Shadowbreaker

by Warhammer 40K

  Why the Emperor had done these things was beyond Karras’ comprehension. Perhaps the reasons became known to those who sat upon the Shariax. Perhaps not.

  The Shariax. The Throne of Glass.

  The memory of what he’d seen seated upon it during the eldar’s psychic trespass of his mind sent a fresh chill up his spine. Such grotesquery. To see himself mutated, perverted into that which he despised… to see his khadit’s dead eyes staring up at him from the severed head on the floor…

  A scowl twisted his face.

  It did not matter that the visions had been a warning. What mattered was the insult to his Chapter and the feeling that… that he was now tainted somehow. It sat in his stomach like a nest of coiling black asps.

  The alien machine had made him whole again. It had saved his life. He lived and breathed and would fight on in the name of Emperor and Chapter because of it. But what were the hidden costs?

  Given the choice, would I have allowed them to save me in that way? Knowing what I now know?

  He cursed himself for the futility of such thoughts.

  The choice had never been his. What was done was done. He lived. He would serve, and with more resolve than ever before, fuelled by his outrage, his renewed hatred of all that was alien.

  As he looked at the statues of the Seven Sentinels, the First Watch, all exquisitely carved in black marble and detailed in silver, he thought of the Watch Council. It was they who had stored the eldar machine here. Had the Ordo Xenos commanded that? Had Sigma’s coven known it would be needed? Or had Marnus Lochaine’s Librarius seen the day of its need in the Imperial Tarot or the reading of ancient and holy rune-carved bones?

  Had this been pre-ordained somehow?

  So much talk of destiny and great purpose surrounded him. All he sought was to serve like any other, to die in battle with honour.

  To the blasted warp with all their talk of the future. Let me be as any other Space Marine. Set me against the foe. Let me live a life of war that is simple and bloody and brutal and pure.

  He wanted to growl his frustration, but the Reclusiam was a place of silent reflection, and it held him silent now.

  The Seven Sentinels of the First Watch stared back at him impassively, their stone-cut features without judgement, set only in grim determination, certain of their purpose, committed to their alien-slaughtering mandate with boundless zeal.

  Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the back of the pew in front of him, clasped his hands and lowered his eyes from those marble faces. He gazed at nothing and focused on his breath, working to clear his mind, to find peace in thoughtlessness, just for a while.

  After several minutes, the hinges of the Reclusiam’s great bronze doors creaked behind him, and a draft blew into the room, causing the candle flames to dance.

  Karras did not turn.

  He heard heavy footsteps approach him, then the rustling of fabric as someone sat heavily on the pew behind his. Normally, without conscious command or exertion, Karras’ psychic senses would have reached out and tested the aura of the newcomer, identifying him. But that was another change the eldar machine seemed to have wrought in him.

  His eldritch power, if any remained at all, seemed so diminished he could hardly feel it, like a river reduced to a trickle. This time, unlike during his training at Damaroth before Second Oath, it was not because of a warp field damping implant.

  After a moment, the newcomer spoke, his voice hushed but still deep and clear. ‘There are entire chambers of the Librarius archives dedicated to the stories and records of the Seven,’ it said, and Karras knew from the first word that it was Lochaine. ‘Some are even declassified now. If you have yet to read them, try to find the time before you redeploy. They have much to teach. The Watch would not be what it is today but for their boundless resolve and selflessness.’

  Karras half-turned in his seat. ‘And just what is the Watch today,’ he said, ‘that it employs eldar machines to heal its members?’

  Lochaine paused a moment. ‘Given your position, brother, the comment is not unfair. Your outrage is understandable. But remember this – Sigma could have let you die. Truly, had it been any of your team but you, I fear he may have done just that. Healing your body in such a manner, I know, is hard to accept. But it was not a decision made lightly. Not by the ordo, nor by the Watch Council. The Inquisition’s influence here is hard to overstate. We do not operate in a vacuum.’

  ‘As I’ve learned well,’ said Karras.

  Lochaine let that hang in the air.

  Looking at his hands again, Karras said at last, ‘It is hard to accept that my life has been… spared this way. Every last scar is gone. Each was a part of me.’

  ‘And each well earned in blood and pain, I know. But scars only tell of experience. They are not experience itself. The xenos machine did not erase the skill, the knowledge. And new scars will replace the old soon enough.’

  ‘If you think such will satisfy me–’

  ‘What satisfies you is not my concern, Space Marine,’ said Lochaine, his tone suddenly hard. ‘It is duty that must be satisfied. Oaths that were taken. You are bound by them. Think on that.’

  True enough, Karras conceded, but it was clear Lochaine was somewhat unsettled himself. It was in his voice. It seemed hardly a coincidence that the damnable xenos machine had begun to collapse and dissolve, atom by atom, mere moments after it had spilled the rebuilt body of the Death Spectre onto the floor.

  The eldar were known to have powerful seers. Something about the way the machine had destroyed itself spoke of a purpose met. They had somehow contrived this or, at the very least, had had a willing hand in it. And that made the Storm Warden uneasy. What did the eldar care if one lone Space Marine – this Space Marine – survived?

  Lochaine shook it off. Too much conjecture. Not enough to work with.

  ‘Debate has always raged in the Watch Council,’ he said. ‘We suffer from factionalism as much as any Imperial body. Given the nature of what we do, perhaps we are even more inclined to it. Many among us, the purists, would have it that all trace of xenos existence must be cleansed from the galaxy. They will touch nothing of xenos make. They will not learn the language of the foe, even where such knowledge might offer important tactical insight. Then there are the rest. I count myself among them. Our mission is too great to be blinded by zealotry and miss critical opportunities. Knowledge properly applied is power. Sometimes the purists find themselves with a Watch Council majority. Other times not. But the debates rage, nonetheless. So it is in every Watch fortress and station across the Imperium.’

  Lochaine paused.

  ‘We do not often speak of it openly, but you need to hear it, Karras. There was much argument about whether to concede to Sigma’s wishes and place you in the machine. In the end, it was the Librarius that argued most strongly for it. The futures surrounding you are… complicated.’

  Karras’ eyes narrowed. Again, the talk of fate and futures.

  ‘Ours is not a short and simple fight,’ the Master of the Librarius went on. ‘Not since the time of the Warmaster’s betrayal, ten thousand years past, has mankind faced darker days. Beset on all sides, it is our survival, not our dominion, that hangs in the balance. The Watch Council believes we must embrace every weapon, every opportunity. Good intelligence is key to our survival.’

  ‘Clearly, the Inquisition concurs,’ said Karras. ‘Sigma apparently operates with a free hand. You mention factionalism in the Watch – what of the ordo?’

  ‘As with any Imperial body, we can assume there are struggles within for power and control. But none are better at keeping their business behind closed doors. Let Sigma’s business within the Ordo Xenos remain his own concern. What should we care? We fight. One day, we die. We endeavour to die with honour, selling our lives dearly. You would have died already, brother, and your Chapter and the Watch both would have lo
st a valuable asset. This feeling that you have been tainted somehow will pass. Duty will soon erase your doubts, as will the imminent tests. We swear our lives to the service of the Golden Throne. You look at your hands, Karras, and lament the loss of your scars, but that thought diminishes you. They will bleed again. The Watch Council has been told little of what befell you. It is unlikely the ordo will ever share the details, and your oaths preclude you from saying much. But I saw you when they brought you in. It was clear that you fought to the very last. Trust me. It is a fine thing that you were saved, no matter the method.’

  ‘Trust you?’ said Karras. ‘I barely trust my own senses anymore. Things happened inside the machine. Xenos trickery. Visions. A psychic intrusion.’

  ‘The purity tests will prove that there has been no taint. You will see soon enough, though they will not be easy to bear.’

  The purity tests – the reason he had been brought to the Reclusiam in the first place. The High Chaplain Qesos and Lochaine both would need to approve his return to service. No sign of taint would be tolerated. His service and his life were not yet guaranteed by any means.

  But it was not some taint from the mind-invasion of the eldar that concerned Karras most. It was thoughts of Hepaxammon.

  The eldar may have had a hand in healing his body, but it was the daemon that claimed responsibility for his recovery.

  He recalled the abomination’s ultimatum – the threats against his Chapter, the message for Darrion Rauth.

  Again, that feeling, like snakes in his stomach.

  ‘The tests. What happens when I pass?’

  ‘Sigma has ordered your immediate return to Talon Squad. Alpha status intact.’

  Karras processed this in silence. Part of him wished to be released from the inquisitor’s service. Let him be part of a standard kill-team, unattached to the blasted Ordo Xenos. But another part wondered at it – why the insistence? What had Sigma’s coven seen? Did it align with the hopes of his Chapter? Of his khadit?

  ‘I never served under an ordo handler, Karras,’ said Lochaine. ‘I can well imagine how it must rankle. Speak to Kulle. He is due to return to the Silver Skulls soon. He has served long and with distinction, and he will be granted his Honours of Fulfilment. But he served under a handler for years before he made Watch sergeant. Perhaps he can offer a perspective I cannot.’

  Karras recalled the face of the Silver Skull, his instructor during assault training in the kill-blocks. Kulle had shown an openness and respect for Librarians where others were wary, even disdainful. Perhaps it would be wise to seek him out.

  Lochaine went on. ‘Those that survive to return home are the ones who adapt the fastest and do not let pride or rigidity kill them. I urge you to silence the questioning voice inside you. Hold to your faith in your wargear and the honour of your Chapter. Hold to your oaths. Meet your objectives. Compete your missions. The years will pass more quickly that way. Soon enough, you will find yourself on a ship bound for Occludus. You will return changed, a more powerful force for your Chapter. An inspiration to your brothers. A source of strength when they need it most. That is the prize, Karras. Keep your eyes upon it.’

  Karras made a decision then. It seemed to come of its own accord, the words leaving his mouth before he realised he was speaking them.

  ‘I want deeper access to the archives. I need to know more about Sigma. Everything the Watch has on him.’

  He heard Lochaine shift uncomfortably behind him.

  After a moment, the Chief Librarian said, ‘You have little idea of what you ask, I think. What would you be willing to sacrifice to gain that access?’

  ‘Sacrifice?’

  ‘Of all the archives at Damaroth, those concerning the Inquisition require some of the highest clearance levels we have. You would have to petition both your Chapter and the Watch Council for permanent secondment here. Do you understand? Deathwatch till death, never to return home, as it is with me. Truly, brother, the knowledge you would gain would be worthless to you by then. The Watch fortress would be proud to have you, but such is not your fate. Scant as they are, the records would not satisfy you in any case.’

  ‘Then I’m to endure in silence. Even when I doubt everything this damned inquisitor says, even when every instinct within me is telling me it’s wrong. There were things we saw on deployment–’

  ‘Assumptions are dangerous. You know this. You were not placed under Sigma’s command to judge him or to second-guess him. The Holy Inquisition stands apart for a reason. Respect it. It is the Eye That Sees, the Ear That Listens. To separate the Watch from the ordo is to blind us, to rob us of vital intelligence. Where then would we send our kill-teams? How would we know where we were needed most if not for the cooperation of the ordo? Come to terms with it, brother. All of it. The Inquisition acts in the interest of the human race. May the Seven Sentinels forgive me, but the truth remains – we need them just as much as they need us. Would that it were not so, but it is. So look instead to the honour of your Chapter and the oaths you have made to the Watch, and serve them both as you are sworn to. Let there be no more anguish over what has passed. You live. Your service continues. War beckons. What more can a Space Marine rightly ask?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Karras. ‘To serve with honour.’

  It was all he could say. No other words had a chance to form. At that moment, from an antechamber on the right of the nave, High Chaplain Qesos entered, striking in his black armour and golden skull-faced helm. With a wordless nod, he told them it was time.

  Lochaine stood and placed a hand on Karras’ shoulder.

  ‘The purity tests will be gruelling. Think no more of past and future. Save all your energy for the here and now. You will need it.’

  Karras rose.

  ‘Come,’ said Lochaine. ‘Let us get this over with.’

  Twelve

  The sun was strong and high over Chu’sut Ka.

  Shas’O T’kan Jai’kal, known more simply as Coldwave, felt the midday heat pressing against him, an almost physical force, its brightness bouncing off the stuccoed walls and arches and pricking at his eyes. And yet it was nothing to the heat and dryness of the canyons and plateaus around the Na’a’Vashak.

  That place which the gue’la called the Tower of the Forgotten – how he wished he’d never had to set foot there. All his recent surging self-hate and doubt were linked to the accursed place, to what was being done there under his supervision.

  So too, however, were all his hopes.

  Despite the sun’s sting on his head and hands, the rest of his body felt cool and comfortable. His clothing – a simple, formal uniform in tan with the battle honours and trappings of his rank – included a microconductive weave which shifted excess heat to the power-storing unit in his left thigh-pouch, where it charged the spare magazine for his sidearm.

  He leaned on the railing of the third-storey gallery, looking down on the gardens below. They were thick with shadowy greens and brightly coloured fruits. Finely laid paths of polished stone, made broad enough so two could walk abreast and talk, snaked lazily through them. Artisans of the earth caste would find much to inspire them here. Coldwave was far from blind to its aesthetic qualities but, like the Aun, he would have preferred something more austere.

  Water caste advisers had been adamant, however, that seating the new t’au government here was paramount to the success of human integration. The gue’la were apparently incapable of respecting any authority that didn’t proclaim itself with brazen shows of status and wasteful luxury.

  Soon, thought the commander, the percentages will shift. Within five years, our race will be the majority here.

  Things would start to change at a faster pace. Less compromise. It would still all be carefully managed over time – as fast as the prevention of unrest would allow. But it was coming. The water caste would succeed as they always did, as they had on every integrated world in
the expansion.

  They were masters of gradual cultural subversion by now. Enough worlds had been turned. Their programmes were well tested and refined.

  But watching over it all is no place for a warrior, thought Coldwave. Not for me. Were it not for the rebels, the traitors and the coming of the black-feathered woman and her death-dealers, I would wither of disgrace and disuse.

  He belonged on a battlefront. He belonged on the frontier.

  Warriors were born to fight, not oversee foul experiments.

  In the years since his posting to T’kan, despite his abiding love of the Aun and his dedication to serving him, Coldwave’s growing bitterness at being robbed of further honour by his political rivals had been eating away at his core.

  He had been a threat to the ambitions of others, and those others had had powerful friends on the Aun’T’au’resha, the Ethereal Council.

  He had been sidelined before his star could properly rise.

  But it wasn’t over. A chance had come in the form of the woman. As much as he hated her, her arrival had changed everything. The way back to prominence had opened before both he and the Aun.

  Prominence, or everlasting infamy and shame.

  He turned his eyes to the right, to an open, flag-stoned area of the gardens where a small gathering of humans and t’au were seated around a table of white marble. At the head of the table, so regal in bearing despite his simple robes, sat Aun’dzi, beloved of all on T’kan, the Light in the Darkness, the Bringer of Hope and Unity.

  Clay goblets of fruit-flavoured water sat before each individual. Even among the myriad strong floral scents of the gardens, Coldwave could zero in on the delicate smell of the refreshments, such was the sensitivity of the t’au olfactory nerves.