Master of sanctity, p.3
Master of Sanctity, page 3
‘Colonel Brade’s actions will be scrutinised in due course. It is not the place of the Adeptus Astartes to form trial and jury of members of planetary defence forces.’
‘I spoke of no trial, master. Only tha–’
‘Must I make you swear an oath of silence?’ Sapphon asked quietly. He had caught the rebuke and lowered his tone before it left his lips, refusing to rise to Asmodai’s bait. Any amount of shouting and remonstration would have no effect on the thick-skinned Chaplain. Sapphon was determined that, just for once, Asmodai would think about his actions from some other perspective than through the warped prism of his zealotry.
‘No, master.’ Asmodai stood stock still, hands clasped at his chest, eyes following Sapphon like a hawk watching its prey as the Master of Sanctity started to pace in front of the fireplace. The Chaplain’s immobility was in direct opposition to Sapphon’s need for movement.
‘Your uncompromising nature is lauded by the Supreme Grand Master, and in battle there are none that would not fight beside you. Your efforts against the oldest foe are remarkable and your dedication exemplary. However, why must you seek confrontation so readily? Are there not foes enough in the galaxy for us to fight?’
Sapphon could see Asmodai was straining to speak, to defend himself, not realising the questions were rhetorical. The Master of Sanctity did not care; it made a change that Asmodai was the one feeling discomfort. He continued, head bowed, not looking at his subordinate.
‘For all your accomplishments, and your seniority, the Inner Circle chose me to succeed as Master of Sanctity.’ Sapphon looked at the other Chaplain. ‘You are unstable, Asmodai. Worse, you are destabilising. You are a catalyst for dissent, and the harder you react against the infractions of others the more they will resent you for your lack of fraternal understanding.’
The other Chaplain looked as though he was going to explode, the blood vessels in his neck pulsing with the twin beats of his hearts, a particular scar above his right eye almost pure white against reddening flesh. Still Sapphon would not allow Asmodai to speak.
‘There are two places where you are of use, Asmodai. The first is in the interrogation cell. The second is on the battlefield.’ Sapphon strode to the door and looked left and right theatrically before turning back to Asmodai. The Chaplain’s eyes were narrowed, jaw twitching with indignity. There was no verbal or physical abuse that Sapphon could employ that would make his companion repent of his actions, so only the threat of further humiliation remained. ‘I see neither, and yet here you are. I ask again, why are you not with the Ninth?’
With no specific charge to defend himself against, Asmodai was confronted by the truth behind the question. He answered as if the words were being dragged out of him under pain of death. His fingers flexed into fists and splayed out again in a slow rhythm.
‘Because I disobeyed your orders, master.’
‘Yes, brother,’ said Sapphon. It pleased the Master of Sanctity to see Asmodai flinch at the use of the more familiar term. ‘When confronted with this fact, does it matter the reason for disobedience? How would you deal with such insubordination? The same insubordination of which you have just accused Master Issachar, I might add.’
Asmodai swallowed hard and finally – finally! – looked away, casting his gaze at the ground for a moment, the first sign of shame he had shown since Sapphon’s arrival. He did not speak, and Sapphon took this as a good sign.
‘You make me appear weak, brother,’ Sapphon admitted. Asmodai looked shocked at the revelation. ‘And, compared to you, in some ways I am. The brethren take liberties in front of me that would not enter their minds in your presence. They speak out of turn. They are flippant. But, they never disobey orders. Only you dare to go that far. Do you think I am weak, Brother Asmodai?’
‘Yes,’ said the Chaplain. ‘Punishment cleanses the soul and restores discipline. You are too tolerant. Your indulgences spoil the battle-brothers and engender further disobedience. It is also this attitude that sees you fail in the interrogation cells.’
Sapphon smiled grimly. Whatever personality defects affected Asmodai, dishonesty was not amongst them.
‘And you consider my elevation to my role as a mistake by the Inner Circle?’
‘I made my opposition clear at the time. The Grand Masters chose to promote you against my objections.’
‘And did you swear to abide by their decision?’
Again Asmodai looked uncomfortable for a moment, realising he had been manoeuvred into a difficult admission.
‘Yes, master,’ is all he said, offering no defence.
‘And so will you now carry out the orders as I lay them out?’
‘Yes, master,’ said Asmodai. ‘I will join the Ninth as soon as transport is available.’
‘Leave me. Penance will be evaluated after the planet is secure.’
Asmodai fitted his helmet, the white skull with its shining red eyes a relief to Sapphon after the intensity of the Chaplain’s unmasked appearance.
‘For the Lion!’ barked Asmodai,
‘For the Emperor!’ replied Sapphon.
The Master of Sanctity watched his companion leave. He shook his head in disbelief and took up his helmet. He was about to depart when Master Issachar appeared at the doorway.
‘Why does the Supreme Grand Master tolerate him?’ asked the company captain, looking back into the corridor though Asmodai was no longer in sight. ‘He is disruptive, antagonistic and volatile. On the one hand Brother Asmodai will seek penance for any misdemeanour whilst on the other blatantly flaunting the demands of his superiors. He is blind to his own arrogance and hypocrisy.’
‘He has his uses. Sometimes we must be reminded that moderation and mercy are choices, not necessities. Brother Asmodai answers to a far higher authority and sterner code than the rest of us.’
‘Really? You think he fears the Emperor’s judgement?’
Sapphon laughed. ‘The Emperor’s… Of course not. The Emperor loves His sons, and it was this love that the traitors exploited. No, there is a far harsher judge that Asmodai fears. One that holds no love for any creature. Himself.’
As they headed back towards the temporary headquarters in the hall, Sapphon considered Asmodai’s peculiar brand of paranoia. His methods were as subtle as a bolt-round to the face, but often his motives were not wrong. Colonel Brade had indeed witnessed first-hand a possible incident involving the Fallen. It was not wise that he be allowed to remain at large. And following the overthrow of Imperial Commander Sousan it would not be long before the Inquisition started taking an interest in what had transpired in the Piscina system. It would be up to the Supreme Grand Master to decide what to do with the Piscinans that had come into contact with the traitors, but the time had come to start limiting any possible damage.
‘Have Colonel Brade join me in the Imperial commander’s chambers, please,’ he told Issachar. Even though ranked a Company Master, Issachar was not a member of the Inner Circle. There was no need to have him involved in anything more than he already was. ‘I should make peace.’
Some things were better done without noise and fuss. That was why the Inner Circle had chosen Sapphon over Asmodai.
Penitent Warriors
High above Piscina the bulk of the Dark Angels fleet lay in orbit. Amongst rapid strike vessels, strike cruisers, battle-barges, scout ships and resupply tenders sat the Rock, fortress-monastery of the Chapter. Protected by vast banks of void shields, surrounded by a constellation of smaller asteroids and defence platforms, the Rock dwarfed everything around it. Launch bays and weapon batteries were dug into the kilometres-thick base, which had once been bedrock from honoured, destroyed Caliban. Upon this immense fragment sat the edifice known as the Tower of Angels, spire after spire, hall and gallery heaped upon each other, piercing the firmament. Thousands of lights twinkled from arched windows. Stained glass dappled pitted stone and ferrocrete with many colours. Once renowned as Aldurukh, citadel of the Order that raised the Dark Angels primarch, it was now home to the warriors who carried the gene-seed of the Lion.
Another vessel, a strike cruiser two kilometres long, moved into the shadow cast by the Rock. A Thunderhawk gunship emerged from one of the flight bays of the Penitent Warrior, a tiny spark soon swallowed by the bulk of the fortress-monastery.
On board sat brothers Telemenus, Menthius and Daellon. Telemenus and Daellon were in full armour, while Menthius was still clad in robes, his hideous burns not quite healed. The latter’s face and bared arms were a mess of scar tissue, exposed flesh contorted with strange whorls left by the traitor’s psychic attack on Thyestes. His nose was nothing more than shaped metal plate installed by the Apothecaries, while breathing tubes jutted from his throat and down past the collar of his robe. His wheezing was accompanied by a dull ticking of some machine hidden inside the remains of his lungs.
With them was Veteran Sergeant Seraphiel, who regarded them sternly, his helm cradled in his lap.
‘It will take time for you to adjust,’ said Seraphiel, stroking an armoured finger across the fleur-de-lys painted on the side of his helm in dark red. Telemenus was not sure what the badge signified, but assumed it was some honour the veteran sergeant had earned whilst he had fought in the First Company. ‘To be a warrior in the Deathwing is different to everything else you have experienced. Even these last two months of confinement, segregated from your brothers to protect their innocence, will seem as nothing compared to the strain of being one of the Chapter’s elite.’
Telemenus allowed his gaze to wander, looking out of the armoured port beside the veteran sergeant. A row of hooded warriors carved a hundred metres high in dark marble sped past as the Thunderhawk banked alongside the Rock, their grim faces lit by red navigational lamps. They moved out of view when the gunship levelled and started its descent towards one of the lower flight bays.
‘Telemenus!’ Seraphiel’s sharp tone tore back the Space Marine’s attention. ‘Do not think for one moment that your elevation to the First Company signifies an end to your drills and regular duties. What you will learn next will change your whole view of the universe.’
The sergeant’s voice drifted away momentarily, caught up in some memory or other. His tone was soft, sad when he spoke next.
‘Everything you believe to be of value will be questioned. Every truth to which you cling will be tested. What you are about to face is a sterner challenge than any you have yet overcome.’ Seraphiel leaned forward, straining the harness that held him to the bench. ‘You think that you gave up everything when you became a Dark Angel? Your childhood? Your name? Your family and past? Perhaps you believe that there is nothing more you can sacrifice for the Lion and the Emperor. You are wrong. Nothing will prepare you for what you are about to learn.’
Telemenus was not so sure of this truth. He did not know by what circumstance Seraphiel had been elevated to the Deathwing, would probably never know, but the change it had wrought on his psyche was writ clear across his tormented expression. The former Fifth Company marksman, on the other hand, had some suspicion of what was to come. He remembered clearly the last events of Thyestes.
The psyker drew a long blade, its edges glimmering balefully with a sickening yellow light. Unperturbed by the bolts shrieking around him, he strode towards the squad. Telemenus could see that his skin was pale like a corpse, the bones of his cheeks showing through torn flesh, eyes red with thick veins.
‘Brave but foolish, brothers,’ the traitor declared in a rasping voice. His words were accompanied by a gust of air that carried the stench of effluent and rotting meat. ‘Your masters have betrayed you.’
Giving up all thoughts of taking the warrior alive, Telemenus emptied his magazine at the ghastly apparition. As before, the bolts did not hit. Nemeon steadied himself again for another missile shot, but was too slow. The psyker thrust his sword in the Space Marine’s direction, a blast of churning warp energy flying from its tip to smash Nemeon from his feet. His armour crumbled, turning to dust in moments, exposed flesh wrinkling and decaying beneath.
Apollon fell next, sent spinning to the ground by a fresh wave of psychic lightning that surrounded him with a cloud of energy. Telemenus skirted to his right, glancing at his battle-brother’s twitching body.
‘It is folly to oppose me, brothers,’ the psyker spoke without malice, blood trickling from split lips as he uttered the words. ‘Your sacrifice will go unremembered, your glory unrewarded.’
‘I am no brother of yours,’ snarled Daellon. A swirl of burning promethium engulfed the enemy warrior, setting fire to his cloak and hair. The psyker staggered to the left and raised his empty hand against the inferno. More sickly yellow light spilled from his open palm, pushing back against the gout of flames.
Fingers curling into a fist, the psyker seemed to grab hold of the streaming promethium, lashing it like a whip back at Daellon. The Dark Angel flung the flamer away and dived to the ground as its fuel canister exploded, showering the defile with burning liquid.
‘You are all my brothers,’ the psyker continued. ‘If your blind masters had half the honour you possess, they would tell you the truth. I was once like you.’
‘I know you, traitor,’ said Telemenus. ‘You have shunned the Emperor and have no honour. You have the filthy heart of a traitor even if you were once a Space Marine.’
The psyker grinned, bearing a few rotted, pointed teeth, even as flecks of promethium continued to burn through the flesh of his face and flickered on his armour.
‘Not just a Space Marine, brother. A Dark Angel.’
Menthius and Daellon had heard the declaration too, but they had both been barely conscious. Telemenus had looked the traitor in the face, seen the vile truth for what it was; a Dark Angel corrupted by the evil forces that had turned Legion against Legion at the dawn of the Imperium. Through sixty-three days of travel from Thyestes, separated from their battle-brothers, the three of them had not raised a word concerning what they had seen. Only in momentary glances, in occasional silences or an intake of breath did they share the experience.
He wondered why it had never occurred to him before. Why had he never considered the possibility that evil intent had touched the Dark Angels as it had laid its grip upon World Eaters and Word Bearers, Death Guard and other traitors? Seraphiel was correct in one regard; it made Telemenus reconsider everything he believed to be true. If the Dark Angels had been touched, what of the Ultramarines? There were many rumours concerning the Blood Angels, and the Space Wolves still verged on heresy to this day. What of the Iron Hands, White Scars and the Salamanders, had they too felt the dagger of treachery from within?
‘I see that my words stir something in you,’ said Seraphiel. ‘Questions without answers? Doubts?’
This last word hung in the air like a toxic fog. Doubt. It was doubt that the Chaplains crushed with their words. Doubt was the harbinger of fear, of ambition, of wilfulness. Now Telemenus realised that doubt was also the herald of something even more deadly. Doubt fed itself. Even now he wondered why he and his brothers had not been told the truth. There were secrets in the hearts of the Dark Angels officers, kept from the battle-brothers with cynical intent.
The thought vexed him, made him angry and something of his mind must have showed on his face.
‘Yes, doubt is the worst foe, is it not, Telemenus? You cannot hide from it. You cannot slay it with a bolter-round. You cannot flee from it. Only force of will, true strength of character can eliminate doubt.’ Seraphiel turned his attention to Menthius. The sergeant seemed to be taking some perverse satisfaction from the discomfort of his fellow Space Marines, though it may have been relief at being able to share a burden long carried without comment. ‘Your scars are a badge of honour, testament to a duty fulfilled. They will help you. Whenever doubt creeps in, the doubt of our righteous cause, the doubt that comes with knowing the true purpose of the Deathwing, you can look at those scars and remember the face of the creature that inflicted them upon you. You will know the nature of the evil we seek to vanquish. Against the armour of those scars doubt will be blunted, unable to harm you.’
A chime indicated that they were sixty seconds from docking. The ports went dark for a moment and then bright light flooded in from the flight bay. The four Space Marines released their restraints and stood up, helms held in their hands. There was a clang and a shudder as the Thunderhawk touched down. The assault ramp at the nose of the gunship whined open, revealing a solitary figure in a sleeveless robe of off-white.
‘Grand Master Belial awaits,’ said Seraphiel. As the others filed past him he stood for a moment, gripping wrist-to-wrist with each in a warrior’s bond. He stopped Telemenus for a moment with a hand on his arm. ‘You are a fine warrior, just remember to keep your pride in check. You were one of the best of the Fifth, but now you are the lowliest of the First. You shall stride amongst the greatest of the Chapter, and do so with honour, but never forget that service is its own reward.’
‘Only in death does duty end,’ Telemenus replied with a nod. ‘Your concern is unwarranted, have no worries on account of my accomplishments. The glory I will earn in the Deathwing will make First Marksman a pale achievement in comparison.’
Seraphiel sighed and shook his head. The sergeant waved for Telemenus to follow his brothers and when the Space Marine reached the ramp he glanced back to see Seraphiel sat down, head bowed in thought.
Joining his two companions, Telemenus had opportunity to see Grand Master Belial properly for the first time. The commander of the First Company, Bearer of the Sword of Silence, had until that moment been a distant, rarely-glimpsed figure for warriors outside the Deathwing.
Dressed in ceremonial robes, Belial seemed no taller or bigger than any other Space Marine. His hair was cropped almost to the scalp, chin and cheeks darkened with stubble that indicated he had been in combat and unable to perform the ritual hygienic cleansing expected of every Dark Angel. His face was expressionless as he watched Telemenus come to attention at the end of the short line. On the right breast of his robe was embroidered the scarlet wings-and-broken-blade sigil of the Deathwing, and on the left a shield bearing a cloaked and hooded figure as heraldry. From his belt were hung three large keys, and in its scabbard the famed Sword of Silence; one of the three Heavenfall blades forged from meteoric stone in the Chapter’s ancient past.
