by shadowhawk2008 » Thu Sep 22, 2011 8:24 pm
As Astinon stepped inside the grand chapel, he was struck by the smell of the air inside, and he paused. The high gothic arches, the frescoes of ancient battles, the statues of past heroes, the fires flickering in the incense burners, they all combined to make the chapel appear truly antiquated.
He walked towards the altar at the other end of the chapel and his armoured feet rang like iron on the stone beneath, the floor worn by the passage of countless battle-brothers of his chapter.
The chapel was alive with the soft murmurs of devotional prayers beseeching the Emperor to cast his light far and wide, to maintain His gaze on His servants. The words made Astinon’s heart soar, helping to lift his downed spirits. A soft glow creased his scarred face, lending him a noble aspect.
He had been here several times as a battle-brother of the Angels of the Retribution chapter, and before, when he had been only a novitiate, fresh from a long-forgotten homeworld. The chapel had never failed to impress him before, and even after all these years, he was still awed by its magnificence.
The stonework was threaded with gold and silver, creating complex patterns and designs that none among his chapter now understood, except perhaps for old Svydro, his senior-most Chaplain and the spiritual heart of his chapter. He resolved to ask his mentor the next time he met him, but he was sure he would not get any reply.
There was no room to sit inside the chapel, for the Angels of Retribution were not mere human worshippers, they were Adeptus Astartes, warriors forged in the crucible of battle, bred for a lifetime of unending war. Here and there Astinon could mark out faint traces of feet in the stone floor, marking where some of his brothers and others before them had stood often, and he smiled.
It had been too long since he had attended the sermons here, far too long.
As he approached the altar, he knelt and bowed his head like a penitent. A trio of silent statues of multi-coloured arbalstone stood before him, unequal in size but radiating the same degree of warmth and comfort that he could feel deep down to his bones. He shuddered slightly.
It had been too long since he had been before the Triad of Lords, far too long, and he felt himself to be the poorer for not having come sooner before them.
In the centre was a grand effigy of the Emperor, his head framed by a simple, green laurel wreath that seemed to shine on his patrician features, sitting nobly on a head of black hair. He was shown in his aspect as the benevolent lord who ruled with an iron fist, his golden-white armour covered in sigils of fire and eagles. A sword of black iron, wreathed in red fire, was held at rest in one hand while the other was sculpted into wicked claws, akin to that of a bird of prey.
He looked on sternly at Astinon, and the Corvian murmured a brief, inaudible prayer to his liege.
To the left was a slightly shorter but bulkier statue, but no less magnificent and awe-inspiring. A roughly-hewn, pale-skinned face framed by jet-black hair regarded the kneeling Astinon. Two adamantium-plated black wings rose up from either side of him, with the hint of a jump-pack barely visible behind its bulk. The statue’s brown-black armour was covered in raven-sigils with two white ravens in flight crafted on its shoulderpads. In one hand it held a coiled, serpentine whip, while in the other hand was encased in an enormous, white lightning claw which the sculptor had adorned with carefully crafted streaks of blue lightning.
Astinon raised his head to look into its eyes of glinting, black marble and suppressed a shiver. Corax, once and lord and master of the Nineteenth Legiones Astartes, looked down on his son with an expression of understanding and compassion. The Corvian muttered another inaudible prayer under his breath to his gene-sire.
The last arbalstone statue was armoured in the same livery as that of Astinon, the only difference lying in that the figure wore armour of ancient design that had not been within the galaxy for several millennia. Astinon traced the contours and shapes of that baroque armour, his mind automatically making comparisons to his own recently-forged power armour, identifying the improvements and enhancements that had been made over the years.
His carved expression was one that Astinon could not place, for it seemed to somehow vary between utter disdain and admiration in equal measure. He bowed his head once again and whispered an oath to Taimon Naskius, first Chapter Master of the Angels of Retribution.
Once he was done paying his respects, he got up to his full height, the sound of his servos echoing across the empty chapel. He bowed once more and was about to leave when a voice, heavy with amusement and seriousness, stopped him in mid-stride.
‘When the powerful kneel in supplication and prayer, one must take heed of their actions. It is not often that men such as them acknowledge greater powers than their own. Stay a while and listen, Commander.’
Surprised to see that he was not alone in the chapel, Astinon turned back towards the altar, glimpsing a silhouette in the shadows behind the statue of the Emperor. As the Corvian waited patiently, the figure moved around the arbalstone representations of the Triad of Lords and came to stand before him. Without thought, Astinon immediately kneeled once more, offering a salute with both arms to his chest, forming the Aquila.
‘Rise, Commander, and look on me,’ said the figure in a deep voice.
Astinon rose and looked the other in the eyes. ‘It has been some time, Lord Svydro.’
‘It has indeed, young Astinon. You have not come to the sermons for a long time,’ said the black-armoured warrior, his features concealed behind a skull-faced helmet. ‘Tell me, young one, what brings the Commander of the Sons of Corax to the Chapter Reclusiam after so long?’
‘I came to pay my respects to the Triad, my lord,’ answered Astinon stiffly, slightly offended at being referred to as ‘young one’. The High Chaplain nearly always referred to him by that moniker, slightly understandable as Svydro was now approaching nearly two hundred and fifty years of age.
‘Come now, Astinon,’ said the Chaplain gently, moving to kneel before the altar himself. ‘I was your mentor for twenty-seven years, and I have served as a Chaplain for nigh two hundred years. I know your thoughts nearly as well you do yourself. But I would still like to speak your doubts to me.’
Astinon stared at the statue of Corax for a long time before he responded to the Chaplain’s words. Svydro himself waited patiently, his thoughts focused on his prayers while Astinon worked up the courage to talk to him.
‘Lord Vulkan has tasked me to go to Deliverance,’ began Astinon. ‘I failed him on Medan, and I am not so sure that I will succeed at the Ravenspire.’
‘Your doubts do your leadership a great injustice, Commander,’ said Svydro, his voice slightly stern and harsh. ‘You are Adeptus Astartes, young one. You were not created to feel any doubts or fear. You are a biological instrument of war, born and bred for that singular purpose.’ Svydro paused and bent closer towards Astinon. ‘Do you remember the Catechism of Fury, young one?’
Astinon recited the litany by rote. ‘To the darkness I bring fire. To the ignorant I bring faith. Those who welcome these gifts may live but I will visit naught but death and eternal damnation on those who refuse them.’
‘So it was written. So shall it be thus,’ intoned Svydro, his eyes closed in prayer. ‘Tell me, Astinon, what do you think is the message behind those words?’
The Commander hesitated before answering. ‘That I am a warrior with a righteous purpose, to serve Him in the fires of battle with my faith as my weapon.’
Svydro laughed softly. ‘They are not just mere words, Astinon. The Catechisms of Fury are ancient litanies, handed down from one chaplain to another for twenty thousand years. What you have said is merely one interpretation among many, and it lacks clarity of thought. I sense your confusion even now.’
Astinon looked away uneasily as Svydro stared at him with interest. And then, unleashing liked a coiled viper, he pulled out his crozius from where it hung on his belt and swung its eagle-shaped head to within an inch of Astinon’s left ear.
‘What is the terror of death?’
‘That I die with my duties unfulfilled.’
‘What is the joy of life?’
‘There is none except the satisfaction of knowing that my task is done.’
‘Are you fearful of me?’
‘I fear only the Emperor.’
‘Never, ever disrespect your oaths, Astinon Dras,’ said Svydro softly. He withdrew the crozius and turned around to face the arbalstone effigies of the Triad of Lords. ‘Did you not swear by the Triad on the day of your ascension that you would fulfil your duties without doubt?’
‘I did, my lord. I swore that as long as I live I will serve with faith and honour.’
‘Did you not vow to Lord Vulkan himself that you would accomplish the task set before you as was asked of you?’
Astinon shook his head bitterly. ‘I did my lord, but the Primarch’s true design in giving me this assignment is unclear to me. On Medan, I gained a hollow victory. At the Ravenspire, I have no wish to fail him once again.’
‘You will not fail him, Astinon Dras,’ said Svydro, conviction ringing in his voice. ‘Your faith is strong, young one, never lose sight of that. Your faith is your shield, just as you are the shield of humanity. You cannot falter. You will not falter.’
‘You came here with doubts and questions, brother,’ continued the High Chaplain. ‘Your only fault is that you are too humble, beware that. Even too much humility is a sin before the Emperor. You were chosen to be His warrior, an Angel of Death who would rain down death and destruction on all the enemies of Man. You know no fear.’
Astinon bowed slightly, acknowledging the wisdom of the other’s words. ‘I thank you, Lord Svydro. You have given me much to think about.’
‘Before you leave, brother,’ said the chaplain in a slightly amused tone. ‘I am told that you have had a new suit of armour forged for you. I think it is time that you consecrated it in the presence of the Triad. Come closer and kneel, warrior.’
-][-
Astinon watched impassively as the eight Thunderhawks passed through the hangar bay’s containment shields and set down gently on the deck in unison, which groaned ever so slightly under their combined weight. Deck crews and servitors ran towards the battle-scarred gunships, securing them to the hangar deck, and refuelling and re-arming them as necessary.
This was the secondary hangar deck aboard the Montisgarre; it was here that visitors were often welcomed by the Corvians. In the last thirty years, there had been few visitors however, and most of them had tended to be outright hostile rather than friendly.
At the moment, several other Thunderhawks, in the orange-black livery of the Angels of Retribution, were parked in the hangar as well, their armoured, bird-like forms secured in their adamantium-hardened holding cages.
Astinon felt some trepidation as he stood with his honour guard and his officers, waiting to welcome his visitors. This was not a situation he cared to be in, and just wanted to get the formalities done and over with. He had a mission to plan and that over-eager Mechanicus adept assigned to him by the Regent was making matters worse for him with her constant bombardment of questions.
With a hiss of escaping air as the internal and external pressures of the Thunderhawks equalized, their armoured front ramps opened up as one and, barely making a sound, extended down towards the deck. A soft thud echoed around the deck as the heavy ramps touched down and Astinon grumbled inwardly at the damage to his flagship.
Advancing neatly in serried ranks down the ramps of each gunship were thirty Space Marines, clad in full battle-plate of burnished gold with dark crimson edging, their boltguns held in their hands as if they were about to open fire.
An assortment of sheathed melee weapons was also evident on their person, chainswords, power-axes, power-swords mostly but the most prominent were the Astartes who carried thunder hammers. The honour markings on their armour implied they were all either veterans or sergeants at the least, and as such, part of their Commandery’s chain of command.
Astinon’s lips curled in distaste at such blatant disrespect on his own ship, but he held his tongue. He had no wish to provoke matters any further than they had already been, and any hostilities now would only be detrimental to his mission.
Six more warriors emerged from one of the golden-coloured gunships, walking in lockstep with each other, their pace unhurried as they approached Astinon and his cadre of officers. Two of their number did not wear the burnished gold armour of their battle-brothers however, for one was clad in armour of midnight black and wearing a skull-faced helm, while the other wore armour of the brightest blue, his unhelmeted head framed by a large, armoured crystalline hood.
‘They brought a psyker with them,’ whispered Manov to the others. ‘This speaks volumes.’
‘They are well within their rights to do as they please, champion,’ said Chaplain Svydro sharply, his voiced hard as iron. ‘Compose yourself before our visitors or I shall have to do it for you.’
‘Indeed, Lord Chaplain, as you wish,’ said Manov softly.
Astinon ignored the little byplay, his attention focused on the one warrior who led the others. His armour was more ornate than that of anyone else in the hangar bay, save for Astinon himself.
It was a fact that was not lost on the Corvian general.
This warrior was their captain.
His baroque armour appeared to have been especially forged for him, for it was adorned all over with sigils of mailed fists and hammers. The warrior underscored his iconography with the thunder hammer that he wore holstered on his back, its head carved on both sides in the likeness of a clenched fist. It was a fearsome weapon, and as Astinon stole a quick glance towards Salsax, he saw his Captain staring in open admiration at the artifice that had gone into the thunder hammer’s forging.
And if the icons carved on his armour were not enough, his armour was bedecked with purity seals and faded strips of parchment. The red-knotted seal on his right pauldron was the longest, roughly five inches long, by Astinon’s best estimate from this distance.
An honoured warrior, no doubt about it, he thought.
The gold-clad warrior approached Astinon and offered a salute, the sound of his fists striking his breastplate echoing loudly across the hangar bay like steel ringing on hardened stone. The Commander answered in kind and offered a deep bow to the other in respect and to signify his friendship.
The warrior took off his black-striped helmet and addressed Astinon in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Ave Imperator Verimus, Lord Commander. I am Brother-Captain Rado Saigun of the Dorn Revenant Commandery. The Eleventh Company and I are here to offer you our support in your mission to the distant Kiavahr system.’
‘Welcome aboard the Montisgarre, Brother-Captain. I am Commander Astinon Dras, and I lead the Sons of Corax in His name,’ responded Astinon evenly. His keen eyes gazed into the other’s oddly blue eyes in a silent contest of wills, seeking a measure of the warrior before him.
Astinon was the first to break contact and gestured to his command cadre, pointing to each in turn. ‘These are my officers, Captain. Captain Adrastos of the Raven Guard. Captain Dheimmel of the Revilers. Captain Salsax of the Raptors. High Chaplain Svydro. Apothecary Vex. And my champion, Sergeant Manov.’
The Revenant looked at Astinon in surprise. ‘Your Commandery still maintains the chapter divisions of the Old Imperium?’
Astinon simply raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. ‘These divisions as you call them, Captain, are part of our history, and they define who we are and what we can aspire to be,’ he answered. ‘We are nothing if we forget the traditions of our past. Change for its own sake is a useless endeavour.’
Saigun merely shrugged slightly and nodded at each of the Corvian officers and then looked back again at Astinon. ‘You have no psykers in your ranks I take it, Commander?’
Astinon’s friendly expression was immediately replaced with one of annoyance. ‘We count none with the Emperor’s gift among our numbers,’ he said bitterly. ‘We have not had a Librarian of skill among us for over seven hundred years.’
‘A shame,’ said Saigun matter-of-factly again, and gestured to the five warriors behind him. ‘These are my own officers, Commander Dras. Chaplain Kulas. Epistolary Vorokov. My champion, Brother Sandres. Sergeant Levix and Brother Bevmund.’
Astinon also inclined his head in their direction in respect and waved to Saigun. ‘Come, Captain, you and I have much to discuss. Adept Zethsemene arrived some time ago and is eager to get started with the briefings.’
Saigun however, shook his head, his expression one of regret. ‘There is one matter that must be resolved between us first, Commander Dras,’ he said, a touch of sadness in his voice.
His words made Astinon pause and he let out a sigh, anticipating what was to happen next. Behind him, his officers also stiffened in surprise at the breach in protocol.
‘Captain, I am not sure I understand the meaning of your words,’ said Astinon, feigning ignorance.
‘It is a simple matter, Commander,’ replied Saigun, his expression graver than before. ‘All of Armageddon knows how Brother-Captain Torro Nicodemus was humiliated by you and High Commander He’stan atop the Regent’s Tower. Dishonour and shame has been brought upon the Dorn Revenants, and in our own way, we must avenge this insult.’
Astinon’s face hardened at the reminder of that fateful encounter in the Regent’s Tower. He leaned in close to Saigun and whispered softly so only the Revenant could hear him. ‘Do not make the same mistake that Captain Nicodemus made, Saigun,’ he said. ‘There are complications enough in this maddened galaxy without us adding to it. We are supposed to be friends and comrades, Captain, not bitter allies.’
Saigun shook his head regretfully. ‘There is nothing I can do about this, Commander. This is how it must be. Honour must be restored to the Dorn Revenants, and in this moment and in this place I will be the one who avenges the insult.’
Anger flickered in Astinon’s eyes at Saigun’s refusal and he backed up to give himself some room. ‘Then you leave me no choice, Captain Saigun.’
‘That was not my intent, Commander, but I repeat that this is just how it must be. I myself have no choice in the matter.’
‘Very well, then Captain Rado Saigun, you will have your honour duel. Here and now.’
Manov moved at once to stand next to Astinon. ‘Commander, what would you have of us?’ he asked hesitantly.
Astinon looked around at everyone present inside the hangar bay, which had gone deathly silent. The only sound was the cooling of the Dorn Revenants’ Thunderhawk engines. He could taste the palpable tension in the air as everyone in the hangar waited to see what was about to happen next.
‘You are my champion as always, Manov,’ replied Astinon, without looking back at his champion. ‘Act as my second should things turn awry. And be quick with that sword of yours if need be.’
As the Corvian general watched, Saigun turned to his champion, Sandres, and handed him his helmet and his boltgun. Then he freed his thunder hammer from its holster on his back and handed that over as well.
In return, Sandres handed over his own power sword, a master-crafted weapon with its hilt shaped like a flanged mace and its cross-guard shaped in the likeness of the Imperial Aquila.
Saigun swung a few practice strokes with the weapon, getting a feel for its weight and balance. He then activated the weapon’s power field and the sword thrummed through the air, as if it could somehow anticipate the impending combat. Once he had satisfied himself, the Revenant Captain walked back towards Astinon.
For his own part, Astinon mirrored Saigun’s actions in giving his helmet and his holstered bolt pistols to Manov, and withdrawing the Stormblade from its scabbard on his belt. He turned towards his would-be opponent and gave him a respectful salute with the sword raised high in front of him. Blue-white lightning coruscated around the weapon’s blade as Astinon thumbed the activation stud in its grip for the sword’s power field.
Kulas and Svydro, knowing their roles full well in this honour duel, approached the ground between their two leaders and performed a blessing to the Emperor.
‘Lord of Mankind, watch over these two warriors as they fight to redress the wrongs done to them and thereby restoring their honour,’ they intoned as one and made the sign of the Aquila across their chests. At a nod from Kulas, Svydro took a step forward to signify his role as the master of ceremonies and signalled to the two combatants to approach him.
‘You are here on a matter of honour,’ he said formally once Saigun and Astinon were in place, standing six feet apart from each other. ‘I am here to assure that you settle it honourably and with dignity. If quarter is asked...’
‘No quarter will be asked,’ interjected Astinon, his face devoid of any expression, but his bearing erect and proud.
‘And none will be given,’ replied Saigun, his face equally grave.
Svydro and Kulas then moved away from the two combatants, giving them room to fight. Sandres and Manov did likewise. Glancing at the two heroes one last time, Svydro raised his crozius high in the air and then brought it down sharply, striking the hangar deck with a sharp clang.
‘Commence!’
For a long moment, neither Astartes moved, patiently gauging each other’s stance, watching for an opening that they could exploit instantly. Astinon held his relic sword in a high guard, gripping its long hilt with both hands, while across from him, Saigun held out his champion’s recently-forged sword pointed at his opponent like a sabre.
It was Astinon who moved first by arcing the Stormblade down low to slash at Saigun’s exposed face, but the Revenant was too fast for him and sidestepped the blow, deflecting with his own weapon. Snarling, he suddenly moved forwards, bringing the blade up high to strike at Astinon’s throat.
Off-balanced, Astinon could only clumsily bring up his sword to defend and his opponent almost lazily battered it away. The Corvian was unfazed though, his face set in a mask of grim determination. He backed up several steps to give him more room, and then lunged forwards, the Stormblade thrust forwards and aimed at Saigun’s chest.
This time, the Revenant failed to block the blow, but the Aquila carved on his breastplate robbed it of most of its power, the blade managing to only just about penetrate through the thick ceramite of the armour. Astinon pivoted and threw a punch at Saigun’s face but it clanged harmlessly off the Revenant’s left pauldron.
Saigun then dipped low and swept Astinon off his feet with a well-placed kick to his right knee, and brought his sword around to stab the other through the heart, but Astinon rolled away and got up hurriedly. He flicked beads of sweat off his face and regarded the Revenant, his eyes speaking murder.
Saigun managed to crack a faint smile at Astinon’s frustration. A superb duellist, the Revenant Captain was the epitome of calm, his balanced stance and easy manner provoking his opponent even further. He walked back and forth around the other in a circle, gauging him with a haughty sneer on his face. Astinon tracked him with his eyes, the tip of the sword pointed at the Revenant.
Too fast for the eyes to see, Saigun charged again in a furious pirouette and slashed at Astinon, forcing the other to back up to keep his footing. They exchanged twenty strikes and parries in half as many seconds, but neither was able to score a decisive hit.
‘The Revenant is fast,’ remarked Salsax to the others. ‘The Commander cannot match him in skill alone.’
‘It will not be easy for him to win,’ commented Manov, with a hint of worry in his tone. ‘Saigun is one of the most skilled duellists among the Dorn Revenants. It is said, that he is a match for even Lord He’stan, with whom he is known to duel regularly by way of practice.’
‘He duels with the High Commander?’ asked Adrastos incredulously.
‘Must be one hell of an opponent in the training cages then,’ said Salsax appreciatively.
‘You do realize, you popinjay, that if the Commander loses, then the honour of the Sons of Corax will be vilified?’ asked Dheimmel in a quiet, calm voice.
‘We don’t care for such bland notions of honour, Reviler, you know that,’ replied Salsax dismissively. ‘The Commander has never let us down before, and he will not let us down now.’
‘Remember that the next time you talk about Adenar,’ said Dheimmel evenly.
‘Would the four of you stop your petty arguments for once?’ asked Svydro, his eyebrows furrowed together as he concentrated on the duel. ‘We cannot afford to lose this honour-duel. More than the honour of either Commandery is at stake here,’ he said, whispering the last.
In the space between the Sons of Corax and the Dorn Revenants, Saigun and Astinon continued their deadly dance. It was quite apparent that they were an equal match for each other.
What Astinon lacked in skill, he more than made up for with his ferocity. Their duel was a frustrating stalemate, for neither of the two had managed to score a killing blow yet, though their armour was chipped and dented in a multitude of places.
They circled one another again, both moving to the left, away from the other’s blade as they constantly measured each other.
And it was Astinon who was the worse for the wear. He had not expected the duel to last this long, nor had he expected to face such a skilled opponent. It was taking every ounce of skill and intelligence he had to stay one step ahead of Saigun, let alone win the duel.
Every attack he made was met and answered, and his frustration mounted. He would not be able to fend the Revenant off for a moment longer, given the other’s superlative expertise compared to his own.
He decided that a slight change in tactics was in order.
‘Why do this, Saigun?’ he asked suddenly, forcing the Revenant Captain to pause.
‘Honour, Commander Dras,’ was the answer. ‘It is all about honour. Without honour we are nothing. You say that traditions define us, but the sons of Dorn hold that it is honour above all that truly matters.’
‘But you fight to defend the honour of a fool like Nicodemus. There is no honour in defending one such as him,’ said Astinon, exasperated.
‘On the contrary, Commander, it has everything to do with the Seventh Captain,’ said Saigun, flouring his sword in circles one-handed. ‘Honour by itself is meaningless. It needs something else to complement it and make it whole, something to give it the necessary context. And for the warriors of the Dorn Revenants, it is our brotherhood.’
‘We believe in brotherhood too, Captain,’ countered Astinon. ‘And honour. But we do not suffer fools gladly. The lessons of the Second Age of Strife have been well-learned by me and my battle-brothers. Our honour is defined by our deeds, not by our comrades.’
‘Then we must simply agree to disagree, Commander,’ said Saigun, gazing hard at Astinon.
With another sudden move, Saigun moved straight at his opponent, his sword held high and then changing direction to strike laterally at his side in a snap blow. Astinon countered by swinging his sword around to defend, and threw a quick punch at Saigun.
The Revenant had not seen the physical blow coming and tried to arrest his forward momentum but failed. Astinon’s blow hit him square in the jaw, and Saigun fell down in a heap, his sword clattering to the deck floor.
There was utter silence in the hangar. The duel had ended so suddenly that the audience wondered what had just happened.
Ignoring the stares of the Dorn Revenants, Astinon twirled his sword around in a figure eight and the pointed the tip of the blade at Saigun’s face. The Captain watched the blade uninterestedly as he picked himself up.
‘Yield, it does not need to end badly,’ he said pointedly, gesturing at Saigun’s bloody face.
Svydro finally stepped forwards, his face grave.
‘Commander Dras has won the honour duel,’ he said formally. ‘Let there be no further cause for such a duel again between the Sons of Corax and the Dorn Revenants while the mission is underway. This is so decreed on pain of death should this command be violated.’
-][-
If Captain Nicodemus had been paying attention, he would have seen the subtle warning signs of what was about to happen next. As it was, he was too caught up in his vitriol-ridden tirade to notice the thick, armoured gauntlet that suddenly rose up to strike him full in the face, sending him sprawling across the white-tiled stone floor.
His head rang with the force of the blow, and he winced in pain, looking at his attacker in confusion.
‘Do you know what it is we are working for here, you mindless cretin?’ roared the figure in a tone that bled anger and outrage. ‘We are the inheritors of Dorn’s immortal legacy; we don’t bicker amongst ourselves like common soldiers.’ The warrior turned and punched the wall behind him, gouging a deep crater in the stonework. ‘We are rebuilding an entire civilization here and you go around picking fights with others who are doing the same? Are you insane, Captain Nicodemus?’
‘I did not bicker with him,’ replied Nicodemus venomously, spitting blood on the floor as he got up. His face was pale and his eyes were a little unfocused. ‘I went there to make some things clear to him. I will not have anyone outside of our order bringing dishonour to us or to the memory of the Primarch, Lord Commander.’
‘Is that what you think, Nicodemus?’ said Remun Valcaor, Master of the Dorn Revenant Commandery. His entire body was tense, the veins and muscles on his bared forehead standing out like streaks of pale blue lightning. ‘Your thoughtless and foolish actions have brought that very same dishonour that you attempted to prevent upon us. The Lords of the Council have raised questions as to our loyalty and our dedication to the New Imperium. Our loyalty,’ he hissed.
‘They wouldn’t,’ retorted the Captain of the Seventh, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’
‘Oh but indeed they have dared so,’ continued Valcaor. ‘Can you imagine the humiliation of their accusations? Standing in the Council Room, I was accused of harbouring malcontents and firebrands in my Commandery! The Dorn Revenants have become the laughing stock of the entire world, you horse-faced bastard!’
‘That was never my intention, Commander.’ Nicodemus hung his head in shame at Valcaor’s words. ‘I only intended to put the thrice-cursed pirate in his place and establish that he and those of his bloodlines are inferior to us.’
‘Then you failed miserably, Captain Nicodemus,’ said Valcaor. ‘And Lord He’stan was right to chastise and censure you. If it were up to me, you would have been cast out of the Commandery the moment you returned. But the Imperial Regent has other thoughts on the matter.’
Valcaor looked at Nicodemus for a moment, his anger barely in check. ‘The bonds of brotherhood we all share protect you only so far, Captain,’ he added.
‘He knows?’ asked Nicodemus, shuddering at the mention of Vulkan. Valcaor sneered in contempt at his Captain’s behaviour.
‘You are a disgrace to the Dorn Revenants, and you are a disgrace to our lineage. In the Primarch’s name, how could you be so foolish?’ he thundered, taking a step closer to the Nicodemus.
The Captain stood unflinching where he stood, prepared for whatever punishment now came his way. He didn’t move a muscle as Valcaor once again struck him, this time on the other cheek, and Nicodemus collapsed in a heap on the floor, unconscious.
‘Take him away, far beyond my sight,’ he ordered. ‘I want him thrown into the Chamber of Pain, and kept there for a week, isolated and cut-off from everyone in the Commandery. Only the servitors are to be allowed near his useless body.’
-][-
Vulkan gazed out through the armoured window of his personal sanctum at the hive as it spread out around the Regent’s Tower. Night had fallen on this side of Armageddon, and the usual hustle and bustle of the hive was just a soft whisper in the air, broken only by the discordant howling of the wind as it swept through the hive.
Vulkan had rarely seen a sight such as the one before him during his twenty-thousand year wanderings across the length and breadth of the galaxy. It always stirred alien feelings in him to see such an example of the dichotomy inherent among his species, its greatness as a species combined with its insignificance in the greater scheme of things as part of that very same species. It saddened him sometimes.
At the moment, he was thinking of the nightmare he had experienced the night before. The pain and agony that had come with his visions had worked together to make his sleep a restless one. Not to mention the lasting effects it had left on him, his face had become gaunt overnight and he appeared not a little frail and thin. He looked less like the glorious regent of a galactic empire and more like an old man whose body was failing him.
He turned from the view when he heard the gentle creak of the door to sanctum opening and closing. He let out a wistful sigh and glanced to his left, where his most honoured son He’stan stood to one side like a silent, unmoving guardian, clad in full battle-plate with his drake-faced helmet mag-locked to his belt. The smile that Vulkan gave He’stan went acknowledged, but the Primarch knew that his gene-son appreciated the small gesture of their friendship.
‘Come in, Commander,’ he addressed the warrior who had just entered the chamber, his helmet held in the crook of his left arm.
The Space Marine gave Vulkan the Imperial salute and bowed from the waist down. ‘I have come as you ordered, my lord. How can the Avengers serve you?’ the warrior asked, his tone low and respectful at addressing the Primarch.
‘Astinon Dras and his Corvians are heading out to Kiavahr soon, Commander Helios,’ said Vulkan as he sat down in a chair carved out of some local rock. It was just about big enough for his wide-shouldered frame to sit in comfortably.
‘What are my orders then, Lord Vulkan?’ asked Helios. Something about the Primarch’s bearing disturbed him, but he could not put his finger on it. He looked almost gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten in some time. It was unnerving to see the Regent like this. He shivered inwardly.
Vulkan’s eyes burned with a disquieting intensity as he looked at Helios. ‘Your orders are to shadow their fleet all the way to Kiavahr and keep me informed of their every move, Commander. I detest putting Corax’s warriors under such scrutiny but I feel deeply uneasy about this mission. Call it a hunch,’ he remarked, waving his hands at Helios as if he was distracted by something.
‘Have you had a vision, my lord?’ asked the warrior, his tone betraying his concern at the Primarch’s unsettling expression.
‘Perhaps, I am not sure yet,’ answered Vulkan, waving one hand in dismissal. ‘Deliverance will be a greater trial by fire than Medan for our adventurous Commander Dras though, of that I am quite sure.’
‘What awaits them on Deliverance?’ asked the Commander, taking a step forwards and kneeling on the tiled marble floor. He averted his gaze from the Primarch and looked down.
‘Death and humiliation,’ answered Vulkan, his voice faltering slightly as he said the words. Confused at the long pause that followed, Helios looked back at the Primarch, only to see his eyes closed as if in pain.
In an instant, before Helios himself could rush to the Primarch’s side, He’stan was already there, catching the Primarch as he nearly fell to the floor, unconscious.
Helios looked on in shock and surprise, his entire body rigid in response to what he had just seen. ‘What has happened to him?’
He’stan looked at him in annoyance. ‘It is nothing. His powers sometimes demand much of his body. That is all.’
‘But...’
‘It is nothing,’ said He’stan, looking at him with anger. ‘You saw nothing here, Avenger, remember that. Word must not get out to the Council or to anyone else in the New Imperium about the Primarch’s weakness.’
‘Do my orders still stand then?’
‘Yes, they do,’ He’stan shot back. ‘Take the Avengers to Kiavahr and keep a watch on Astinon and Saigun. I know a little of what the Primarch has seen and none of it is encouraging.’
‘Why, what has he seen?’ asked the warrior desperately.
‘Kiavahr is caught up in a madness that is beyond understanding. That is all I can say.’ He’stan looked down distractedly at the Primarch’s limp form in his arms.
The warrior snapped a sharp salute to He’stan. ‘The Dragon’s fire shall cleanse Kiavahr of this madness then, Lord He’stan; you have my oath on it.’
He’stan shook his head. ‘Do not make promises to me, Helios. Do it for Vulkan.’
‘For the Primarch and the True Emperor then, my lord.’
‘In their name.’
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