Warden of the Blade

by David Annandale

  Gavallan’s eyes twitched in hatred. He kept his face averted from the Blade, refusing to grant it the satisfaction of a greater reaction.

  ‘It knows,’ said Crowe.

  ‘It know and it plans,’ Gavallan said.

  ‘Is it possible the Blade has created this threat?’

  Gavallan shook his head. ‘I do not believe that is possible. If we approach this mission with that assumption, our error could well leave us vulnerable to the true adversary. And that mistake is precisely what the sword seeks to create. That is what it can set in motion.’

  Antwyr laughed again. Crowe looked past Gavallan’s shoulder, facing the sword directly. If this was to be his burden, then let it know he was prepared for it. Let it face him too, and know its future guardian would hold it as securely imprisoned as the present one.

  ‘Beware of outright defiance,’ Gavallan said.

  Crowe shifted his gaze to meet the hollow, exhausted eyes of the castellan.

  ‘Defiance can lead to engagement,’ Gavallan went on. ‘Once you begin to discourse with the Blade, you expose yourself to its closer scrutiny. It will use what it finds.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Crowe. ‘I will heed your words.’ With one more glance at Antwyr, he turned back to Gavallan’s transcription. ‘If the sword has not caused the incursion, and chance did not govern my pronouncing of those names, then I see two possibilities. Another force entirely has extended its influence this far from Dierna.’

  ‘A daemonic one?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘A dark omen or a divine warning. A stark choice, Brother Garran, and a difficult one,’ Gavallan said, but did not disagree. ‘And the other possibility?’

  ‘The sword has foreseen these events, and plans to use them to its advantage.’

  ‘These possibilities are not mutually exclusive,’ said Gavallan.

  ‘No,’ Crowe conceded. ‘They are not.’

  The sword muttered and laughed, muttered and laughed, rejoicing in its secrets, daring the unwary to pierce them.

  The castellan and two squads of Purifiers prepared for war. Almost a quarter of the brothers who guarded the Chambers of Purity were bound for the Dierna System. This was the determination of Kaldor Draigo. The intensity and the urgency of the threat warranted the deployment of the most incorruptible of the incorruptible. Crowe was glad of the Supreme Grand Master’s command. He and Gavallan would have petitioned him to order this action. The gathering threads were that ominous.

  They were also too vague. As the squads met in the Chapel of Flame’s Unction, Crowe thought of how much they did not know about the threat, and of how dangerous that ignorance was. He wondered how high a cost would be paid before the true nature of the foe became clear.

  Merrat Gavallan stood apart from the two squads. He advanced to the centre of the transept crossing and knelt before the altar. The Black Blade of Antwyr was chained to the back of his power pack. A hundred yards separated him from his brothers, but the curses of the sword reached them all.

  And this was as it should be. The presence of the evil in so holy a place was a spur to the Purifiers, a reminder of the necessity and danger of their task. They followed the example of their brotherhood champion. They knelt in the vast space of the nave. There were no pews here, only an expanse of stone. The Grey Knights planted the tips of their Nemesis force weapons against the floor. They bowed their heads against the hilts of swords and the shafts of halberds. They prayed.

  ‘Thou, Emperor, art great and powerful above all,’ Gavallan intoned.

  ‘Grant us thy strength as we defend your cause against the face of the enemy,’ said the Purifiers.

  ‘O Emperor, thou art the tower of defence of mankind.’

  ‘We shall be your holy violence visited upon the enemy.’

  ‘Father of mankind,’ said Gavallan, ‘by and through your will, we fight for you and glorify you.’

  ‘O Emperor,’ vowed the others, ‘we shall not suffer the abomination to live.’

  They would not, Crowe vowed. They would burn the unclean things from the materium.

  Gavallan stood. From fonts to the left and right of the altar, he anointed himself with holy oil, pressing his gauntleted fingers to his forehead, his chest-plate and his blade. Though he carried Antwyr everywhere with him, always the warden, always the guard, he did not use it in battle. He wielded a Nemesis sword, one that blazed with a blue light as pure as the Black Blade was corrupt. So close to Antwyr, though, the holy fire of the Nemesis sword seemed to Crowe to strain, as if pushing back darkness at the edge of its reach.

  The castellan stood before the altar a few moments more, surrounded by a cloud of incense. Then he moved on towards the rear of the chapel, the scrolls of his oaths of moment swaying as he walked.

  Crowe and Sendrax advanced to the altar. They repeated Gavallan’s ritual, then waited for their squads to do the same. Doran, Ruluf, Harsath and Klandon marched with Sendrax. Crowe watched the warriors of his squad, his brothers from a hundred campaigns, and he wondered how much longer he would lead them as he did now. How much longer before he would lead all the Purifiers, and at the same time have to isolate himself for their sake. Gavallan’s state was his future, his world outside of combat circumscribed to his cell in the Chambers of Purity, lest his presence harm the other Grey Knights. The fellowship he knew now with his brothers would come to an end.

  He knew them and their strengths like the fingers of his right hand. Together they formed the mailed fist of the Emperor. There was Destrian, the most methodical in combat. His face was a mass of overlapping burn scars earned in an exploding manufactorum on Anbeten IV. There was Gorvenal, sombre of feature and intensely pious. Carac was rough hewn and fiery. His temper made him the balance for Destrian’s coolness.

  And finally Drake. Crowe had fought in more battles with him than he had with Sendrax. Most of Drake’s face had been reconstructed. There was so much metal that his features had taken on a cast of frozen nobility.

  The ceremony complete, the Purifiers followed Gavallan to where the iron gates opened out of the chapel, leading to the grav-lifts that would take them to the heights of the Citadel and the waiting Stormraven, Purgation’s Sword. Piloted by Berinon of the First Brotherhood, the gunship would carry them to orbit, to the strike cruiser Sacrum Finem, and it would take them to the Dierna System. It would take them to war.

  The Grey Knights marched in reverential silence.

  They marched with the Blade of Antwyr whispering to their souls.

  Chapter Three

  INAUGURATION OF THE REVELS

  Her father was waiting for her outside the throne room. General Vendruhn Glas blinked in surprise. Lord Governor Otto Glas stood several yards from the closed doors, beside the glassteel window overlooking the wide plaza before the palace. He was alone except for Waclav, the head of his personal guard, who waited beside the doors. Vendruhn joined Lord Otto, glancing curiously in the direction of the throne room.

  ‘He hasn’t arrived yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Otto. ‘The cardinal is in there.’

  More and more confusing. Rannoch alone in the throne room. The Lord Governor outside. This was a deviation from protocol so bizarre it couldn’t even be called a breach. The normal practice wasn’t even in sight. There weren’t even any attendants waiting to open the doors. The hall was empty.

  ‘What’s going on?’ When she had received her father’s request to attend the meeting, she had expected a fairly unexceptional summit. The cardinal had returned from the missionary ship with a sacred object. Coordination with the Sandava II Militia would be necessary in view of the mass celebrations to come.

  ‘I’m not certain anything is going on,’ Otto said.

  ‘Maybe not certain, but you think something is.’

  The Lord Governor grimaced. In his floor-length
greatcoat, a deep blue embroidered with the gold emblems of the office and the family’s heraldry, he was the embodiment of righteous rule. His bearing fused authority and humility. Otto was conscious that his governorship was a gift of the Emperor’s will, and had meaning only to the degree it enforced that will. That very humility was the source of his authority. His rule in the Emperor’s name was implacable. Today, though, the set of his jaw was uncertain. His eyes, looking out from beneath the locks of a silver ceremonial wig, were narrow with doubt. His posture was as rigid as ever, but he was showing his age. Vendruhn had never seen that before. This was the first time she had seen him hesitate.

  ‘I need your thoughts on the cardinal’s state of mind,’ Glas said.

  ‘Why? Has something happened to disturb him?’

  ‘Quite the opposite. He is joyful.’

  ‘And this makes you uneasy.’

  ‘The tenor of his joy does. There is an edge to it. I find it…’ He stopped, thinking through his sentence. ‘I find it excessive,’ he said. He pointed down at the plaza. ‘Did this feel right to you as you arrived?’

  The plaza was filled with a crowd waiting for an official announcement. Vendruhn had seen the people as her Vendetta gunship had flown over the capital city of Egeta, bringing her in to the palace’s landing pad. She had paid little attention to the gathering. She looked more closely now. The afternoon sun shone on tens of thousands of upturned faces. There was restless movement, as if the expectation of news was an electric current running from body to body. Yet Vendruhn could see no one conversing. No one turned away from the throne room’s balcony. The anticipatory tension reached through the window and prickled the back of Vendruhn’s neck.

  Excess, she thought. ‘I see,’ she said. Her father’s unease was catching.

  Glas nodded. ‘Then let us have our conversation with the cardinal.’ He walked to the doors and pulled them open. The throne room was huge, uncluttered by furniture except for the seat of power itself. It was designed to receive hundreds and felt cavernous with only three people present. The throne, constructed of gold and the ivory of the tusked herbivores of Sandava II’s arctic regions, sat on a three-level dais in the centre of the room. The wall hangings depicted the unification of the world under the Glas family, and the Lord Governors’ fidelity to the Imperial creed.

  ‘General Glas!’ Rannoch exclaimed when he saw her. Lord Otto offered no explanation for having left him alone, and Rannoch asked for none. The cardinal strode forwards from the glassteel doors opening onto the balcony. Even though his frame was concealed by his vestments, he seemed thinner than when Vendruhn had last seen him. His gait had an insectile angularity. And had he always stooped? He seemed to curve forwards in order to look down at her. ‘I am delighted you have come too,’ he said. ‘We have much to plan and more to celebrate.’ He took her hand with both of his. His skin felt too warm and smooth.

  ‘I’m sure we do, cardinal,’ Vendruhn said. ‘Your trip was successful, then.’

  ‘Indeed it was. Indeed it was. Beyond all my hopes. General, Sandava will glorify the Emperor’s name as never before. The stars will ring with our shouts of praise.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She was. Rannoch’s fervour for the Emperor was reassuring. Perhaps he was only feverish in his excitement.

  ‘You have brought a relic to us, you were telling me,’ Otto said. He had taken a position a few paces to the side, between Rannoch and the throne. He seemed to want distance between himself and the cardinal.

  ‘I have.’ Rannoch’s voice broke in wonder. ‘It is a marvel. I have never seen the like before.’

  ‘You have me very curious,’ Vendruhn said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I will show you,’ said Rannoch. From within his robes he pulled out a mask. ‘Behold,’ he said.

  Vendruhn took a step back. The beauty of the mask was painful. It jabbed at her temple. Her right eye twitched. Excess, she thought, and looked away.

  Otto was rooted to the spot. He stared at the mask, his face a conflicting mixture of reverence and fear.

  Rannoch held the relic high. For a moment, Vendruhn thought he was going to place it over his face. He looked at the Lord Governor and at her. A ripple passed over his expression. Then he returned the mask to its place of concealment, his smile as firmly fixed as ever.

  Vendruhn found the space to wonder why the mask was not in a reliquary. Rannoch was carrying it loose, as if it were his personal property. He had looked at it with veneration, but he clutched it with ferocious possessiveness.

  ‘That is a relic with powerful presence,’ Vendruhn said, breaking a silence that had stretched long enough to be uncomfortable. Otto was no help. He was stunned. Awe and anxiety raced over his face. He still looked at Rannoch with concern, but he also seemed smaller, as if shrunken by the mask’s golden majesty. ‘Where does it come from?’ Vendruhn asked.

  ‘It is the funerary mask of Saint Estheria,’ Rannoch answered quickly. He gazed back and forth between general and Governor. ‘It is my intention to announce its arrival on our world from this balcony. The people must know. You will agree, then, that we have many preparations to make, and little time in which to make them.’

  Otto was silent.

  Vendruhn said, ‘I agree.’ She thought about the crowd outside. She wondered if the people were already enraptured by an object they had yet to see. When they beheld it, what then? Rannoch was right. The militia had to instigate crowd control measures.

  And, Vendruhn thought uneasily, she would need to be ready to curb Rannoch’s excesses. She took in the cardinal’s delighted smile. He seemed only partly present in the throne room. Vendruhn considered the idea of trying to ban the celebrations altogether. Reluctantly, she dismissed it. She would be trespassing on Rannoch’s authority, and she had no clear justification to pit herself against the cardinal. She had only her unease.

  The auspex array of the Sacrum Finem found the ship midway between Dierna Primus and the system’s Mandeville point. It was heading for the hive world at little more than a rapid drift.

  ‘Has the vessel been identified?’ Crowe asked.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Shipmaster Gura said. ‘The Envoy of Discipline. A missionary ship.’ Gura had been at the command of the Sacrum Finem for decades. She and her crew, sanctioned by the Ordo Hereticus for service to the Grey Knights and for no other duty, were veterans of dozens of campaigns. Mindwiped after each one, they remembered none of them. They were conscious only of the solemnity of their purpose.

  ‘The Ruinous Powers delight in their targets,’ said Levas Sendrax.

  Crowe nodded. He and the other Knight of the Flame were in the bridge’s strategium. They had acting command. Gavallan was sequestered in a cell at the peak of the strike cruiser’s superstructure. He was in vox communication with the squads, but his presence on the bridge would have been dangerous for the crew. Though the sword did not speak as clearly to the non-psykers, it still made itself heard. The mortals’ exposure had to be kept to a minimum.

  ‘Shall we hail the Envoy, lord?’ Gura asked.

  ‘No need,’ Crowe said. He watched the image grow larger in the oculus.

  ‘Yes, lord.’ She sounded relieved.

  There was no doubt this was the target. The Envoy of Discipline was under power, but minimally. It was not broadcasting any requests for aid. It was a dark mass, closing in on Dierna Primus like a predator from the tomb. There were no obvious signs of damage. But as the Sacrum Finem drew near, the ship’s nature became apparent.

  Corruption had spread over the exterior of the hull. The lines of the freighter were unnaturally smooth, its plating seamless. In the distant light of Dierna, it glistened like oily flesh. A slow, heavy movement, like the gradual heave of a lung, passed down the ship’s length. It ended with a sensuous shudder. Spires tumbled from the vessel, shedding dust.

  Crowe focused on the superstructure.
‘Magnification on the principal statuary,’ he ordered.

  The image shifted. The colossal guards became visible. One had both arms outstretched, fending off some unseen horror. Its face was contorted, its eyes wide with unspeakable emotion. The other was clawing at its eyes. Its fingers were frozen in the moment of self-mutilation. The stone flesh of its cheeks hung in huge, immobile flaps.

  ‘The daemonic mocks us,’ said Sendrax.

  ‘Let it while it can,’ Crowe answered. ‘It reveals its nature.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sendrax nodded. ‘The abominations leave their signature.’

  ‘No skulls or brass,’ said Crowe. ‘No lesions of plague. But look at the eyes.’ He pointed to the statue with the exposed face.

  ‘There is more than terror there.’

  ‘There is desire.’ Crowe spat the words. It enraged him to look upon the desecration of sacred art. But knowing the enemy would be a tactical advantage. ‘The Dark Prince,’ he said.

  ‘And so the initiative is ours,’ Sendrax said. ‘They do not expect us, or do not know us, to announce themselves so boldly.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Crowe.

  ‘You disagree?’

  ‘Much was hidden from the Prognosticars. This concerns me.’

  ‘Then let us purge that concern with flame,’ said Sendrax.

  The Cathedral of Martyrdom Embraced was at the other end of Egeta to the Lord Governor’s palace. Leaning against the parapet of the cathedral’s highest spire, Rannoch could just make out the towers of the palace. The two monuments were built on the summits of low hills, with the entirety of the city’s administrative and hab sectors between them. Egeta’s population was a mere ten million. Outside its walls were the endless plains of Sandava II’s primary land mass, their bounty tilled by millions of serfs on horizon-spanning collective farms. The harvest days would soon be here, and after them the burning of the stubble. There would be fire and smoke in the distance then. At night, Rannoch would see the flickering orange of an ocean of flame extending to infinity.