Master of sanctity, p.6
Master of Sanctity, page 6
Traitor, I name thee.
Four words spoken by the Lion in an accusation so grievous it continued to burn in the minds of his sons ten millennia later.
Traitor. Traitor! TRAITOR!
The thought consumed Asmodai. It turned his world into a tiny vessel; a personal dimension consisting only of him and the assemblage of bones, muscle and organs on the slab before him.
The hatred was always there. Perhaps it had been there when the boy that would become Asmodai had been born; recognised as a gift by the Dark Angels rather than squandered in pointless fighting against siblings and rivals.
TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!
The hate was a calm pool compared to the rage. Every brother of the Chapter knew hate. It was poured into them by the Chaplains during their time amongst the aspirants and Scouts, reinforced with elegy, eulogy, catechism and battle-prayer. Asmodai had unleashed the hate countless times with a specific word, a canticle or phrase implanted through day after day of psycho-indoctrinal therapies. As a Chaplain he knew the hundred and one holy words that triggered that implanted hatred.
TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!
Asmodai’s hate was no purer than any other’s, but his rage… The rage was his just reward, his true calling. It was the indignity, shame and fear melded as one that had been unleashed in the depths of hive moon Sigma of Ceti Albus. It was the shattering of righteous innocence given vent.
On the slab the thing had a face, plucked from the darkest depths of Asmodai’s memories. The face of the creature that had destroyed his world, physically and metaphorically. The face of a traitor.
Malvine Rhemell.
The first Fallen he had met. The warrior, the beast, who had slain his battle-brothers and sacrificed countless millions for his own petty schemes.
The traitor was so much more than that. It was a more fundamental anger that fuelled Asmodai in the cells. An ork warlord was no less cruel, no less destructive. Yet it was in its nature to do so, it had no choice. The eldar seers were every bit as manipulative and self-serving. Asmodai, for all that he despised them, knew their opposition to mankind was driven by the need to survive. Even the rebels and separatists who sought to break from the Emperor’s rule were simply misguided, weak-willed and easily daunted.
The Fallen had no such excuse. They had been the Emperor’s finest, His chosen warriors, shepherded by His will, led by His greatest general. The Lion had taken them as sons, taught them and guided them. They knew better. They had been better. And they had betrayed everything not out of instinct, or necessity or even delusion. They had, with cold and calculating malice, turned on everything they were meant to uphold and protect and had cast it down.
For that there could be nothing but the purest rage, the most precise and personal affront fuelled by every fibre that made up Asmodai’s being.
TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!
He thought of the Lion, dead at the hands of the traitors, of a world destroyed by hubris and a dream of greatness and eternal deliverance quashed. He thought of what the Fallen had done and looked at the creature on the slab.
TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!
What followed came easily.
He stopped only when Master Sapphon intervened. It seemed moments had passed but it was actually several hours. When he was finished, standing at the trolley cleansing his arms of the blood and other fluids, Asmodai could barely remember what had happened. The rage had guided him, letting free every pain he could devise, but his subject had resisted.
This time.
He looked at the bloodied thing on the slab. It had a name again. Methelas. One of the Fallen, who had uttered barely a grunt or snarl throughout Asmodai’s gory ministrations. Unsatisfied, the Chaplain scraped clean his forearms while he regarded the traitor. It looked back at him with bloodshot eyes, the crystalline null clamps of the suppressor helm still driven into its temples though the shell of the hood had been removed.
‘There is nothing you can do to hurt me, lackey of the Lion.’ Methelas grinned, displaying toothless gums. ‘I have become pain, I am one with it. My patron inures me to the pitiful weaknesses of flesh.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Sapphon, standing on the other side of the cell, his bone-coloured robes a stark contrast to Asmodai’s which were almost totally crimson, the red darkening as the blood dried. His face was hidden behind a Chaplain’s mask.
Asmodai finished cleaning his hands, leaving crimson swirls in the deep basin atop the trolley. He dried them thoroughly, between the fingers, along the knuckles, every movement a part of the ritual to help suppress the rage. It was still there, held in check only by the presence of Sapphon. Asmodai flexed his fingers, trying to remember the feeling of flesh parting, but he could not. It came only in flashes, the detail washed away by the flood of his ire.
‘Nor do I fear death.’ The defiance in Methelas’s eyes conveyed conviction every bit as strongly as his words. ‘I yearn to be united with my master.’
‘Perhaps you do,’ said Sapphon.
Asmodai returned to the slab, arms crossed. The floor was slick and he stepped around the ruddy puddle to stand beside Methelas’s head. The Fallen looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
‘I can wait for an eternity. Can you?’
The rage was coming back, every word that spilled from the traitor’s ragged mouth bringing it back to the surface.
‘I will not have to,’ said Asmodai, reaching out to take up his Blades of Reason. ‘I am only just starting.’
‘Brother, indulge me for a moment.’ Sapphon stepped towards the cell door and gestured for Asmodai to follow.
With a last glare at his subject, the Master of Repentance replaced his implements on the trolley and followed his superior into the hallway. Sapphon closed the door, sealing away the Fallen.
‘You interrupted my work, brother,’ said Asmodai. ‘Now I will have to start again.’
‘It will not succeed,’ said Sapphon. Asmodai bridled at the comment but the Master of Sanctity stilled his protest with a raised hand. ‘Not for lack on your part, brother. He has aligned himself to the Lord of Decay, his flesh is nothing more than a vessel. No harm you inflict upon it will cause him to repent.’
‘Let us test his faith a little more,’ said Asmodai. ‘It has been but five hours and already your resolve is weakening.’
‘I am not weakening, merely assessing our goals and methods.’ Sapphon took a long breath. ‘There is more to be won on this day than the repentance of a single Fallen. Far wider concerns hinge upon this interrogation.’
‘There is no greater goal than to offer mercy to the soul of a repentant Fallen,’ replied Asmodai. ‘It is the purpose of our existence.’
‘And what if through his testimony, Methelas could lead us to find others of his kind,’ asked Sapphon.
‘A slim opportunity, of little relevance,’ said Asmodai. ‘They are scattered, leaderless, with little regard for each other. Such confessions are almost always lies. You know this, brother.’
‘For the most part, but circumstances can alter,’ said Sapphon. The words were spoken calmly but Asmodai felt the tension behind them and stiffened at the implication.
‘You think that the Fallen are starting to work together? What do you think is so important about this particular creature? Methelas is part of some grander plan?’
‘That much is certain,’ said Sapphon. ‘While you have been exerting your skills on your captive I have been debriefing Brother Malcifer. I expect you to acquaint yourself with his full account, but for the moment it is sufficient that you understand what is at stake. Methelas was working in concert with at least two other Fallen. In turn, they may have information that will lead us to the greatest prize of all.’
Asmodai was intrigued and for a moment allowed himself to wonder what could be so valuable. There was but one thing – one person – that was pursued above all others. Someone Asmodai desired to find even more than Malvine Rhemell.
‘Cypher?’ he said, almost daring to hope that the arch-traitor might be delivered to his attentions. ‘You have found the accursed one?’
‘Not yet.’ Sapphon shook his head. ‘But Sammael came close. Cypher was here, at Piscina, within the last year.’
‘And Methelas knows of this?’ Asmodai looked back at the cell door, picturing the captive within. ‘You lay this bounty before me, and it is welcome, brother. I shall redouble my efforts.’
Sapphon laid a hand on Asmodai’s arm as the Chaplain took a step back towards the cell.
‘Do not hinder me further, he recuperates while we delay,’ said the Master of Repentance.
‘A far subtler knife is required to loosen this one’s tongue, I believe.’
The disappointment was crushing. Feeling used, Asmodai turned his anger on Sapphon.
‘You taunt me with this information and deny me my right to pursue it further! The Inner Circle may have chosen you for your guile, but in these cells you are not my match. Leave me be and I will deliver this cretin’s secrets to you.’
‘Did I command you to cease in your efforts, brother?’
Asmodai reconsidered the other Chaplain’s words.
‘I… It seemed as though you desired it.’
‘Not at all, Asmodai. Unleash your every effort, as grievous as you can be. I do not expect your methods to bring success, but I cannot deny your past victories and will not oppose the opportunity for you to prove your worth again. And when you fail, the traitor will be all the more vulnerable because of your perseverance.’
‘There is some trickery guiding your actions, I can feel it,’ said Asmodai, wary of Sapphon’s silvery words.
‘No subterfuge, brother,’ Sapphon said, opening out his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘You are the one with the talent for prying open deceit and digging through deception. I would not dare to attempt such misdirection against you. Take as long as you need, but when he does not repent I expect you to support my methods to ascertain what we require, whatever that demands of you.’
Asmodai nodded and headed towards the cell door. Sapphon again stopped him.
‘Your word, Asmodai?’
Asmodai was keen to begin the interrogation again. The rage was already building, seeking release, and time was wasting.
‘By the honour of the Lion’s shade,’ he swore.
Lessons of War
‘I feel like I’m waddling through damn synth-gruel.’ Actuators whined and servos shrieked in protest as Daellon tried to turn his Tactical Dreadnought armour to face Telemenus. His arms were raised from his sides with the appearance of a toddler trying to keep balance. Without his helmet on – all three of the new Deathwing were helmless for the moment – he looked dwarfed by his powered suit despite his gene-augmented height and build. ‘It is worse than when I first put on power armour.’
‘Nearly punched your own head off, if I recall,’ said Menthius, a grin breaking his half-burned face. Daellon looked shocked that anyone would remember such a thing. ‘It was still the talk of the Seventh Company when I joined their ranks four years after you.’
Telemenus did not join in the banter and he barely heard the exchange. Every sense strained as he concentrated on taking a step forward. The bulk of the Terminator armour and its massively powered artificial muscle fibres made him feel as though he was trying to move at some crushing depth underwater; a feat that a trained Terminator was actually capable of performing unlike taking this first step.
‘One step,’ muttered Telemenus. ‘One step. One step.’
He was almost frightened to lift up his foot, feeling that to shift the immense weight around him, to unleash the incredible strength stored in the mnemonic bundles that laced the armour, would topple him backwards and leaving him lying stranded like a flipped beetle. He had already suffered mockery for the past few days over his internment in the penitentium by Belial; to perform badly at this first Tactical Dreadnought trial would see his reputation plunge even further.
Two Techmarines and a gaggle of serf orderlies and servitors lined the walls; they had assisted the three Space Marines into their suits and now watched with amused interest, those capable of emotion, as the Chapter’s finest stood around and bickered light-heartedly about who was going to fall over first.
‘Trust in the tech-priests, and in their artifices,’ growled Sergeant Arbalan. ‘These suits are calibrated for your physiques, down to two micrometres. Just walk!’
Their new squad leader prowled the perimeter of the training hall that had been set aside for them, his armoured boots thudding heavily with each stride. Various ramps, low walls, openings and depressions formed an obstacle course running in a circuit over the reinforced mesh of the decking. The ease with which Arbalan moved astounded Telemenus, a distinctive sway to his stride as he circled like a predator, and the battle-brother redoubled his efforts, screwing up his courage to lift his right foot.
‘What are you going to do now? Hop?’ bellowed Arbalan as Telemenus’s foot rose from the deck almost of its own volition. ‘Lean your weight into it. Use your whole body, not just your legs.’
Ignoring the smart to his pride in the sergeant’s tone Telemenus focused on the content, daring to unbalance himself. The Terminator suit reacted smoothly as he leaned forward. Actuators whined at his hip and knee and his foot crashed down after half a stride. It reminded the Space Marine of the high-gee drills he had learned in the Scout Company as he was becoming accustomed to his first suit of battleplate.
‘Stop! Just stop where you are,’ snapped Arbalan. His footfalls sent shudders through the deck as he advanced to stand in front of the trio. The three newest members of the Deathwing froze in place, limbs splayed in immobile comical statues. Arbalan looked at each of them in turn, more with pity than anger. When he spoke his voice was quiet, encouraging. ‘You are thinking about this too much. You fill minds with the impression that you cannot shift these enormous weights, that somehow you have to do something differently to carry the bulk. The men who designed these suits more than ten thousand years ago were not fools. I know that it is hard, but try to ignore the armour. There is a technique, for rapid movement, but for the moment all you have to do is walk. Close your eyes if it helps.’
It was hard to put the sergeant’s words into practise, as he had admitted. A Terminator suit backpack extended half a metre above the wearer’s shoulders and the pauldrons on either side were clearly visible in Telemenus’s peripheral vision. The natural pose inside the suit was a little like a hunching gorilla, with spine straight, shoulders back and arms hanging out to the sides, knees bent to bring the weight forward on the hips. It was all but impossible to ignore the mass of the armour, but Telemenus closed his eyes and imagined he was clad in his robe, so light to his muscled build it was virtually weightless.
He had almost completed the picture and was ready to risk another stride when a whoop of excitement from Menthius broke Telemenus’s concentration. He heard a rapid clump of footsteps and opened his eyes to see his companion stalking away, boots pounding on the deck. Glancing at Daellon, Telemenus saw that the other Space Marine was on the verge of following Menthius, though with a constant stream of swear words and colourful curses muttered under his breath.
Telemenus saw the audience from the armourium watching him closely and was determined that he would not be the last of the three to master his armour. Such news would soon spread through the company, perhaps even the rest of the Chapter, despite them being deployed across a dozen battle zones on Piscina IV. Fuelled by burgeoning shame and desperation he moved out of raw instinct, and to his delight found himself tramping loudly after Menthius.
Ahead of Telemenus was a wall of mortared blocks three metres high and a metre thick, with a gap in it about three metres to his left. He was approaching with quick strides, propelled by momentum.
He wondered if Arbalan would be offering any advice on how to turn or stop.
Promises
The cell door was open, which Asmodai always found slightly counter-intuitive, but Sapphon had refused all petition to rescind Boreas’s standing order that the captive’s chamber remain unlocked. Though unbarred, the cell was not unguarded; pict-scanners and motion detectors monitored the Fallen at all times, watched by mind-scrubbed servitors that would raise the alarm the moment the prisoner stepped out of his room.
From the corridor there seemed to be a line across the threshold. On the one side, in the cell, was light, glowing gently from a lumistrip in the ceiling. On the outside was darkness. For the Fallen the line between light and dark was as solid as any physical barrier and in fifteen years and more he had not voluntarily set foot outside his cell.
Standing outside in the blackness Asmodai could see the prisoner. He sat on a low bench, as straight as his rack-twisted spine would allow. He was naked but for a gown of ragged material, undyed and stained with blood. Brand and blade marks criss-crossed his withered frame – once the toned muscle of a giant warrior, now a wasted, wiry vision of a Space Marine. His bald, scarred head rested back against the bare stone of the wall, hands on his knees. On a small shelf beside him was a bowl fashioned from wood, a plain tin cup next to it.
He had his eyes closed. They opened the moment Asmodai approached the open door, regarding the Chaplain coolly.
‘The sneaking thief returns in the gloom, I see,’ said the Fallen, voice hoarse, barely a whisper.
The taunt was a barb ragging at Asmodai’s anger, pulling the Chaplain into the room. Asmodai was upon the prisoner in moments. He smashed a fist into the captive’s jaw, the blow sending the Fallen’s head crashing into the wall.
‘Choose your words with deference, traitor,’ snarled Asmodai, bringing his hand back across the Fallen’s face, knocking him from the bench to the bare floor. Blood sprayed from lips split countless times and dribbled from a nose already mashed to pulp by similar blows.
