‘Praise be!’ shouted the brothers.
Serfs rushed forwards, a servitor-scribe between them. The machine-slave’s chest-mounted mechanism chuntered while it walked, spilling an oath paper from its cybernetic innards. One of the serfs tore the warm parchment free, and held it to Helbrecht’s lips to kiss as the other prepared the seal. With the hiss of hot metal on wax, the menials affixed the paper to Helbrecht’s chestplate.
‘It is sworn. It is done.’ He stood. Anyanka could not see the tears drying upon his cheeks. His religious fervour retreated back within him, leaving him a man of stone again.
‘The Ghoul Stars Crusade is done. By the power given me, I formally incept this Armageddon Crusade. Let our victory stand as testament to the supremacy of man. Mistress Osper, if I might request that you and your adepts send immediate word to Marshal Amalrich and Marshal Ricard. Inform them that I declare their crusades to be over, and that they must make all haste to the Chapter keep at Fergax in the Ultima Segmentum. Inform them to hold there and await further orders.’
‘It is my duty and my honour, my lord,’ said the astropath.
Helbrecht’s earlier dismay was forgotten. His blood was hot with zeal. ‘To your stations, brothers. We make all haste to the Armageddon System!’
Something akin to pleasure coursed through the Eternal Crusader as its warp engines were engaged to rip aside the curtains of reality and show the horrors behind.
Flanked by its seven escorts in arrowhead formation, the Eternal Crusader leapt into the jagged tear in the walls of space-time. Their inferior engines struggling to keep pace, the heavy cruiser Majesty and lesser battle-barge Night’s Vigil straggled after. For the briefest instant, the rip in the cosmos afforded a view into a realm of insanity where the engine stacks of the crusade fleet burned, candles in a hurricane.
A boom rumbled across the void, sound where no sound should be, as it collapsed. The Black Templars were gone, their ships carrying them forwards on their endless crusade.
Some hours after the fleet’s departure, the guttering embers of Grave Core went out. With remarkable swiftness, the frigid blue of the planet’s original colour began to return.
CHAPTER THREE
Grimaldus
The ship juddered, bouncing over a wave in the deep warp.
The seven knights of the Inner Circle ignored the Eternal Crusader’s creaking and rolling. Gathered in the Chamber of Sigismund were Champion Bayard, Master of Sanctity Theoderic, Master of the Forge Jurisian, Castellan Ceonulf, Praeses-Sword Brother Gulvein and Brother-Dreadnought Cantus Maxim Gloria. Also present were Abbott Giscard, leader of the thrall-monks of the Monasterium Certituda deep in the bowels of the ship, Sergeant Majoris Valdric, chief officer of the Chapter’s warrior-serfs, and Confessor Cornelius Halquon, lately arrived from the convent world of Rith. These last three had no vote in the doings of the council, but their voices were heeded by Helbrecht, the confessor’s especially.
Helbrecht occupied his throne. In front of it was a pool of dazzling light.
Sword Brethren in robes lined the walls in the shadows, allowed to witness but not permitted to add their own arguments. The air was thick and hot, heavy with the scent of incense and the Dreadnought’s exhaust stacks. The rumble of Cantus’s powerplant turning over brought an industrial quality to the proceedings. The confessor, new to the ways of the Adeptus Astartes, was taken aback when Cantus clanged into the room to take up his place at the edge of the Inner Circle. It was explained that Cantus was an Ancient, and senior Dreadnought of the Black Templars. His wisdom was invaluable in such debates as these.
Currently, Valdric occupied the speaking place in the circle of light.
‘Lord Grimaldus is a good choice, my liege,’ said Valdric. He was a stern, grim man, who had aged quickly in the manner of unaltered humans, bald, gruff and close-mouthed. In his gleaming armour and with sword by his side, some saw in him a Helbrecht in miniature.
‘He has little time for the menials, lord,’ said the abbott.
‘And rightwise too!’ barked Valdric. Spittle was apt to fly from his mouth when he shouted. His grey moustache quivered. The two men had little time for each other, despite their equal love for their masters. ‘The spiritual welfare of the Chapter’s servants is your concern, not the Lord Reclusiarch’s. A warrior-priest should be grim, unapproachable. He frightens the sergeants, and that is as it should be.’
‘Have you finished?’ growled Bayard.
Helbrecht sat forwards on the great throne of Sigismund, his face emerging from the shadows cast by its ornate gothic canopy of carved black wood. Above him, tiny, stylised figures of Black Templars waged endless, frozen wars against grotesque foes.
‘Valdric has the right to speak, Bayard,’ said Helbrecht.
‘My liege–’
‘Now is not your turn to speak, Champion. We know of your objections. Confessor, holy father, give me your opinion.’
Halquon, a shrewd man with a sharp face, came forwards. He was young, but a twisted spine caused him to go about perpetually hunched and clutching at his staff, as if he were burdened with the weight of his office.
‘The Ecclesiarchy recognises Chaplain Mordred’s wishes. You will find no objection from our diocese. I cannot speak for all, but the episcopal rede of Ultima Segmentum has voted in Grimaldus’s favour.’
‘What has the rede to do with our affairs?’ asked Bayard. He was particularly short-tempered, and his lack of respect offended some of the others.
‘Among the Adeptus Astartes, you are the sole followers of the great truth of the Imperium, my lord,’ said Halquon to Bayard. ‘That the Emperor is a god. Your spiritual decisions are of great interest to us.’
Helbrecht’s robes rustled as he raised his hand.
‘Brothers, what say the rest of you? Most venerable Cantus?’
‘Grim-ald-us,’ rumbled the Dreadnought, and fell silent.
‘Castellan?’
‘Grimaldus.’
‘Praeses-Sword Brother?’
Gulvein stepped down into the light, his face thoughtful. ‘I do not agree, my liege,’ said Gulvein. ‘Grimaldus has all the makings of a great and noble warrior – he has since the day he was elevated to our Chapter from the gross condition of humanity. But he is not ready yet.’
‘Your objection is noted, Praeses. You, forgemaster, what is your opinion?’
Jurisian stepped forwards into the light; his red robes, embroidered with the Machina Opus and the Templars cross, stirred up a storm of glinting dust motes.
‘He is not ready,’ Jurisian said regretfully. ‘He is a master of small engagements, and a warrior without peer. But he is not a leader of the Chapter.’
‘The forgemaster speaks the truth, High Marshal,’ said Bayard. He too stepped down from Helbrecht’s side and joined Gulvein and Jurisian. ‘Grimaldus is flawed by hesitation, a second’s delay in all he does, and it is no secret why. He holds himself to his master’s standards. Doubt clings to him, darkening his place in the Chapter.’
‘He is shaken by Mordred’s death. He seeks his place in the Eternal Crusade,’ continued Jurisian.
Helbrecht put his flesh hand to his mouth in thought. He rubbed his lips and he shook his head. ‘In the coming war, I will give him the chance to find that place.’
Jurisian and Gulvein bowed, and retreated to their places. Bayard did not relent.
‘My liege! I must protest – Grimaldus is not the right choice! What of Theoderic? He is older and wiser by far. Or Cethervold of Ricard’s crusade?’
The Sword Brethren jeered, and clashed their hands on their ritual shields.
‘Hold your peace, brothers!’ said Helbrecht. ‘The Inner Circle have cast their votes – I have heard the words of our most trusted servants, and that of the Ecclesiarchy’s emissary. All have spoken, and I have heard. My judgement in this matter that I believe Mordred’s wishes are paramount. Who can dispute that he was not as fine a judge of men as he was a warrior?’
The Hig
h Marshal looked from face to face. None disagreed.
‘Then it is done. Grimaldus will be the next Reclusiarch of the Black Templars.’
‘Now,’ said Theoderic. A group of serfs came forwards carrying large bronze bowls. ‘We will undergo physical and spiritual purging, and then we shall feast.’
The following day, Bayard travelled to the Temple of Dorn. Silent monks, their faces hidden, whispered away from him as he walked through its empty immensity.
A knot of shame clogged his throat. He went to the chapels at the first transept’s end side, those set aside for private prayer and confession. As he approached a shriving chamber, he startled a vat creature out of its roost. His hand went automatically for his bolt pistol, and he cursed himself for his nerves. The thing flapped away, moronically croaking praises to the Emperor.
A servitor-warden asked his business. Bayard spoke it freely; there was no shame in seeking guidance. He was shown into a bare cell. He waited but a short while in silent contemplation before he heard the steady whir of active power armour and heavy boots on the mosaic floor.
Bayard looked up to see the Master of Sanctity. Theoderic’s voice growled through the vox-grille of his skull helm. In the half light, he appeared as a revenant come to test the damned. ‘You wish to confess, my brother. Speak your sins and I will soothe your suffering.’
Bayard returned his gaze to the floor. ‘Intercede for me, most holy brother, with the Emperor. I have committed the sin of speaking out against my liege.’
‘It is no sin to voice your objections in council, my brother. While you carry the black sword, you are a member of the Inner Circle. It is your right to speak, and to be heard.’
‘It is a sin to continue one’s objection when your voice has already been heard.’
‘It is,’ agreed Theoderic. ‘Best that you admit so, and move on. A day’s prayer will banish your troubles.’
‘That is not the worst of it, Brother-Chaplain. I have not set aside my doubts. They writhe within me still like serpents. They sink their fangs into my soul.’ He looked up hesitantly. ‘It should have been you.’
Theoderic sighed, and walked round to Bayard’s front. His tone became gentler, but clad in his armour he presented a fearsome sight. ‘No, it should not, my brother. The Emperor’s will is the Emperor’s will. The High Marshal has the Emperor’s blessing, he was chosen by the Emperor, and so the High Marshal’s word is the Emperor’s word. Divinity works through Helbrecht and him alone. Would you take it upon yourself to make the Emperor’s choices for him?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘And it is not for I or for you to make the High Marshal’s decisions for him either, Bayard.’
Bayard shifted, adjusting the great blade girt to his waist. In his armour or out of it, the black sword was never far from his side. ‘I was chosen by the Emperor too. I have seen him, Brother-Chaplain. I have seen him in my dreams! Can Helbrecht say the same? I say Grimaldus is weak, too unsure of himself. He is no Mordred.’
Theoderic rounded on him, his voice rumbling sternly from his mask. ‘The Emperor chose you for a different task, Champion. Do not mistake one role for another. Mordred has been preparing Grimaldus as his successor for nearly two hundred years.’
‘Then Mordred was wrong.’
Theoderic raised his hand, fingers spread, as if to lay his gauntlet upon the top of Bayard’s head. He hesitated, and pointed accusingly instead. ‘You are too proud.’
The ghost of a sneer poisoned Bayard’s hawkish features. ‘You admonish me for pride? I have heard from your own lips that we should be proud, for we are the sole bearers of the light. What of Helbrecht, is he not proud?’
‘We should be proud. Helbrecht is right to be proud. He fulfils his role. The artificer in the forge who maintains your armour, the basest menial who washes your clothes – they too are right to be proud as they also fulfil their roles. Your pride is misplaced because you have yet to do the same. When your corpse lies in the Sepulcrum Ultimus, covered in glory, you may partake of as much pride as you wish. We each have our own roles to perform, Bayard. We do not question what the Emperor has chosen for us. Arrogance is not pride. Do you understand?’
Bayard stared back.
‘Do you understand?’ said Theoderic, this time at a greater volume.
Bayard’s face contorted. His natural pride and deep misgivings warred with his desire to comply with Helbrecht’s ruling. ‘Yes… Yes, Chaplain. I do.’
‘You do not think Grimaldus is worthy still?’
Bayard cleared his throat. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No, I don’t.’
Then Theoderic did put his hand upon Bayard’s head. ‘To doubt is not to err, Champion Bayard. Without doubt, there can be no certainty, and with no certainty there is no truth. But when our doubts cannot be overcome or reconciled with the wishes of others, you must learn to discard them.’
He pressed down hard on the Champion’s head. ‘In the name of the Emperor, lord of all mankind and giver of the light, I absolve you of your sins, Champion Bayard. Go now in peace.’
This has to be right. This is right, thought Helbrecht. It is right because I cannot be wrong. Why then, oh Emperor, do I still feel irresolute?
Helbrecht wore his bone-coloured robes, and waited before the Tomb of Sigismund. The founder of their Chapter was entombed in a sarcophagus of glistening white marble, his prone, heroic form rendered three times life size. Sigismund’s monument dwarfed Helbrecht, as much as his legacy dwarfed every High Marshal who came after him.
Is this right? He asked himself. Yes. Yes.
For the first time since his defeat by the blasphemous xenos construct Trazyn, Helbrecht was uncertain. The failure of the crusade upset him. Others still spoke of it as a victory, but he could not, would not see it as such. His shoulders stung from the ritual scourgings he had undertaken nightly since they entered the warp. Not so much from the physical pain, this was frustratingly fleeting, but from the acid shame of his oath unfulfilled.
He put his anger from his mind. There was this matter to resolve, the elevation of Grimaldus – he must focus on that alone.
This is right, he insisted to himself. It cannot be any other way.
He went over the objections of the others, his own thoughts. He weighed everything meticulously in making his judgements. In this equation, it was the lack of total certitude that he found vexing.
Grimaldus and he were kindred spirits. But Bayard was correct that Grimaldus pondered too long before acting. This elevation would be difficult on Grimaldus, for all Mordred’s long preparation.
He will emerge from it tempered, his edge honed, thought Helbrecht. Difficulty forges better weapons for the Emperor than ease.
Grimaldus approached, wearing his Chaplain’s armour and battle-robes. He bore no crozius, and wore no helm. In Helbrecht’s hands was Mordred’s helmet. Once bestowed upon Grimaldus, it would become his new face. To the brothers of the Chapter, it would be as if Mordred had never died.
Grimaldus approached and knelt at Helbrecht’s feet in the centre of the knights of the Inner Circle.
‘Grimaldus,’ said Helbrecht. His voice rang from the temple’s vaulting.
‘Yes, my liege.’
Helbrecht looked down at the Chaplain. His obeisance was perfect in humility. It was impossible to judge how Grimaldus felt about this appointment from his comportment.
‘We have brought you here to honour you, just as you have honoured us for so many years,’ said Helbrecht. ‘We have summoned you to be judged.’
Grimaldus gave the ritual response. ‘I have answered the summons. I submit myself before your judgement.’
‘Mordred is dead, slain by the Archenemy. You, Grimaldus, have lost a master. We have all of us lost a brother.’
The knights intoned their liege’s words, the repetition chasing echoes of Helbrecht’s utterance into the shadows.
Silence.
‘We mourn his loss, but honour his wisdom in this, his fina
l order. Grimaldus, warrior-priest of the Eternal Crusade, it was the belief of the Reclusiarch Mordred that upon his death, you would be the worthiest of our brother Chaplains to stand in his stead. His final decree before the returning of his gene-seed to the Chapter was that you, of all of your brethren, would be the one to rise to the rank of Reclusiarch.’
Grimaldus raised his head, staring into the dead, glaring eyes of Mordred’s war mask. There was nothing but determination on Grimaldus’s face.
‘Grimaldus, you are a veteran in your own right, and once stood as the youngest Sword Brother in the history of the Black Templars. As a Chaplain, your life has been without cowardice or shame, your ferocity and faith without equal. It is my belief, not merely the wish of your fallen master, that you should take the honour we offer you now.’
Grimaldus nodded, a barely perceptible movement.
‘Rise, if you would refuse this honour. Rise and walk from this sacred chamber, if you wish no part in the hierarchy of our most noble Chapter.’
Helbrecht’s hearts caught as he imagined Grimaldus standing, stumbling back, repulsed by the honour. He half saw it.
Nonsense, thought Helbrecht. Mordred believed him worthy. He is worthy, I am sure of it. I do not make mistakes. I cannot make mistakes. I am the chosen of the Emperor.
Grimaldus did not move.
Satisfied, Helbrecht drew the blade of Sigismund. ‘You will have your own rituals within the Chaplain brotherhood. For now, I recognise you as the inheritor to your master’s mantle,’ he said, and held the blade at Grimaldus’s throat. The Sword was ten millennia old, and as sharp as the day it was made, the balance of it was such that Helbrecht barely felt it in his hand, despite its huge size. His hearts never failed to quicken upon its drawing. ‘You have waged war at my side for two hundred years, Grimaldus. Will you stand at my side as Reclusiarch of the Eternal Crusade?’
The Eternal Crusader - Guy Haley Page 3