Soul Drinkers 06 - Phalanx

by Ben Counter

  enemy.

  Sarpedon was led in, restraints binding his mutant legs, by a gang

  of crewmen marshalled by Apothecary Asclephin. Asclephin had

  conducted the investigations into Sarpedon’s mutations – indeed, his

  findings were part of the evidence that would be presented to the court.

  Sarpedon was herded into the dock, and his restraints fixed to the

  mountings inside the pulpit. Sarpedon still had the physical presence

  to demand a hush from the court in the first moments they saw him.

  He was bent by his restraints and he lacked the armour which was the

  badge of a Space Marine, but even without his mutations he would

  have demanded a form of respect with the scars and bearing of a

  veteran and the defiance that refused to leave his face. The inhibitor

  hood clamped to his skull just made him look more dangerous. One of

  Lysander’s primary duties was to watch Sarpedon carefully and

  subdue or even execute him at the first suggestion that the Soul

  Drinkers Chapter Master was using his psychic powers.

  Sarpedon’s eyes passed across the faces of the assembled Space

  Marines. He recognised Borganor and Lysander, and Vladimir he knew

  by reputation. Kolgo he had never met, but the trappings of an

  inquisitor sparked their own kind of recognition. Several times the Soul

  Drinkers had crossed paths, and swords, with the Inquisition. The Holy

  Ordos had sent their representative here to take their pound of flesh.

  Then Sarpedon’s eyes met Reinez’s.

  Brother Reinez of the Crimson Fists was alone. He had no retinue

  with him. His armour was pitted and stained, the dark blue of the

  Crimson Fists and their red hand symbol tarnished with ill

  maintenance. Reinez wore a hood of sackcloth and his face was filthy,

  smeared with ash. Strips of parchment covered in prayers fluttered

  from every piece of his armour.

  There was silence for a moment. Their eyes had all been on

  Sarpedon, and none had seen Reinez enter.

  ‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. His voice was a ruined

  growl. ‘You took my standard.’

  Reinez had been the captain of the Crimson Fists 2nd Company

  during the battles with the xenos eldar on Entymion IV. The Soul

  Drinkers had taken the company standard in combat. Reinez was not

  a captain any more, and his trappings were those of a penitent, one

  who wandered seeking redemption outside his Chapter.

  ‘The court,’ said Vladimir, ‘recognises the presence of the Crimson

  Fists. Let the scribes enter it in the archives that–’

  ‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. ‘You took my standard.

  You allied with the xenos. You left my brothers dead in the streets of

  Gravenhold.’

  ‘I fought the xenos,’ replied Sarpedon levelly. ‘My conflict with you

  was sparked by your own hatred, not my brothers’ wish to kill yours.’

  ‘You lie!’ bellowed Reinez. ‘The life of the xenos leader was taken by

  my hand! But it was not enough. None of it was enough. The standard

  of the Second was taken by heretics. I travelled the galaxy looking for

  an enemy worthy of killing me, so I could die for my failings on

  Entymion IV. I could not find it. I turned my back on my Chapter and

  sought death for my sins, but the galaxy would not give it to me. And

  then I heard that the Soul Drinkers had been captured, and were to be

  tried on the Phalanx. And I realised that I did not have to die. I could

  have revenge.’

  ‘Brother Reinez,’ said Vladimir, ‘has been appointed the prosecuting

  counsel for the trial of the Soul Drinkers. The role of the Imperial Fists

  is to observe and administer justice, not to condemn. That task

  belongs to Brother Reinez.’

  Sarpedon could only look at Reinez. He could scarcely imagine that

  any human being in the Imperium had ever hated another as much as

  Reinez obviously hated Sarpedon in that moment. Reinez had been

  shattered by the events on Entymion IV, Sarpedon could see that. He

  had been defeated and humiliated by Astartes the Crimson Fists

  believed to be heretics. But now this broken man had been given a

  chance at a revenge he thought was impossible, and if there was

  anything that could bring a Space Marine back from the brink, it was

  the promise of revenge.

  ‘The charges I bring,’ said Reinez, ‘are the treacherous slaying of

  the servants of the Emperor, rebellion from the Emperor’s light, and

  heresy by aiding the enemies of the Imperium of Man.’ The Crimson

  Fist was forcing down harsher words to conform to the mores of the

  court. ‘The punishment I demand is death, and for the accused to

  know that they are dying. By the Emperor and Dorn, I swear that the

  charges I bring are true and deserving of vengeance.’

  ‘This court,’ replied Vladimir formally, ‘accepts the validity of these

  charges and this court’s right to try the accused upon them.’

  ‘Chapter Master,’ said Sarpedon. ‘This man is motivated by hate and

  revenge. There can be no justice when–’

  ‘You will be silent!’ yelled Reinez. ‘Your heretic’s words will not

  pollute this place!’ He drew the power hammer he wore on his back

  and every Space Marine in the court tensed as the power field

  crackled around it.

  ‘The accused will have his turn to speak,’ said Vladimir sternly.

  ‘I see no accused!’ retorted Reinez. He jumped over the row of

  seating in front of him, heading towards the courtroom floor and

  Sarpedon’s pulpit. ‘I see vermin! I see a foul stain on the honour of

  every Astartes! I would take the head of this subhuman thing! I would

  spill its blood and let the Emperor not wait upon His justice!’

  Lysander stepped between Reinez and the courtroom floor, his own

  hammer in his hands. ‘Will you spill this one’s blood too, brother?’

  said Lysander.

  Reinez and Lysander were face to face, Reinez’s breath heavy

  between his teeth. ‘The day I saw a son of Dorn stand between a

  Crimson Fist and the enemy,’ he growled, ‘is a day I am ashamed to

  have seen.’

  ‘Brother Reinez!’ shouted Vladimir, rising to his feet. ‘Your role is to

  accuse, not to execute. It is to prosecute alone that you have been

  permitted to board the Phalanx, in spite of the deep shame with which

  your own Chapter beholds you. Petitions will be heard and a verdict

  will be reached. This shall be the form your vengeance shall take.

  Blood will not be shed in my court save by my own order. Captain

  Lysander is the instrument of my will. Defy it and you defy him, and

  few will mourn your loss if that is the manner of death you choose.’

  The moment for which Reinez was eye to eye with Lysander was far

  too long for the liking of anyone in the court. Reinez took the first step

  back and holstered his hammer.

  ‘The Emperor’s word shall be the last,’ he said. ‘He will speak for my

  dead brothers.’

  ‘Then now the court will hear petitioners from those present,’ said

  Vladimir. ‘In the Emperor’s name, let justice be done.’

  The archivists of the Phalanx were a curious
breed even by the

  standards of the voidborn. Most had been born on the ship – the few

  who had not had been purchased in childhood to serve as apprentices

  to the aged Chapter functionaries. An archivist’s purpose was to

  maintain the enormous parchment rolls on which the deeds and

  histories of the Imperial Fists were recorded. Those massive rolls,

  three times the height of a man and twice as broad, hung on their

  rollers from the walls of the cylindrical archive shaft, giving it the

  appearance of the inside of an insect hive bulging with pale cells.

  An archivist therefore lived to record the deeds of those greater than

  him. An archivist was not really a person at all, but a human-shaped

  shadow tolerated to exist only as far as his duties required. They did

  not have names, being referred to by function. They were essentially

  interchangeable. They schooled their apprentices in the art of

  abandoning one’s own personality.

  Several of these archivists were writing on the fresh surfaces of

  recently installed parchment rolls, their nimble fingers noting down the

  transmissions from the courtroom in delicate longhand. Others were

  illuminating the borders and capital letters. Gyranar cast his eye over

  these strange, dusty, dried-out people, their eyes preserved by

  goggles and their fingers thin bony spindles. Every breath he took in

  there hurt, but to a pilgrim of the Blinded Eye pain was just more proof

  that the Emperor still had tests for them to endure.

  ‘Follow,’ said the archivist who had been detailed to lead Gyranar

  through the cavernous rooms. This creature represented the dried husk

  of a human. It creaked when it walked and its goggles, the lenses filled

  with fluid, magnified its eyes to fat whitish blobs. Gyranar could not tell

  if the archivist was male or female, and doubted the difference meant

  anything to the archivist itself.

  The archivist led Gyranar through an archway into another section of

  the archives. Here, on armour stands, were displayed a hundred suits

  of power armour, each lit by a spotlight lancing from high overhead.

  The armour was painted purple and bone, with a few suits trimmed

  with an officer’s gold. Each was displayed with its other wargear:

  boltguns and chainswords, a pair of lightning claws, a magnificent

  force axe with a blade inlaid with the delicate patterns of its psychic

  circuitry. The armour was still stained and scored from battle, and the

  smell of oil and gunsmoke mixed with the atmosphere of decaying

  parchment.

  ‘This is the evidence chamber,’ said the archivist. ‘Here are kept the

  items to be presented to the court.’

  ‘The arms of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Gyranar. He pulled his hood

  back, and the electoo on his face reflected the pale light. The scales

  tipped a little, as if they represented the processes of Gyranar’s mind,

  first weighing down on one side then the other.

  ‘Quite so. Those who wish to inspect them can claim leave to do so

  from the Justice Lord. Our task is to make them available for scrutiny.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  The archivist tilted its head, a faint curiosity coming over its sunken

  features. ‘They will be disposed of,’ it said. ‘Ejected into space or used

  as raw material for the forges. The decision has yet to be made.’

  ‘If the Soul Drinkers are found innocent,’ said Gyranar, ‘presumably

  these arms and armour will be returned to them.’

  ‘Innocent?’ replied the archivist. The faint mixture of mystification

  and baffled amusement was perhaps the most extreme emotion it had

  ever displayed. ‘What do you mean, innocent?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Gyranar, bowing his head. ‘A wayward thought.

  Might I be given leave to inspect this evidence for myself?’

  ‘Leave is granted,’ said the archivist. It turned away and left to take

  up its regular duties again.

  Father Gyranar ran a finger along the blade of the force axe. This

  was the Axe of Mercaeno, the weapon of the Howling Griffons Librarian

  killed by Sarpedon. Sarpedon had taken the axe to replace his own

  force weapon lost in the battle. Such had been the information given by

  the Howling Griffons’ deposition to the court. Its use suggested a

  certain admiration held by Sarpedon for Mercaeno. It was probable that

  a replacement weapon could have been found in the Soul Drinkers’

  own armouries on the Brokenback, but Sarpedon had chosen to bear

  the weapon so closely associated with the Space Marine he had

  killed.

  It was a good weapon. It had killed the daemon prince Periclitor.

  Gyranar withdrew his thumb and regarded the thin red line on its tip.

  The Axe of Mercaeno was also very sharp.

  Across the hall from the axe was a pair of oversized weapons, too

  big to be wielded by an Astartes, and with mountings to fix them onto

  the side of a vehicle. Gyranar knew they were the weapons of a Space

  Marine Dreadnought – a missile launcher and a power fist. They, too,

  were in the livery of the Soul Drinkers. Their presence told Gyranar that

  everything the Blinded Eye had foretold was coming to pass. He was a

  cog in a machine that had been in motion for thousands of years, and

  that its function was about to be completed was an honour beyond any

  deserving.

  Gyranar knelt in prayer. His words, well-worn in his mind, called for

  the fiery and bloodstained justice of the Emperor to be visited on

  sinners and traitors. But his thoughts as they raced were very different.

  The archives. The dome being used as the courtroom. The Halls of

  Atonement. The map being drawn in the pilgrim’s mind was beginning

  to join up. Soon, he would hold his final sermon, and the contents of

  that pronouncement were finally taking shape.

  ‘Everything,’ said Lord Inquisitor Kolgo, ‘is about power.’

  The inquisitor lord paced as he spoke, making a half-circuit around

  the gallery seating, watched by the Battle Sisters who accompanied

  him. His Terminator armour was bulky but it was ancient, the secrets

  of its construction giving him enough freedom of movement to point

  and slam one fist into the other palm, stride and gesticulate as well as

  any orator. And he was good. He had done this before.

  ‘Think upon it,’ he said. ‘In this room are several hundred Astartes.

  Though I am a capable fighter for an unaugmented human, yet still the

  majority of you would have a very good chance of besting me. And I

  am unarmed. My weapons lie back on my shuttle, while many of you

  here carry the bolters or chainswords that you use so well in battle. I

  see you, the brothers of the Angels Sanguine, carrying the power

  glaives that mark you out as your Chapter’s elite. And you, Librarian

  Varnica, that force claw about your fist is more than a mere

  ornamentation. It is an implement of killing. So if you wished to kill me,

  there would be little I could do to stop it.’

  Kolgo paused. The Space Marines he had mentioned looked like

  they did not appreciate being singled out. Kolgo spread out his arms

  to take in the whole courtroom. ‘And h
ow many would like to kill me?

  Many of you have experienced unpleasant episodes at the hands of

  the Holy Ordos. I am a symbol of the Inquisition, and casting me down

  would be to strike a blow against every Inquisitor who ever claimed his

  jurisdiction included the Adeptus Astartes. I have, personally, gained

  something of a reputation for meddling in your affairs, and am no doubt

  the subject of more than a few blood oaths. Perhaps one of you here

  has knelt before the image of your primarch and sworn to see me

  dead. You would not be the first.’ Kolgo held up a finger, as if to

  silence anyone who might think to interrupt. ‘And yet, I live.’

  Kolgo looked around the courtroom. The expression of Chapter

  Master Vladimir was impossible to read. Other Space Marines looked

  angry or uncomfortable, not knowing what Kolgo was trying to say but

  certain that they would not like it.

  ‘And why?’ said Kolgo. ‘Why am I not dead? I am satisfied that it is

  not through fear that you refrain from killing me. A Space Marine

  knows no fear, and in any case, the fulfilling of a blood oath takes far

  higher priority than the possibility of being lynched or prosecuted by

  your fellow Astartes. And as I have said, I myself am scarcely capable

  of defending myself against any one of you. So what is it that keeps

  me alive? What strange gravity stays your hands? The answer is

  power. I have power, and it is a force so irresistible, so immovable, that

  even Space Marines must make way for it sometimes. I say this not to

  tempt you into action, I hasten to say, but to show you that it is

  matters of power that determine so much of the decisions we make

  whether we understand that or not.

  ‘This trial is about power. It is about who holds it, to which power

  one bows, and the natural order of the Imperium as it is created by the

  power its members wield. I say to you that the principal crime of the

  Soul Drinkers is the flouting of that natural order of power. You have

  refrained from violence against me because of the place I hold in that

  order. Sarpedon and his brothers would not. They act outside that

  order. Their actions denigrate and damage it. But it is this order that

  holds the Imperium together, that maintains the existence of the

  Imperium and the species of man. Without it, all is chaos. This is the

  crime for which I condemn the Soul Drinkers, and thus do I demand to