by Mike Lee
'Think, son,' Remiel said, once more an impatient tutor instructing an obstinate pupil. 'Put aside your damned idealism for a moment and think in terms of tactics. What would such a choice give Jonson?'
Zahariel swallowed his shock and irritation and considered the matter in cold terms. 'He chose someone with no ties to the Order's senior knights or masters, whose loyalty was to him alone,' he said, thinking aloud. 'Someone who could be counted on to act in Jonson's best interests above everything else.'
'And would keep his secrets, regardless of the consequences to everyone else,' Remiel said.
The Astartes considered the implications and felt a cold surge of horror. 'I can't believe this,' he said, his voice hollow.
'Can't… or won't?' the old master said. 'Do you imagine this was any easier for me to accept? I helped raise Lion El'Jonson when Luther brought him back from the wilderness. He was like a son to me.'
'But why?' Zahariel protested. 'Why all the secrets and deceptions? We were sworn to him, Remiel. He already had our oaths. We would have followed him into Old Night itself if he asked.'
Remiel didn't answer at first. Zahariel watched the old master's anger fade, like heat from a dying ember, giving way to anguish, and then finally, to an empty, barren sadness.
'It's not that any of us lost faith in Jonson,' he said softly. Tears glimmered at the corners of his eyes.
'Somewhere along the line, he lost faith in us. Wherever he and the Emperor are headed, we aren't meant to follow. All we can do now is reclaim what was once ours.'
The thought stung Zahariel, like a knife pricking at his heart. He tried to gainsay Remiel, to find some fault in the old master's bleak logic.
They spent the last few minutes of the flight in silence.
When they reached Aldurukh, Zahariel cased himself in his armour and took up bolt pistol and staff before leading Remiel and Daviel to the Grand Master's chambers. He found Lord Cypher there, as he expected he would.
Cypher glanced up sharply from the reports piled atop the desk. His eyes widened as he saw the rebel leaders. It was the first time Zahariel had ever seen the Astartes taken by surprise.
'What's the meaning of this?' Cypher demanded coldly.
'Take us to Luther,' Zahariel demanded. 'Now.'
'I can't do that,' Cypher replied, regaining some of his inscrutable poise. 'As I've told you many times, brother, Luther is in meditation and does not want to be disturbed—'
'He will when he hears what we have to say,' Zahariel shot back. 'Caliban's survival is at stake.' His hand tightened on his staff. 'If you won't take us to him, then tell us where he can be found.'
'I can't do that,' Cypher replied coolly. 'My orders are from the Master of Caliban. You haven't the authority to countermand them.'
'Surely Luther expects to be informed in the event of an emergency,' Zahariel persisted.
Cypher smiled thinly. 'Why, of course. Give me the message and I'll relay it to him immediately.'
Zahariel felt a surge of anger. Before he could reply, however, he heard heavy footfalls behind him. He turned to see Brother-Librarian Israfael and Chapter Master Astelan standing just inside the doorway. Israfael eyed Daviel and Master Remiel with wary surprise, while Astelan's eyes flashed with irritation when he caught sight of Zahariel.
'Where have you been?' Astelan said. 'I've been searching for you all over Aldurukh!'
'What's happened?' Zahariel asked, already fearing what he might hear. If Astelan hadn't used the vox to contact him it could only mean one thing.
'Half an hour ago we began hearing of wide-scale rioting at the Northwilds arcology,' Astelan said grimly. 'Mobs of panicked civilians have rushed the barricades around the hab levels. Many of them are claiming that the Imperials are secretly in league with sorcerers who mean to sacrifice them to the warp.'
Daviel let out an angry groan. 'Thuriel's behind this,' he said. 'That short-sighted idiot has damned us all.'
Zahariel felt a chill race up his spine. 'What about the Jaegers?' he asked. 'I ordered General Morten to open the cordon and begin relocating the civilians.'
Astelan shook his head in exasperation. 'We're getting wildly conflicting reports,' he said. 'We've heard that some units have opened fire on the rioters, while others have thrown down their arms or even switched sides. The Administratum officials at the arcology have contacted Magos Bosk, and she is demanding to know what we're doing about the situation.'
'I told you that we couldn't keep this a secret from her,' Israfael interjected angrily. 'She's probably drafting an urgent report to the primarch right now, accusing us all of negligence. And she would be right to do so!'
'That's not the worst of it,' the chapter master said, cutting Israfael off with an angry glare. He turned back to Zahariel. 'There've been fragmentary transmissions from Jaeger patrols on the lower hab levels, reporting that they're under attack.'
'Under attack?' Zahariel echoed. He eyed the rebel leaders. 'By whom?'
'By the dead,' Astelan replied.
The words hung heavy in the chamber.
'It's over,' Remiel said, putting a voice to their thoughts. 'We're too late.'
Zahariel shook his head stubbornly. 'No,' he said. 'Not yet.' He turned back to Cypher, his face pale with anger. The hooded Astartes started to say something, then recoiled with a gasp of pain as Zahariel sent a probe of psychic energy into Cypher's mind.
'The time for dissembling is past,' Zahariel said, his tone as cold and sharp as ice. 'Take us to Luther. Now.'
Cypher gritted his teeth under the psychic onslaught. 'I won't…'
'Then I'll dig his location out of your brain,' Zahariel said, 'along with any other secrets you've been keeping. I can't say there will be much left of you afterwards, though.'
Zahariel drove his probe deeper into Cypher's mind. The Astartes went rigid. A thin trickle of blood seeped from one nostril.
'Stop!' Cypher said in a choked whisper. 'I'll do it! I'll take you to him! Just—'
He slumped with a groan as Zahariel released him. Cypher's head drooped for a moment, his shoulders heaving. When he looked up at the Librarian, his expression was savage.
'You don't know what you're trifling with, you fool,' Cypher snarled. 'The primarch—'
'The primarch isn't here,' Zahariel said coldly. 'So I'll trifle with whatever I must. Now get up. We haven't any more time to waste.'
Cypher got up from behind the desk without another word. They followed him from the room, hovering at his shoulder like ravens.
Cypher led them into darkness, deep within the bowels of the Rock.
From the Circle Chamber, they descended through a secret stairway at the top of the Grand Master's dais that Zahariel never knew existed, yet at the same time seemed tantalisingly familiar. Try as he might, he couldn't reconcile the two notions; the more he concentrated, the more his head began to ache. Finally, he decided to let the matter go rather than compromise his already frayed concentration. The pain in his skull subsided, but didn't entirely vanish.
The stairwell ended at a low-ceilinged room that might once have been a meeting space in times past; now the ancient brickwork was pierced by modern archways of fused permacrete that continued even further into the depths. Cypher led them through the dimly-lit passageways without hesitation, threading his way through a labyrinth of tunnels that began to tax even Zahariel's genetically-enhanced memory. Deeper and deeper they went, down into the very heart of the mountain, until it felt as though they had been walking for hours. Zahariel reckoned they were more than a thousand metres down when Cypher turned down a narrow, vaulted corridor that abruptly ended at a tall, arched doorway. The doors themselves, Zahariel noted with surprise, were plated with adamantium, and set in a reinforced frame. Anything powerful enough to breach that portal would also incinerate anything on the other side, his trained mind noted.
Standing before the doors, Cypher dug a sophisticated electronic key from within his robes. With a last, furious glance at Zahar
iel, he held the key up to the portal and touched the actuator. Bolts drew back into the frame with an oiled clatter, and the tall doors swung silently inward.
The library within was built vertically, its packed shelves rising on eight sides to a vaulted ceiling fifty metres overhead. Long, thin lumen strips set into the stone at the corners of the eight walls filled the space with pellucid light. The air smelled faintly of ozone and machine oil. High up along the walls Zahariel could see four small logo-servitors waiting unobtrusively in the shadows, clinging to the walls with their spindly limbs and watching the Astartes with small, red eyes.
Zahariel reckoned the floor of the library was perhaps thirty paces across, covered with thick rugs to combat the subterranean chill. Reading desks and heavy wooden tables were arrayed haphazardly about the room, piled with open books and ancient, musty scrolls. More books were scattered in drifts across the floor, between and beneath the tables. There were so many that the Astartes were forced to pause just beyond the threshold, afraid of treading upon the fragile tomes.
The air in the library was utterly still, heavy with the dust of ages. The only sound Zahariel could hear was the soft whirring of servo-motors overhead. A current of invisible energy, faint but palpable, sent tendrils of ice spreading through his skull.
He drew a breath and spoke into the cathedral silence. 'Luther? My lord, are you here?'
A figure stirred in the shadowy depths of a high-backed chair near the centre of the room. Zahariel could just make out the head and shoulders of a man, limned in the faint, bluish-silver light.
'Zahariel,' Luther replied. His voice was rough, as if from long hours of exertion. 'You shouldn't be here.'
Lord Cypher took a cautious step forward, distancing himself from the rest of the Astartes. 'I beg your forgiveness, my lord,' he said with bowed head. 'They would not honour your wishes.'
Zahariel glared at Cypher's back. 'This has nothing to do with anyone's wishes,' he snapped. 'This is a time of crisis. Caliban stands upon the brink of disaster, my lord. The Legion must act, now, or all is lost.'
Luther rose slowly from the chair and stepped forward into the light. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, as though from the ravages of a terrible illness, and there were dark ink marks on his hands, wrists and throat. The Master of Caliban paused, his cracked lips working as he peered at the figures standing at Zahariel's shoulder.
'Master Remiel?' he said. 'Is this a dream? I thought you long dead.'
'I continue to confound my enemies, my lord,' Remiel answered with a faint smile.
'I'm glad to hear it,' Luther said. His expression turned sombre. 'But I see you travel in the company of rebels these days,' he said, pointing to Sar Daviel. 'Is it me you seek to confound now, master?'
Remiel didn't flinch from the accusation. 'No loyal son of Caliban is an enemy of mine,' he answered coolly.
Zahariel studied Luther with concern. 'My lord, when did you last eat or drink?' he asked. Though an Astartes could go for many weeks with minimal nourishment, he knew that Luther's body hadn't received the full suite of metabolic enhancements. By the look of things, Zahariel feared that he'd been fasting for weeks.
The Master of Caliban ignored the question. 'What is going on here, brothers?' he asked, his voice regaining some of its strength and authority.
'The truth has become known,' Israfael said grimly. 'Rumours have spread through the Northwilds that the Imperium is in league with sorcerers,' he spat angrily. 'Riots have broken out, and the Administratum is up in arms.'
Luther's eyes widened in anger. 'How did these rumours start?' he demanded. 'I ordered this knowledge kept secret! Who is responsible?'
Zahariel took a deep breath and stepped forward. 'I am,' he said gravely. 'The fault is mine.'
The admission took Luther aback. 'You?' he said disbelievingly. 'But why?'
All eyes turned to Zahariel. Head high, the Librarian reported everything he'd seen and done at the arcology. Luther listened, his expression growing harder by the moment. He gave no reaction to the proposed truce with the rebels, though both Astelan and Israfael glowered angrily at the news.
Zahariel concluded by relating what they'd recently heard from the Northwilds. 'Things are balanced on a knife's edge, my lord,' he said. 'If we strike quickly, we might still be able to contain the situation.'
'No, we can't,' Luther said flatly. He shook his head, his expression bleak. 'It's far too late for that. I don't fault you for what you did brother, but there's no going back now. Caliban's fate is sealed.'
Luther turned in the stunned silence that followed and walked to one of the heavy reading tables. He bent over a massive, leather-bound tome, brushing the tips of his fingers across one of the thick, vellum pages. Zahariel caught a better glimpse of Luther's hands, and saw that the ink marks there were actually symbols of some kind, laid out in a geometric pattern. A chill raced up the back of his neck.
'They wanted me to kill him, you know,' he said quietly. 'I can still hear their voices as though it were yesterday.'
Zahariel gave Luther a bemused frown. 'Kill who, my lord?'
The Master of Caliban glanced up from the book. 'Why, Jonson, of course,' he replied. 'There we were, in the worst part of the Northwilds, so deep in the forest that we hadn't seen the sun for a week. We'd already killed two beasts by then, and lost Sar Lutiel in the process. Most of us were wounded and feverish, but we pressed on nonetheless.' He smiled faintly. 'No one had ever gone so far into that part of the wilderness, and we were all hungry for glory.'
Luther eyes grew unfocused as the memories took hold. 'We'd come upon a stream at midday,' he continued. 'A prime spot for predators, but our water bottles were empty, so we decided to take the risk. I was standing watch, sitting in the saddle with my pistol ready. And the next thing any of us knew, there was this little boy standing with us. He'd walked right out of the woods into our midst, as silent as you please.'
The Master of Caliban chuckled ruefully. 'We just gaped at him for a moment. I think everyone believed he was a fever dream at first. Naked as a babe, his golden hair matted with twigs and leaves, and his eyes…' Luther shook his head. 'His eyes were cold and knowing, like a wolfs, and utterly unafraid. Sar Adriel looked into those eyes and turned white as a sheet. He and Sar Javiel's hands were laden with water bottles, and couldn't protect themselves. ''Kill him!'' Adariel said to me. I'd never heard him sound so frightened in his life. And I nearly did,' Luther confessed. 'You don't know how close I came, brothers. I knew what Adriel was thinking; we were more than a hundred leagues from the nearest village, in the deadliest forest on Caliban, and here was a child, barely tall enough to touch my saddle, without a single mark on his body. He couldn't have survived in a wilderness like that alone. It wasn't possible. I remember thinking he was a monster,' Luther said. Tears welled in his eyes. 'What else could he be? So I raised my pistol and took careful aim. One shot to the head was all it would take. My finger was tightening on the trigger when he turned and looked at me. He didn't flinch at the sight of the pistol, and why would he? He didn't have the faintest idea what it was.' Luther drew in a great, wracking breath. 'That's when I realised what I was about to do, and I was ashamed. So I tossed the pistol to the ground.'
Tears were flowing freely down Luther's cheeks. Zahariel glanced back at Israfael and Astelan; the Astartes were just as unnerved by Luther's strange demeanour as he was. He struggled to come up with a reply, but it was Remiel who spoke first. 'There is no shame in sparing the innocent,' the old master said softly.
'But he wasn't innocent!' Luther cried bitterly. 'He knew. Jonson knew about the taint all along and he's spilled an ocean of blood to keep the truth from us.'
Zahariel reeled in surprise at the vehemence in Luther's voice. 'You can't possibly mean that, my lord,' he protested numbly.
'Why else would he have goaded the Knights of Lupus into war, then annihilated them? Why else take their books—' he picked up the arcane tome and brandished it at Zahar
iel '—and hide them from our eyes? Because of what they could tell us about the planet's taint. Lion El'Jonson went to great lengths to silence those who knew too much, and it only got worse once the Emperor arrived.'
'That is enough!' Brother-Librarian Israfael shouted. 'I will not have you defame our primarch in this fashion, much less the Emperor!'
Pain blossomed in the back of Zahariel's head, so sudden and intense it nearly overwhelmed him. He groaned, pressing a hand to his temple and trying to push the agony aside, then turned to see Israfael standing well apart from the others, his fists clenched. Chapter Master Astelan stood to one side, his gaze shifting from Israfael to Luther as though unsure whom to believe. The room seemed to shift beneath Zahariel's feet. Things were spinning out of control, he knew. He'd never meant for things to come to this.
'Not everyone was silenced,' he protested. 'What about Nemiel? What about me? We were the last people to speak to Lord Sartana, and nothing befell us.'
'Brother Nemiel may lie dead on some distant world for all we know,' Luther said grimly. 'And you are here, exiled to a world that will soon be consigned to the flames.' His voice rose, teetering on the edge of madness. 'Don't you see? Jonson knew that the Imperium would one day destroy Caliban. That's why we're here. He didn't just forsake us, brother. He sent us here to die.'
'Not another word!' Israfael roared. Arcs of psychic power danced around his head, crackling like miniature thunderbolts. 'My lord, you are unwell, and no longer fit for command!' He turned to Zahariel. 'In the name of the primarch, and for the honour of the Legion, you must assume control and order Luther to submit himself to the Apothecarium at once.'
'It's too late for such treacheries, Terran!' Luther snarled. He tossed the book aside and came around the edge of the table, his dark eyes blazing. 'He knows the truth now. Don't you, Zahariel?'
An invisible storm of psychic power swelled within the room. Zahariel's mind reeled. He saw Master Remiel and Sar Daviel just a few metres away, caught in between the two furious warriors. A thought came to him through the growing haze of pain. 'This is a mistake, my lord!' he said to Luther. 'Sar Daviel!' he cried. 'Your friend, the knight who read these same books. Who was he? Where is he now?'