Know Thyself

by Andy Smillie

  KNOW THYSELF

  Andy Smillie

  The Victus stretched out below Balthiel like an armoured continent. The Flesh Tearers’ flagship was a colossal vessel. Teeming with weaponry, it was possessed of a near-impenetrable hull, wrapped in miles-thick slabs of ceramite armour. By the Victus’ guns had the populace of a thousand worlds died, its lance batteries boiling away their atmospheres as its seismic torpedoes shattered their tectonic plates.

  The Librarian stood in the observation tower, his attention fixed on the lone ship edging its way towards the portside docking bay. Its approach heralded more menace than the largest enemy battle group, promising a threat that no salvo could halt. The dagger-shaped craft was smaller even than a single barrel of one of the Victus’ close protection batteries, its void-black hull free of markings and insignia, a ghost ship - invisible save for the glowing, stylised ‘I’ that emblazoned its prow.

  Harahel stood immobile in the launch bay, relishing the unusual quiet. The dozens of servitors and gangs of engineering serfs that worked the deck were absent. Plasma saws and arc welders lay discarded on workbenches. Two Thunderhawk gunships stood untended, awaiting refit and repair. Overhead, a squadron of Stormravens nestled in transport cradles, fuel hoses hanging like limp vines from engines in need of proper ministration. The silence was oppressive, punctuated by the whisper of the chamber’s air filters and the gentle hum of Harahel’s armour. To his left, Appollus’s power fist crackled as he tested its charge.

  ‘Seth should never have allowed this.’ Appollus seethed with displeasure, his mood as black as his armour.

  Behind the angular grille of his battle helm, Harahel grinned. As Company Champion it was his duty, if not his honour, to meet the arrivals. Appollus, on the other hand, was there as punishment. The Chaplain had pressed his point too hard, and it was unwise to tell the Chapter Master he was wrong. Seth would have Appollus remember his place. ‘What would you have him do?’ asked Harahel, his gaze fixed on the docking tunnel. His eyes followed a black craft as it drifted through the entry doors. ‘Defy the Inquisition?’

  Appollus didn’t answer. As he watched the toothed slabs of the entry hatch slide closed behind the Inquisitorial shuttle, his jaw was set as stone.

  The arrowed craft touched down in total silence. The technology powering its engines was derived from a xenos discovery, its capabilities far in advance of the thrusters that powered the Thunderhawk gunship in whose shadow the shuttle rested. A ramp emerged from the near side of the ship, widening from a sliver of metal to a slender plank that extended to the deck.

  Appollus growled, ‘That vessel is no warship. They’ve sent a politician to judge warriors.’

  With a faint hiss of pressure, a section of the hull slid away, revealing a doorway. A lone figure alighted onto the ramp, its heavy footsteps resonating around the chamber. A gilded heavy bolter replaced its right arm and shoulder, its barrel inscribed with intricate High Gothic. Its eyes were elongated brass optics that protruded from a diamond-encrusted face. A blue targeting matrix passed over Harahel’s armour as the gun-servitor scanned the deck. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, touching the pommel of his eviscerator.

  ‘Clear,’ the servitor intoned, its soft cadence at odds with its mechanical exterior.

  The air around the gun-servitor shimmered, and Harahel’s helmet cycled vision modes as its codifiers struggled to maintain focus. A fulgurant web of energy crackled in the air. The distortion cleared a moment later, and the rest of the craft’s occupants resolved into view at the base of the ramp.

  Harahel bit down a snarl, his body willing him to attack.

  Calm yourself+

  Balthiel’s voice pushed into Harahel’s mind. He ground his teeth, irritated by the Librarian’s intrusion.

  It’s a distortion field. He is not a psyker. Proceed+

  Harahel massaged his temple as Balthiel’s voice faded.

  ‘The Librarian?’ Appollus asked.

  ‘Yes. I’ll be seeing our brother in the duelling cages.’

  A persistent icon flashed on Appollus’s tactical display.

  ‘Pity,’ he said, and blinked the rune for stone to Manakel, ordering the Dreadnought to stand down.

  Seth had been clear with the Inquisition - no psyker would be permitted to set foot upon his vessel. Manakel stood within the nearest of the docked Thunderhawks, ready to enforce the Chapter Master’s edict. Another time old friend. Appollus removed his helmet, cupped it under his arm and spat on the deck. The acid saliva bubbled on the metal with a hiss.

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Harahel echoed the Chaplain, mag-locking his helm to his waist, and approached the Inquisitorial warband.

  Seven figures stood in loose formation on the deck, an inquisitor at their head. He wore golden power armour that shone as though fixed under a bank of luminators. The symbol of his office bisected his breastplate, its onyx finish mirroring the man’s dark eyes. Four warriors in artificer plate-mail flanked him. Each carried an oversized blade and storm shield. A slender woman in a crimson body-glove, her fingers adorned with jewels, stood behind them. Her narrow eyes flitted between the Flesh Tearers and the final member of the party, a hunched savant whose crooked fingers dug through the folds of his robes for a data scroll.

  ‘I am Inquisitor Corvin Herrold of the Ordo Hereticus.’ The inquisitor stepped forward to meet them, folding his arms over his breast in the sign of the Aquila.

  ‘Harahel, First Company Champion.’ Harahel clasped his fist to his breastplate in salute.

  Corvin nodded and looked at Appollus next. The Chaplain said nothing, disdain etched on his face. His cold eyes studied the inquisitor. Corvin’s jaw tensed. Appollus heard the quickening thrum of the shield-warriors’ heartbeats, as their bodies prepared for combat. Appollus’s honed instincts could easily detect the subtle shift in posture that belied their intent. The Chaplain remained silent.

  Harahel broke the stalemate. ‘Our Lord awaits you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Corvin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Shall we?’ The inquisitor motioned his henchmen forwards.

  ‘Just you,’ Harahel barred the way with his massive bulk. ‘Your warriors stay here.’

  ‘Respectfully…’ Corvin gestured to the savant, whose brass eye whirred as he looked up from a data-slate. ‘I must bring my chronicler to record every detail of this engagement.’

  Appollus stiffened at the inquisitor’s choice of words. If the inquisitor was there to engage the Flesh Tearers, then he had brought woefully inadequate forces.

  ‘No.’ Harahel didn’t move. ‘My lord will not forget a single detail of your meeting. Our scriptographers can transcribe it before you leave.’

  Corvin only came up to Harahel’s breastplate. He had never been so close to a Space Marine before. He suddenly felt very small. ‘Very well,’ he said, nodding to his bodyguard to stand down and falling into lockstep with the giant Flesh Tearer.

  Appollus lingered behind as Harahel left with Corvin. He eyed the savant scrawling on a data-slate. The neuro-quill trembled. The savant let out an involuntary whimper and tried to creep further into his robes. The Chaplain glowered. He would credit the serf who cleaned his armour with more backbone than that hunched wretch. Turning on his heel, he followed the inquisitor from the deck.

  The Reclusiam was as much museum as place of worship. Venerable relics from the Chapter’s past decorated the curved walls, their sanctity maintained by stasis fields which were themselves artefacts from a forgotten age. The mosaic floor was crafted from the armour of fallen captains, the story of their demise ever present in the irregular tiling. Reclaimed honour-blades stood up like viciou
s candles in a moat of volcanic sand that bordered the pulpit. Seth knelt in the Reclusiam’s centre, naked save for an ashen tunic that draped his broad frame.

  To Balthiel, his Chapter Master looked to be chiselled from the same immutable stone as the statues that stared down in judgement. Even fully clad in his battle garb, the Librarian knew he stood at no advantage over the hulking Flesh Tearer.

  ‘My lord,’ said Balthiel, dropping to one knee.

  Seth remained still, his gaze fixed above. The duel visages of Sanguinius and the Emperor stared down at him, their likeness engraved on the greyed armour-glass of the ceiling that worked to diffuse the light from the single luminator. ‘He has arrived.’

  ‘Yes, lord. Harahel waits with him in your war-room.’

  Seth didn’t reply. The Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers was unusually contemplative. Even without his gifts, Balthiel could have discerned his lord’s feelings of contempt towards their guest. Seth was a direct, brutal warrior that few could match. But the Inquisition was an insidious agency. It could not be stopped by blade or by anger. Its operatives could not be met head on. Defeating them required patience and cunning - two concepts as alien to Seth as the charges that the inquisitor was no doubt there to level against him and his Chapter.

  ‘The blood guide you,’ Balthiel rose and walked from the chamber, leaving Seth alone with his fathers.

  Seth met the eyes of the Emperor. ‘Give me counsel.’ He paused, losing himself in the threads that cut across his progenitor’s armour. Imperfections in the plaster served as a reminder that no defence was impervious.

  ‘Bind my rage.’ He turned to Sanguinius.

  ‘Give me the strength to endure this affront.’

  Unlike the Emperor, Sanguinius was sculpted unarmed.

  A second truth - the sons of The Angel needed no weapons to smite their enemies. Seth bowed, touching his forehead to the floor. ‘Paschar.’

  Outside the Reclusiam, a serf eased himself to his feet. His knees and hips ached from days of inaction, making him feel old beyond his twenty-six Terran years. ‘Yes, liege?’ Paschar rasped, his throat hoarse from lack of water.

  ‘Bring me my armour.’

  There were no chairs in the chamber, forcing Corvin to stand while he awaited Seth. Unlike the ostentatious command thrones and strategiums found on Imperial Navy battleships, the Flesh Tearer war-room was barren, empty save for a circular table that sat at its centre. Corvin removed a gauntlet and ran his hand over the table’s surface, flinching at the touch of cold steel. A sterile chill permeated everything on the Victus, an atmosphere exacerbated by the lack of heating and the grilled walkways. His nose was numb from the cold, his breath fogged in the cold air.

  The Flesh Tearers were seemingly unconcerned with those who didn’t share their enhanced constitution. The grinding of cogs stirred Corvin from his reverie as a pair of heavy brass doors swung inwards, their hinges worn from centuries of use. The doors had seemed immense, unnecessarily so, until Seth stood between them. His armoured bulk was massive, easily filling the double-doorway. As he strode into the room, a crimson cloak trailed behind him. An iron halo framed by bronzed wings sat atop his backpack, adding to his deific stature. His armour, though more intricately worked than Harahel’s, was as perfunctory as the war-room. Brutal rivets locked together robust plates whose toothed edges could tear a man to shreds.

  Corvin regarded Seth’s face. The Chapter Master’s angular jaw looked capable of taking a hit from a power fist, and was in stark contrast to his own patrician features.

  ‘Lord Seth,’ the inquisitor said, bowing. ‘I thank you for granting me an audience.’

  The inquisitor wielded the power to scour the life from an entire sector. He could marshal battle groups and bombard civilisations out of existence. Yet before the Chapter Master he was but a child, easily dispatched by a casual flick of the wrist. Corvin was afraid, Seth could smell it. He looked past the inquisitor to Appollus and Harahel.

  ‘Leave us.’

  The two Flesh Tearers startled Corvin as they departed. He’d almost forgotten that they were there. Their faces sealed within their helms, they’d been stood in the corner, as lifeless as the many statues they’d passed on the way from the hangar. Corvin fought down the urge to run out after them as the doors ground shut, leaving him alone with Seth.

  ‘Speak your piece, inquisitor, I have wars to attend to.’

  ‘You…’ Corvin struggled, his throat felt dry. ‘You Space Marines are hardly known for your civility, but I see you are as cold and efficient in matters of peace as you are reported to be on the battlefield.’

  ‘No.’

  Corvin frowned. ‘No?’ He started pacing in an effort to increase the distance between them without looking weak.

  Seth was not fooled. ‘No, inquisitor. You are mistaken.’

  ‘I–’

  Seth turned with the inquisitor’s movement, filling the space between them without taking a step. ‘There is no peace amongst the stars. Here, or anywhere else.’

  ‘How true,’ Corvin nodded, thankful the cold was keeping the sweat from his brow. ‘Well then, to the matter at hand.’ He managed to speak with a measure of composure. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, this is not the first time my Ordo has had cause to question the actions of your Chapter.’

  Seth said nothing, his expression unreadable.

  ‘The Eclipse Wars are well documented. All actions accounted for. Except,’ Corvin paused. ‘Honour’s End…’ He spoke slowly, letting the words hang in the air.

  Seth stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the inquisitor.

  Nerves sucked the moisture from Corvin’s mouth. He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘According to the official report, the Flesh Tearers were instrumental in defeating the archenemy.’

  ‘I have seen the report. Make your point.’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite sure you have. And like you, I too know of the greater truth.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘The Flesh Tearers, warriors under your command, your brethren, killed hundreds of Imperial citizens. Hundreds. In cold blood. All innocents.’

  Seth’s jaw tightened. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it to be the case.’

  ‘Then again, you are mistaken. The citizens,’ Seth spat the word, full of a warrior’s contempt for the weak, ‘you speak of had succumbed to the taint. They had become pawns of the archenemy. They were righteous kills.’

  ‘A claim, I believe, that can be neither confirmed nor denied, seeing as your forces left no one alive to testify to the facts.’

  ‘Choose your next words wisely, inquisitor.’ Seth’s voice was edged with menace.

  Despite his instincts urging him otherwise, Corvin held his ground.

  ‘It is not my words which trouble me Chapter Master, but those of Brother-sergeant Jorvik of the Space Wolves.’

  A low growl rumbled from Seth’s throat at the mention of the Wolves. Corvin backed up a step.

  ‘Your forces engaged the Space Wolves, did they not?’

  ‘They attacked us. Assaulting our rear like cowards.’

  ‘They fought to protect the populace of the hive.’

  Seth clenched his fists. He could feel his pulse drumming in his veins, hear its roar as it called him to blood. He was going to kill the inquisitor, rip his head from his shoulders and crush it between his fingers.

  ‘Please,’ Corvin held up his hands, trying to placate the seething Chapter Master. ‘My purpose here is only to understand your actions, to hear your side. Not to pass judgement.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Seth’s voice was like the bark of a heavy bolter.

  ‘Yes and–’

  ‘Then understand this,’ Seth closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, lifting the inquisitor up by his gorget so that their faces were level.

  Corvin let out
a gasp, locking his hands around Seth’s vambrace in a futile attempt to break the Flesh Tearer’s hold.

  ‘This Chapter has served the Imperium since before you crawled mewling from your mother’s womb. It has stood at arms and bled almost unto extinction, while you treat us with suspicion and doubt, dishonouring the very warriors who have died to ensure you yet live.’ Seth tossed Corvin to the ground. ‘I am done with your questions, inquisitor.’

  ‘You dare…’ Corvin began as he regained composure, and his feet. ‘You dare strike me?’

  Seth ignored him and turned for the door.

  The inquisitor lunged forwards, anger robbing him of prudence. ‘To turn your back on me is to turn your back on the Throne!’

  Seth spun around, murder in his eyes. ‘Be careful, inquisitor. My patience has its limits.’

  Corvin opened his mouth to speak. Seth didn’t let him.

  ‘You have fifteen minutes to leave my ship. Through airlock or your own vessel, it matters not.’

  The access panel winked green. The savant retracted his data keys and took a step back as the doors hissed open. Skulking into the corridor, he pressed against the wall. A row of luminators stuttered overhead, following the line of the passageway as it snaked round to the left. He crept forwards, keeping to the shadows, the folds of his cowl camouflaging him in the darkness.

  The three previous corridors had been deserted, but he could not afford a mistake. His mission was too important for laxity.

  At the end of the corridor, he negotiated another lock and climbed down a service ladder to the deck below.

  Stepping from the ladder to a metal grille floor, he rolled his shoulders back, easing out the tension and standing straighter than he’d done in months.

  Almost there. The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through his system. Victory is never further from your grasp than the instant before you claim it.

  He took a steadying breath, remembering the maxim his master had taught him. He pressed on.

  His steps became more assured, his stride lengthening as his legs remembered their former power. Splaying his fingers, he flexed his hands, throwing off the malaise that had settled on them. The final door was before him.