As Brielle sat back down, Lucian repeated, “Does the council have any questions?”
Most of the councillors appeared too weary to query anything of Brielle’s statement. Lucian was about to call for the motion to dismiss his daughter, when Cardinal Gurney stood.
“I call for a motion of censure,” Gurney scowled. “For the crime of conspiring with xenos.”
Lucian sighed inwardly, though outwardly he maintained his composure. “And who will second this motion?”
Gurney looked to the Logistician-General to his right. Ordinarily, Stempf would have toed the line of his council faction. But with the demise of Inquisitor Grand and the settlement of the ceasefire, that faction had to all intents and purposes ceased to exist.
Stempf stared at the black marble table in front of him, suddenly very interested in the lines of deep maroon flashed through its polished surface.
“It appears, cardinal,” said Lucian, “that none here will support your motion.”
Gurney’s eyes flashed with impotent rage, and he sat back down, casting a vengeful glance at his former ally by his side.
Brielle was trying hard to disguise a dirty smirk by fiddling with a lock of plaited hair.
“Then if there are no objections,” Lucian announced, “I propose this final session of the Damocles Gulf Crusade command council is closed.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
With a curt gesture, Lucian dismissed the crewmen tending to the sensorium terminals of the observation blister high atop the Oceanid’s spine. Turning to his son and his daughter, he spread his arms wide. “Welcome back,” he grinned, “the pair of you.”
Brielle and Korvane refused to acknowledge one another, addressing only Lucian. Brielle stepped up to one of the arched, leaded ports and stared out at the mass of activity in Dal’yth Prime’s orbit. She muttered something, which Lucian could not quite hear.
“Brielle?” said Lucian.
His daughter turned, and Lucian saw an unfamiliar hint of sadness in her eyes. “I was saying a prayer,” she said. “For them.”
Lucian followed her gaze, towards a trio of huge troop transports that hung in formation ten kilometres to the Oceanid’s starboard. Each carried an entire regiment of ground troops, and Lucian knew that one might be carrying the noble Rakarshans.
“They’re all going to die,” Brielle said flatly.
Korvane grimaced, evidently unconvinced by his stepsister’s uncharacteristic show of empathy.
“All of them,” she said with grim conviction. “And billions more.”
Lucian felt a cold shiver pass up and down the length of his spine, as if Brielle’s words were somehow prophetic; as if she were gifted some insight denied to others. He suddenly felt the weight of his own mortality, for the span of his life had been extended beyond the normal measure by the application of rejuve treatments few in the Imperium had access to. As he pictured entire sectors stripped to bare rock by a species of ravening alien abominations, the thought struck him; perhaps the ancient and noble line of the Arcadius would end with him. Who then would remember his deeds and honour his name?
At Lucian’s side, his son closed his hand around the ring his father had given him, the ring containing the cipher matrix of the stasis-vault on Terra, where rested the most valuable asset in the dynasty’s possession: the Arcadius Warrant of Trade.
Sergeant Sarik was knelt in prayer in the Nomad’s chapel. Through an armoured portal wrought in the form of the White Scars lightning-bolt Chapter icon he could see the crusade fleet mustering for war, scores of tenders and service vessels swarming around the wallowing capital ships as crews and supplies were ferried back and forth. Most of the ground forces were already embarked, though it appeared that at least one Brimlock unit would be left behind, from the initial deployment at least.
The chapel represented a small part of Sarik’s home world, the pelts of huge Chogoran beasts adorning its walls lending it the aspect of the interior of a chieftain’s yurt. Mighty curved horns adorned the walls, many inscribed with the names and the deeds of the warriors who had slain them in glorious battle. In the centre of one wall was mounted a massive, reptilian skull, taken from the mica dragon that Sarik and his fellow scouts Qaja and Kholka had slain together on Luther McIntyre when all three were but neophytes. The scent of rockrose hung heavy in air, the dense smoke drifting upwards from an incense bowl set in the centre of the chapel. Upon the altar beneath the lightning-bolt portal was laid a sacred stone tablet bearing ten thousand-year-old script hewn by the hand of the White Scars’ primarch himself, the proud and wild Jaghatai Khan.
Sarik was in the chapel to recite aloud the name of every battle-brother that had fallen in the battle for Dal’yth Prime. Each would be honoured later, he knew, according to the customs of each Chapter represented in the crusade force, but Sarik had been their field commander, and he owed them that much. The tally had been great, for the tau had proven a fearsome, yet ultimately honourable adversary. He felt no ire towards the aliens, and accepted the necessity of the re-deployment to Ultramar. Sarik was a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes, a son of Jaghatai Khan, who was himself a son of the Emperor. His duty was to a higher calling.
As Sarik completed his litany, commending the souls of the fallen to the eternal care of their ancestors, a revelation born of his meditation came over him. Where previously he would have raged impotently at the loss of so many brothers, brooding alone for days on end at the injustice of the galaxy, a new clarity and wisdom now settled upon him. It was as if the script inscribed on the stone tablet before him by his primarch had been written just for him, for they spoke words the meaning of which Sarik had never truly understood though he had read them countless times. In the crucible of the battles fought these last few days, Sarik had been re-forged, like a dulled blade returned gleaming from the hand of the master artificer.
Sarik felt renewed purpose and resolve deep in his heart. Though the tyranids represented a dire threat to the very survival of mankind, they were also the agency by which the champions of the Imperium would come together and find honour and glory beyond measure. Even now, garbled reports were coming in of the terrible enormity of the tyranid invasion. Sarik’s battle-brothers in his own and many other Chapters were dying, giving their lives to hold at bay the most devastating incursion the Eastern Fringe had ever witnessed.
Sarik swore, to his primarch and to his Chapter, that he would stand at their side come what may. By his savage pride and the honour scars carved into his weather-beaten face, Sarik vowed that the tyranids would know the wrath of the White Scars, and of all of humanity.
About The Author
Andy Hoare worked for eight years in Games Workshop’s design studio, producing and developing new game rules and background material. Now working freelance writing novels, roleplaying game material and gaming-related magazine articles, Andy lives in Nottingham with his partner Sarah.
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[Rogue Trader 03] - Savage Scars Page 35