Master of sanctity, p.9
Master of Sanctity, page 9
‘Herein is contained all the knowledge of the Dark Angels.’
The disembodied voice was quiet, leaving no echo. Sapphon was not entirely sure it was a voice at all. He did not detect a trace of accent or a direction of origin. Perhaps it was a thought projected straight into his mind without recourse to his superhuman hearing.
‘Ten thousand years of seeking the truth, all held within this one chamber.’
The weight of it all seemed to crush down upon Sapphon. It made the mind shrink from the magnitude of the universe to think that ten millennia of wisdom, ten thousand years of philosophies and edicts, records of battles, names of commanders and the commanded, star charts, interrogations, confessions, penances demanded and delivered, honours and promotions, censures and rolls of heroic deeds could be contained in one space; and still it was but a fraction of the sum of all mankind’s existence.
‘Find that which you seek and enlightenment shall be yours.’
At first there appeared to be no reason or order to the books, but on closer inspection Sapphon came to the conclusion that the oldest tomes were those furthest away. The state of the volumes grew worse the higher he passed his gaze, and he wondered in what decrepit condition he would find them at the height of the library. Surely it was there he should search, he reasoned, at the very start of the Chapter’s records, for the library had not been built, but rather delved into the bedrock of the Tower of Angels.
He walked a few paces up the ramp, running a finger along the edge of the nearest shelf, looking at the titles on the spines of the plas-bound books. Most appeared mundane: ledgers of the armoury and lists of recruits. Such trivia would continue for storey after storey above him. Was this simply a test of endurance and patience, to see if he had the persistence to reach the top of the spiral?
The thought triggered another. A pattern formed in Sapphon’s mind. The spiral. He remembered something from the old teachings. There was a lot he had learned, so much to recall, so many canticles and verses of exhortation and admonition that it took him a few moments to dredge up the memory he sought.
It was an instruction from his sergeant when he had been in the Tenth Company; or rather an analogy to teach a combat technique. The sergeant had spoken of a time when the knights of Caliban had trained upon a spiral, perfecting their skills with gun and blade, starting at the outer edge and moving ever closer. The Scouts had not learned upon a literal spiral as the knights of old, but the resemblance remained as they learned first to kill from afar and then at subsequently closer ranges until they mastered the dagger and the sword.
The sergeant had said that the truth was found at the centre of the spiral, eye-to-eye and blade-to-blade with the foe. To master the eye of the spiral was to be a true warrior.
Looking up again Sapphon wondered if the eye lay far above, but his instinct warned him otherwise. He turned about and surveyed the rest of the giant hall. The torches laid bare the books on the walls but the centre of the chamber was swathed in darkness. There was something altogether unnatural about the gloom, Sapphon decided. It was, for want of a better reference, too dark. Though dim the torches should have provided enough light for his enhanced vision to see to the centre of the hall but instead there was only blackness.
Darkness was a warning. He understood the symbolism well after years as a Chaplain. Darkness was danger, a metaphor for the unknown, where prying minds should not wander.
Was it a test of faith?
Sapphon pondered the question. Was it as simple as ascending through the light to pass the test? The darkness was temptation; the unknowable that lured the righteous from the path of loyalty. One who delved into the darkness would become consumed by it. To question, to doubt, was a sin. The light was reason and truth. Whichever way Sapphon examined the situation, it made sense to follow the light, the path of purity.
For all that logic dictated such a course of action, Sapphon had never been able to quell his curiosity. Penances and punishments from the Chaplains had never quashed it. Years of service as a battle-brother and then as Chaplain had not dulled it.
He stepped off the ramp and into the blackness.
I should have stayed in the light, thought Sapphon.
In other Chapters the Master of Sanctity was a position given to the strongest adherent to the Chapter orthodoxy, the exemplar to which the other battle-brothers aspired. On the face of it, the same was true of the Dark Angels, but there was a far more vexing purpose to Sapphon’s role, which required not unwavering devotion to the creed but a questioning, anti-authoritarian streak. In a Chapter that favoured obedience, only the disobedient could truly discover the roots of dissatisfaction, seeking the seeds of heresy that had once caused such schism and destruction.
If only Sapphon had stayed in the light he would have remained a simple Chaplain and perhaps never ascended to the mysteries of the Inner Circle. And in that alternate life he would not now be sat at a conclave of the Inner Circle arguing with Asmodai about the merits of allowing two of the Fallen to share the same air.
‘If they but pass word to each other it strengthens resolve,’ said the Master of Repentance.
He stood to Sapphon’s left but had not once looked at his superior, addressing his words instead to the few Space Marines present and the vox-servitors that held the places of members conducting their appearance from the surface of Piscina IV. Supreme Grand Master Azrael had returned to convene the conclave and stood at the head of the table, his robes over armour still scratched and stained from recent battle. A few of the Librarius were present, as was Grand Master Sammael of the Ravenwing and Grand Master Belial. The withered vox-servitors, suspended by pipes and cables from the ceiling of the conclave chamber, were twinned with transmitters and receivers on the world below, so that what they saw and heard was also visible and audible to those that participated at a distance while vox-conducted voices were conveyed back from the surface to move puppet-mouths.
‘We are far beyond plain excruciation and interrogation,’ replied Sapphon, also directing his address to the other members of the Inner Circle. By tradition debates were not made between individuals, but presented as case for all to consider. In practice, the two Chaplains simply argued by proxy, it being plain that their opinions were irreconcilable. ‘This is the closest we have come to bringing Cypher to account for a long time.’
‘Astelan and Methelas both deny knowledge of the thrice-cursed. If we bring them together you simply give them occasion to conspire.’
‘We will monitor every exchange between them.’
‘And are we so learned of the ways of the Fallen that we can trust there is no hidden meaning behind words plainly spoken?’ Asmodai leaned forward, fists on the table, focusing his attention on Azrael. ‘Who can say what message or bargain they might make through hidden code? They have acted in concert before and will do so again.’
‘To what end?’ Sapphon kept the exasperation from his voice but he knew that Asmodai had sympathisers amongst his audience. ‘Both are locked in the bowels of the Rock. There is no plan they can enact. They cannot communicate with the outside. Any conspiracy in such circumstances is meaningless.’
‘It is a blatant disregard to the tenets of interrogation, bordering on giving succour to the enemy.’
This accusation bit hard, but Sapphon was prevented from retort by the Supreme Grand Master, who raised a hand for silence, perhaps realising the Master of Sanctity was quickly losing his famed patience. Azrael looked at the two Chaplains, rugged features half-hidden in the shadow of his cowl.
‘Can he be trusted?’ said the Chapter Master. Sapphon assumed the question was addressed to him. ‘Is Astelan’s oath worth anything?’
‘It is worth less than the compassion of an ork,’ rasped Asmodai.
‘Objectively?’ Sapphon considered his reply more carefully. ‘No. He is a self-serving traitor – a power-hungry demagogue. However, in the context of the position in which I have manoeuvred him, he must abide by a sense of honour or admit his crimes. Such an admission is beyond his comprehension, so for the moment he will strive to show himself aligned to the nobler ideals he pretends to espouse.’
‘We have heard much of the risks, or lack, but what is to be gained?’
Even Asmodai knew better than to offer opinion this time, leaving it to Sapphon to justify his proposed course of action.
‘There is a causal link between Astelan and events here on Piscina. Although not directly involved, if he wishes to prove his innocence by exposing his co-conspirators we shall learn more of the chain that runs from him to Cypher. Anovel is the missing component, I know it. I believe Astelan when he states he does not know where Anovel is, but I am equally sure that Methelas holds that information. What we cannot prise from Methelas with blade and brand we shall nevertheless loosen with subtler means.’
‘Very well.’ Azrael swept his gaze across all of the members, both present and by proxy, a fist held in front of him. With his other hand he pulled back his hood, black hair spilling across his shoulders. ‘The time of decision is upon us. Let it be known that the war on Piscina progresses swiftly to conclusion with the might of the Chapter ranged against greenskin and rebel alike. However, the conflict has much delayed us in the pursuit, as I suspect was intended by those that instigated the attacks on Kadillus and the destruction of the fortress here. The gene-seed was stolen by Anovel, I conclude, and to what end we already know. I consider the thwarting of this plot to be of the utmost significance, while the Ravenwing and Deathwing can stand ready for fresh duties. You have witnessed argument for and against Sapphon’s proposal. Let judgement be made.’
The room descended to pitch blackness so that not even the Space Marines could pierce the gloom. Sapphon raised his right hand, in which he held a white sphere about the size of an eyeball. He placed it into a channel carved into the surface of the conclave table and let it go to roll down the incline into the receptacle at the table’s heart. The black sphere in his left hand he placed in a gutter at the edge, where it clattered to his left to gather with other discarded votes in front of Azrael. The clack of balls rolling and dropping into the containers broke the still as the rest of the Inner Circle likewise made their decision known by the white or black.
Sapphon knew Asmodai would vote against. Belial too, most likely. Azrael seemed in favour of the plan, though his vote counted only once, his position no greater benefit in the matter of blind ballot. There were other allies and opponents to be considered but on the face of it Sapphon’s proposal hinged on its merits rather than politics.
The lights flickered into life once more. Azrael activated a mechanical arm that swept out from the ceiling and brought forth the ballot bowl set into the centre of the table. The crane clanked and whirred as it carried the will of the conclave to be counted by the Supreme Grand Master. Sapphon looked away, not meeting the gazes, normal and half-mechanical, of the others around the table. The balls clicked as Azrael separated them into two slots before him.
‘The white outweighs the black,’ Azrael announced. ‘Master Sapphon will bring together the two Fallen captives. Brother Asmodai will also be on hand to ensure the security of this encounter. Both will report to me in person within a standard day, at which point I will make further deliberations and decisions cogent with the will of the Inner Circle.’
Sapphon slowly let out a long breath, relieved more than he would care to admit. He turned to Asmodai, ready to offer conciliation but the Master of Repentance was already stalking from the chamber, shoulders hunched, hands balled in fists. One by one the servitors slumped as they were deactivated, while the other Space Marines filed after Asmodai, leaving Sapphon alone with Azrael. The Supreme Grand Master betrayed nothing of his thoughts, his face an impassive mask.
Sapphon nodded, a gesture of gratitude, and then bowed to show his respect.
‘Asmodai does not take kindly to your gambles and plots, brother,’ said Azrael.
‘Asmodai does not take kindly to anything, master,’ replied Sapphon. ‘Do not judge him harshly though. He has proven his worth many, many times.’
‘It is not Asmodai’s worth that needs proof,’ Azrael said, pulling up his hood to shadow his features. ‘You have one day.’
Pacification
The pacification of Piscina was in full flow and every warrior was needed to combat the resurgent orks and pockets of rebels. Just days after their full initiation into the Deathwing and being accepted onto the combat roster, Telemenus and his companions found themselves readying for a teleport attack against an ork encampment. Though it had been purged years before, the orks kept returning to this place, the site of the tellyporta gate where many of the ork invaders had arrived on-world during the invasion by Ghazghkull and Nazdreg.
‘Some residual ork psychic field, perhaps?’ suggested Brother Menthius when the subject of the orks’ attraction to the area was raised by Telemenus.
‘Or some damn spore-carried beacon stench,’ countered Daellon.
The three of them waited in the teleportarium situated above the Lower Docks of the Rock. It was a cavernous chamber, the walls lined with faceted plates of plasteel, fashioned with hexagrammic wards that could be activated in the event of a warp breach through the teleportation portal. The teleportarium was far larger than those of any starship, lined by huge conduits to the massive warp drives and antimatter reactors deep in the heart of the star fortress. Such power allowed several squads to deploy simultaneously from orbit, and there were three other such chambers across the fortress-monastery. With such facilities, the entire Deathwing could be dropped as one force into the heart of battle.
The teleporter itself was a wire-framed dome within the heart of the chamber, surrounded by a score of tall spires of girders, wires and dish-like projectors, each linked to its neighbour by a crystal-embedded matrix. The floor within the teleporter was fashioned from a jet-black substance unknown to Telemenus, which seemed to suck in the light, offering no reflection despite the harsh glare. It looked like a sheen of oil, a hint of rainbow-like colours pooled on the surface.
Having been told to muster with the rest of their squad at the appointed hour, Telemenus had roused his companions early, to allow plenty of time for them to arm and armour themselves with the aid of the tech-priests; to be tardy risked further chastisement from Belial or Sergeant Arbalan. As he looked at the inky plate of the teleporter he felt vaguely unsettled by the notion of being disassembled and transmitted, even for a brief instant, through the roiling sea of the warp.
‘Or perhaps they simply do not know any better,’ said Telemenus, answering his own question to distract himself. ‘Orks are stupid and superstitious creatures, let us not attribute to higher meaning that which can be explained by unthinking habit.’
‘I think Brother Telemenus has the right of it, after a fashion,’ announced Brother Cadmael from the teleportarium doorway. He was armed with a storm bolter and power fist as the others, but atop the back of his ivory-coloured Terminator suit, running between his shoulder plates, was a cyclone launcher, filled with a dozen lightweight anti-personnel missiles and the same number of anti-tank rockets.
As Cadmael entered he was followed by Sergeant Arbalan, a sword in his left hand where the others had power fists, and after him, the last of the squad, came Brother Arrias with twin lightning claws as his armament.
‘Thank you, brother,’ said Telemenus.
‘After a fashion,’ repeated Cadmael. ‘The orks return to the teleporter site because they do not know any better, but not out of superstition but necessity. The orks we fight now are perhaps the fourth or fifth generation of such creatures since we first purged Kadillus. There have been systematic exterminations over those years and we have never wiped them out fully, but how can these new generations know the spot where so many of their kind arrived?’
‘Hence my explanation,’ said Menthius. ‘The technology employed by the orks must have been similar in some way to our own, utilising warp power. Such transmissions as must have been necessary to move so many orks and light vehicles to the surface would have a profound effect on the warp-signature of the whole area.’
‘A surprise that you did not seek to become a Techmarine,’ said Arrias. ‘With such technical knowledge you would be a boon to the armoury.’
‘A passing interest, not a calling, brother,’ replied Menthius.
‘Does it matter a damn?’ said Daellon. ‘They go there. We go there. We kill them. Is that not correct, brother-sergeant?’
‘Correct,’ said Arbalan. He had not yet fitted his helmet and his gaze moved over Menthius and Daellon and rested on Telemenus for a moment – a fraction longer, Telemenus thought – before returning to the teleporter mechanism. ‘Scouts have infiltrated the area around Naaman Heights, the site of the ork teleporter incursion many years ago. The terrain is hilly, broken by scrub and small trees in places. There is a geothermal power plant close to the insertion site, hence there will be no orbital support. Tenth Company squads are placing teleporter beacons as we speak and once we receive confirmation that they are in place we assault.’
The sergeant again looked at the newest three members of his squad and waved his sword at the teleporter.
‘Teleportation is highly disorientating, even for those that have experienced it many times. You know the technology, each of us will be passed through a small warp-based tunnel to the planet’s surface, but the reality is something else. Think of the moment of sickness a ship’s translation causes and imagine that magnified ten-fold. We have no Geller fields, so we are completely exposed to the immaterium for that instant – an instant that may seem to last for several seconds, up to a minute from our perspective but I am told lasts no longer than point-five seconds, objective time.
