of thoughts that needed to be set free from the confines of his mind. ‘Will they ever tell us? It troubles, and perhaps it should not, that I might be killed and not know the reason why my life was laid upon the altar of battle. Is that selfish? Probably. It is not my place to reason the manner of how or where I fight. I am a weapon, made by the Emperor for the protection of His domains. I am a Dark Angel, a son of the Lion, and to serve the Supreme Grand Master is my only purpose.’
He fell silent and listened for a moment, thinking he had heard a sound of someone entering the armoury bay. Nothing disturbed the usual noises.
‘Of course, I know these thoughts are wrong. I should share them with Brother Malcifer so that he may set mind at rest and renew attention to duty. Is it a disobedience not to confess my failings, surely it is, but I cannot bring myself to air these doubts, knowing it should bring shame upon me. Cleansing and penance have their place, but why should I not ask these questions? I am a Black Knight, favoured of the Ravenwing, holder of the secrets of the Seventh Rite.’
Even uttering this fact felt like an act of betrayal to the Chapter. More than that, it felt as though he made a mockery of the deaths of Zarall and Araton. He had not spoken to Malcifer or his squadron-brothers of the guilt that still surrounded events on Thyestes. Disobedience had brought him here, through the sacrifice of his battle-brothers’ lives, and to squander that on the fear of punishment was itself a terrible crime. It might have been better had he stayed true to duty and ignored Sabrael on that cold night. He would likely be dead, but perhaps that would be preferable to the angst that plagued him.
‘It is unseemly to prefer the company of machines to flesh.’ Sabrael’s voice shocked Annael out of his contemplative mood. He turned in the saddle to see his battle-brother approaching across the bay, pistol on one hip, the Blade of Corswain scabbarded at the other. Annael wondered if Sabrael ever had a moment’s doubt; if his vainglorious facade hid something more sinister. ‘Unless you would prefer the red of the Techmarine to being a Black Knight.’
‘I pay homage to the machine-spirit,’ Annael said quickly, waving a hand towards the unguents as explanation.
‘You provide further evidence of your guilt.’ Sabrael stopped a couple of metres away, a smirk on his lips.
‘Guilt?’ said Annael. ‘What guilt?’
‘I spoke in jest, but perhaps without thought,’ said Sabrael, growing serious. ‘A man who seeks solace in the company of his machine might perhaps prefer it to pass unremarked.’
‘No, not at all,’ said Annael. He forced a smile and good humour. ‘I felt it worthwhile to appease my steed after the iniquitous deed of saving your worthless hide.’
‘Saving my…?’ Sabrael grinned and shook his head. ‘Had it not been for my swift action on the retreat we would have both been swallowed by that wall of filth!’
‘Had you not been hanging from the back of my steed like a drunken jokaero I would have been out of the city with time to spare.’
‘I think you will find that had I not intercepted that incendiary attack on your behalf, you would currently be a crispy stain on the roads of Ulthor.’
The outrageousness of Sabrael’s claim left Annael speechless, first with indignation and then with the absurdity of the debate. Annael’s smile was genuine now, darker thoughts forgotten, spirit lifted by the simple camaraderie.
‘Come with me, brother,’ said Sabrael turning away.
‘Where to?’ Annael asked. Sabrael did not reply, so he dismounted and followed the other Space Marine.
They cut between the other bikes of the Black Knights, including Sabrael’s new steed. It was a standard Ravenwing mount, with bolters not plasma talon, freshly painted and polished, the old machine-spirit installed into its cogitating banks. Sabrael stopped beside it for a moment, laid a hand on the saddle and moved on.
At the back of the bay, under the shadow of dormant cranes and running gear, Sabrael stopped beside a door barred by a wheel lock. He spun the lock, which opened without a sound, and pulled the door. Beyond was a narrow passageway, just wide enough for a Space Marine to pass in armour. Sabrael stepped through the doorway and turned left.
‘Where are we going?’ whispered Annael, standing at the doorway. The corridor was lined with pipes, a faint steam in the air; a maintenance conduit. There was no answer from Sabrael. Annael hesitated for a few more seconds, remembering what had transpired the last time he had followed Sabrael against his better judgement. His companion’s natural confidence was infectious though, and Annael’s curiosity had been piqued. He stepped into the corridor and followed, the other Space Marine silhouetted against dull orange lamps twenty metres ahead.
The access space ran along the armoury bays, parallel to the main thoroughfare of the deck that ran half the length of the ship. He had to stop to turn and look back, the cramped confines restricting his movement. As far as he could see the conduit ran aft, buried within the armoured skin of the strike cruiser.
‘Come on, you laggard,’ Sabrael called back. He had opened another door and was lit by pale yellow light from another armoury bay. ‘You walk as slowly as you ride.’
Sabrael waited until Annael had caught up with him before stepping through the opened hatch.
‘Welcome,’ said the Space Marine as Annael followed, ‘to Armoury Bay One.’
‘Bay One? Is that not the personal armoury of Grand Master Sammael?’
His question needed no spoken answer. The bay itself was half the size of the others, about fifty metres by one hundred. There was loading and maintenance equipment stored along the walls, and at the centre of the deck waited Corvex and Sableclaw – the Grand Master’s jetbike and Land Speeder. Annael had seen Sammael’s famous steeds in battle, but never so close, never able to examine them in detail.
Both anti-grav machines were locked to the deck in broad clamps, pistons and hydraulics holding the skimmers in place. Annael went first to Sableclaw while Sabrael inspected Corvex. The Land Speeder’s gun mounts were empty at the moment, the ammunition feeds and hoppers opened for maintenance and cleaning. Annael had training on a Land Speeder – all Ravenwing warriors could pilot skimmers as well as the aircraft used by the Second Company – and the controls were mostly familiar. There was a complex suite of scanner arrays and communications screens that he assumed were for commanding the company.
He wanted to run a hand over the jet-black paint; to climb up into the driver’s chair or the gunner’s cupola. The urge was almost overwhelming but he fought it, knowing that it would be an act of disrespect.
He turned around and found that his companion shared no such constraint; Sabrael sat astride Corvex, turning the handlebars and leaning left and right as though slaloming through an enemy battleline.
‘Sabrael!’ snapped Annael.
‘Does it suit?’ asked the other Space Marine. ‘Do you think I will be a fine Grand Master?’
‘I think you a fool if you aspire so highly,’ laughed Annael. ‘Who would give you command of a company? You can barely control yourself.’
‘Is that not to my advantage?’ said Sabrael. Annael realised he was being serious. ‘The unexpected, the daring, they are the greatest weapons of the Ravenwing. I am sword master, bearer of the Blade of Corswain, Black Knight of the Dark Angels. Why should I not be a Grand Master one day?’
‘Tybalain may have greater claim before you.’ Annael did not want to tell his battle-brother, but the thought of Sabrael leading the Second Company was nearly more dread-inspiring than the denizens of Ulthor. ‘It is unseemly to harbour such ambitions. Be content with your current station.’
‘I do not seek to usurp any other’s rightful claim, nor ignore the chain of command. I merely dream of serving with even greater glory. Is that so wrong?’
Annael did not reply, perturbed by the topic. He took several steps towards the other Space Marine, intending to pull him off the jetbike. A thrum of electricity and the flicker of overhead lights filled the chamber before he had the chance. One of the bay’s main doors rumbled open, revealing a solitary figure standing on the ramp down to the central corridor. He was short and young, a serf dressed in the red robes of the armoury. He had a digi-slate in his hands and seemed preoccupied as he stepped into the chamber. He looked up, stopped, eyes widening as he saw the two Space Marines.
‘You… You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said, hands trembling.
‘We are Black Knights, the right hand of the Grand Master,’ said Annael, stepping away from the two machines. Sabrael dismounted and gave Corvex a parting pat on the handlebars.
‘That is right, we pass where Sammael passes. Who are you to question our right to be here?’
‘You misunderstand me, masters,’ said the serf. He bowed in apology. ‘I merely meant that Lord Sammael has issued order for the company warriors to assemble for briefing. It sounded important.’
‘Damn,’ muttered Sabrael. He looked at Annael. ‘I knew I came to tell you something. It slipped my mind.’
‘Idiot!’ snapped Annael. ‘Selfish, vain, pompous idiot!’
Sabrael was already heading towards the open door, breaking into a run.
‘If you had not been cleaning your bike,’ Sabrael called back, ‘none of this would have happened.’
Annael glared at the serf, who stepped back, holding up the digi-slate like a shield.
‘I do not have time for this,’ said Annael, shaking his head. He followed after Sabrael, realising that whoever arrived at the briefing last would have the most penance to complete.
PART THREE
THARSIS
Old Wounds
With Asmodai and a squad of Deathwing as escort, Sapphon opened the door to the cell. Astelan looked up, closed the book slowly and stood. He was pensive.
‘We have arrived?’ asked the Fallen.
‘Yes, we will make low orbit over Tharsis in twelve minutes,’ replied Sapphon.
‘Come with us,’ said Asmodai, beckoning to the Fallen with a brusque wave.
‘My guard dog, I presume?’ Astelan smiled insincerely at Asmodai, who said nothing, jaw clenched with anger.
‘If you attempt to escape or if you attempt to mislead us, if you attempt to make unauthorised communication with anyone or attempt to contact the enemy you will be executed immediately.’ Sapphon emphasised each point slowly, gauging the Fallen’s reaction. Astelan nodded his consent but stopped as they turned down the corridor.
‘I am under-dressed for the occasion,’ said the Fallen, holding out his arms and looking down at the plain grey robe of a prisoner.
‘What do you mean?’ said Sapphon.
‘If you attempt to delay or hinder us, you will be executed,’ said Asmodai. His gauntleted fingers flexed on the haft of his crozius arcanum. ‘Do you wish to make further objection or would you prefer to be returned to the Rock where your just punishment awaits?’
‘Justice will come to each of us, I assure you,’ said Astelan. He turned his attention to Sapphon. ‘I am serious. You cannot expect me to proceed without war-plate.’
‘Out of the question!’ said Asmodai.
‘I am inclined to agree,’ said Sapphon.
Astelan folded his arms defiantly.
‘Anovel will be expecting communication from Astelan, Lord Commander of Tharsis. The astropaths will need to send images to confirm my identity. If I am not garbed in battle-plate it will arouse suspicion.’
‘I warned that he would push us further,’ Asmodai said to Sapphon. He looked at the Deathwing. ‘Return him to his cell.’
The Terminators stepped forward but were stopped by a word and a raised hand from Sapphon.
‘Not yet,’ said the Master of Sanctity. ‘He makes valid argument.’
Asmodai looked at Sapphon for several seconds without blinking.
