Soul Drinkers 06 - Phalanx

by Ben Counter

It was a vessel of the Inquisition. N’Kalo needed no communications

  with the craft to know that. His flag-captain had hailed it anyway and,

  as expected, there had been no reply. The Adeptus Astartes had done

  their job on Molikor. Now the Inquisition took over, and they answered

  to no one.

  N’Kalo had seen quarantine orders enforced before. He hoped that

  everyone had got off Molikor safely. Though he had little love for the

  Parliamentarians, once the lead conspirators had been weeded out

  those who remained would be largely blameless Imperial citizens. The

  Inquisition would quarantine the world, destroy the spaceport and let it

  be known that it was forbidden thanks to the bizarre warp disturbance

  beneath its crust that caused it to spew its dead out as mindless

  facsimiles. The Parliamentarians who had sought to exploit the pit

  would be tried, questioned and probably executed for dabbling so

  willingly in matters of the warp. N’Kalo did not think much about their

  fates. Worse things happened to better people with every moment in

  the Imperium. He would not waste his thoughts on them. This was a

  grim business, but he had faith that this was the way it had to be.

  The Soul Drinkers did not have faith, not in the Imperium. Perhaps

  that was understandable, thought N’Kalo. He had seen the same

  things they had, the same brutality and the spiteful randomness of

  how the fortunes of the Imperium were parcelled out. He had not

  strayed beyond the Imperial line – he had informed the Inquisition of

  the threat on Molikor, after all – but he was forced to wonder,

  considering the recent events there in his cell, whether he would have

  to have seen many more injustices to end up renegades like the Soul

  Drinkers.

  ‘Commander N’Kalo,’ came a vox from the flag-captain. ‘We are

  receiving a communication, tagged for you by name.’

  ‘Send it,’ said N’Kalo.

  ‘Greetings, commander,’ said a voice that, until a short time ago,

  had been an unfamiliar one reaching N’Kalo’s ears through the gunfire

  and crunching branches of the forest gap.

  ‘Sarpedon,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I had not expected you to still be around.

  You should be warned that the Inquisition would dearly love to listen

  in.’

  ‘My ship has communications even the Inquisition cannot intercept

  in a hurry,’ replied Sarpedon. His voice was transmitted in real time,

  meaning the Soul Drinkers and their ship had to be close by. ‘I wanted

  to thank you for doing the right thing by Molikor and the Eshkeen. You

  could have followed the Imperial line, but you did not. That takes

  something beyond mere bravery.’

  ‘I did not turn in the Parliaments of Molikor to garner thanks,’ replied

  N’Kalo. ‘I did it because it had to be done. The moral threat on that

  world could not have been left unchecked. But I am glad that I was not

  the instrument of injustice and so I should pay thanks to you, for

  showing me all the paths I might take.’

  ‘And yet I suspect that your gratitude will not prevent you from

  turning in a renegade and a mutant like myself,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and

  so I must leave here.’

  ‘I concur, Sarpedon. That would be wise. I have one question before

  you go.’

  ‘Speak it.’

  ‘What happened to the Eshkeen?’

  N’Kalo thought he heard a small chuckle. ‘Do not fear for them,’ said

  Sarpedon. ‘My Chapter possesses the means to transport them

  somewhere they can start anew, and where the Imperium will not

  rediscover them for a very long time.’

  ‘I see. For my sake it is best I leave it at that. Fare well, Sarpedon,

  and I shall pray that our paths do not cross, for I feel if they do I must

  fight to bring you in.’

  ‘I shall pray for that too, Commander N’Kalo. Emperor’s speed to

  you.’

  The comm-channel went dead.

  In the hours to follow, the scanners of the Judgement Upon Garadan

  detected the possible signature of a ship making a warp jump near the

  outlying worlds of the Molikor System. The signature suggested a ship

  far bigger than any Imperial craft, however, and one that seemed dark

  and shadowy as if cloaked by some stealth system beyond Imperial

  technology. N’Kalo did not challenge his flag-captain when the event

  was logged and dismissed as a sensor error, and the Soul Drinkers

  vanished from the Chapter history of the Iron Knights.

  Chapter 7

  ‘And what,’ said Captain Borganor of the Howling Griffons, ‘does this

  excuse?’

  The court was not as vocal as it had been after Varnica’s evidence.

  Instead, it simmered. The Howling Griffons murmured oaths and spat

  on the ground. The Imperial Fists tried to stay impartial but they could

  not keep the disdain from their faces as N’Kalo’s testimony had come

  to an end. Reinez had fought to remain silent, eyes closed, face

  downturned and grim.

  ‘How many of my battle-brothers does this return from their tombs?’

  continued Borganor. ‘The Soul Drinkers intervened in some backwater

  spat. What does this say about them? They still fought the Imperial

  divine right. All they have achieved to tickle Commander N’Kalo’s

  sense of righteousness is the deliverance of one band of savages to

  Throne knows what fate. Are we to absolve Sarpedon of my own

  brethren’s fall? Will someone speak for the Howling Griffons?’

  ‘Or for the Crimson Fists?’ interjected Reinez. ‘What have the

  Eshkeen done to earn a voice in this court? Every one of my fallen

  brothers is worth a thousand times the heathens the Soul Drinkers

  saved!’

  ‘If I may,’ interrupted Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine, ‘I feel I can

  shed a little more light on the matters pertinent to the fate of the Soul

  Drinkers.’

  ‘What could you say, you gilded peacock?’ spat Reinez.

  ‘Reinez, you will yield the floor!’ demanded Chapter Master Vladimir.

  ‘What has his kind suffered at Sarpedon’s hand?’ retorted Reinez.

  ‘He comes here for nothing more than the spectacle of this mutant!

  This is entertainment for him! He treats the sacred ground of the

  Phalanx like a sideshow!’

  ‘Your objections,’ said Vladimir coldly, ‘are noted. Commander

  Gethsemar, say your piece.’

  Gethsemar waited a moment, as if to ensure that all the attention of

  the court was on him. The mask he wore now had no tears, and the

  forehead and cheeks were inscribed with High Gothic text. ‘Indeed, my

  piece is more relevant than any of the protestations Captain Reinez

  has yet made,’ he said. ‘And I feel that few will recall words more

  incandescent in this matter than those I have to say now.’

  ‘Get on with it, you popinjay,’ muttered Reinez.

  ‘The Sanguinary Priests of my order,’ continued Gethsemar, ‘have

  long conducted studies into the link between the gene-seed every

  Space Marine carries within him and the blessed flesh of our

  primarchs, after whose characteristics the gene-seed of the original

  eighteen Legions was mode
lled. Indeed, much had been revealed to us

  of holy Sanguinius, the father of our own Chapter, and thus we gain

  revelations of him that steel our souls on the eve of battle. It so

  happened that the Angels Sanguine came into possession of a sample

  of gene-seed originating from the Soul Drinkers Chapter, delivered unto

  us in the hope that we could ascertain if their rebellion was founded in

  a corruption of such gene-seed.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ said Sarpedon. ‘Which brother of mine

  supplied it?’

  ‘No brother of yours, I fear,’ said Gethsemar. ‘It was given to us by

  the Soul Drinker to whom it belonged, one who had defied your

  usurping of the Chapter’s command and sought, through Inquisitorial

  means, a way to exact his revenge.’

  ‘Michairas,’ said Sarpedon bleakly. ‘I thought I had killed him. I did

  so at the second time of asking, on Stratix Luminae. I underestimated

  my old novice. He still tries for revenge, even after death.’

  ‘And he has it,’ continued Gethsemar. ‘Space Marines of the court,

  Lord Justice, the Sanguinary Priests went about their research in the

  expectation that they would find the blueprint of Rogal Dorn’s own flesh

  as the starting point for the Soul Drinkers’ gene-seed. But they did

  not.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Sarpedon.

  ‘I am saying that Rogal Dorn is not your primarch,’ said Gethsemar

  simply. ‘I cannot say who is. The Sanguinary Priests have yet to

  complete their discourses on the matter. But Dorn’s gene-seed is

  among the most stable and recognisable of all those among the

  Adeptus Astartes, and there can be no doubt that the Soul Drinkers do

  not possess it. This is the news I came to the Phalanx to deliver. That

  is why the Angels Sanguine sought a place at this court.’

  Sarpedon pushed against his restraints, half-clambering out of the

  accused’s pulpit. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You have taken everything from us!

  Our freedom! Our war! You will not take away Rogal Dorn!’

  ‘The defendant will be silent!’ yelled Vladimir, above the sound of

  dozens of bolt pistols being drawn. Every weapon in the dome was

  being aimed then at Sarpedon, in case he burst through his restraints

  to do violence to Gethsemar. Lysander stood between Sarpedon and

  Gethsemar, ready to slam Sarpedon into the ground if he showed any

  signs of breaking free.

  Reinez did not move. He had seen all the damage done to Sarpedon

  that could be done. For the first time since he had come to the

  Phalanx, there was a smirk on his face.

  Brother Sennon limped through the Atoning Halls, barely drawing a

  glance from the Soul Drinkers who sat in its cells, chained to the walls

  waiting for a decision to be made in the Observatory of Dornian

  Majesty. The news of Daenyathos’s survival had left them as confused

  as elated. The Philosopher-Soldier’s presence there had been brief, a

  few seconds, before the Dreadnought had been sealed away, and now

  none of the Soul Drinkers could be completely sure they had seen him

  at all. Their minds were occupied as the single pilgrim walked down

  the corridor.

  Two Imperial Fists walked behind him as guards, but Sennon looked

  in more danger from his own health than from the Soul Drinkers. His

  skin was bluish and sweating, his eyes rimmed with red, his shoulders

  slumped as if he could barely hold up his own weight. His breath was

  a painful wheeze.

  He passed the cell where Sergeant Salk was held. The sergeant

  was exhausted, his arms bruised from forcing against his restraints

  long past the point where it was obvious he would not break free. Other

  Soul Drinkers were in prayer or simply at rest, half their minds shut off

  while the other half watched, a Space Marine’s habit made possible by

  the catalepsean node each had implanted between the hemispheres of

  his brain. The Soul Drinkers had been fed by regular servitor rounds,

  but that was the sole concession made to their comfort. Since

  Daenyathos had been sealed away they had been silent, every one

  contemplating his situation in his own way, eager for news of

  Sarpedon and the trial but unwilling to beg their Imperial Fists captors

  for it.

  One cell held Chaplain Iktinos. This cell had been sealed, so no

  other Soul Drinker could see or hear the Chaplain. Iktinos’s rhetoric

  was considered one of the biggest threats to keeping the Soul

  Drinkers captive, and so a steel plate had been welded over the bars of

  his cell. The Soul Drinkers who had made up his flock, those who had

  lost their officers and gone to Iktinos for leadership, had been spread

  out through the Atoning Halls to minimise their ability to conspire.

  Sennon passed the sealed cell and touched it with two fingers,

  murmuring a prayer for Iktinos’s soul.

  Sennon halted at Captain Luko’s cell, and knelt on the floor.

  ‘Take care,’ said Luko. ‘You don’t look like you could get up again.’

  ‘I have come to pray for you,’ said Sennon.

  ‘Pray for yourself,’ replied Luko. ‘All the prayers that might help us

  were used up on Selaaca.’

  ‘You are not beyond hope,’ said Sennon, apparently unconcerned

  with the mix of pity and scorn with which Luko looked at him. Luko,

  compared to Sennon, was a chained giant, and the power held within

  every Space Marine was not lessened by the manacles that held him

  against the back wall of the cell or the bars that stood between the two

  of them. ‘There is none so close to the precipice that the Emperor’s

  grace cannot bring him back.’

  ‘And what of those who have gone over the precipice? What about

  them? To pray for them is a sin, is it not?’

  ‘I do not believe you are among them, Captain Luko.’

  ‘You know my name,’ said Luko.

  ‘I have read of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Sennon. ‘The Imperial Fists

  made available much of their information so that my sect might better

  observe the process of justice. The Blinded Eye we may be, but we do

  not do our duty by remaining blind when knowledge is available.’

  ‘The Inquisition passed a deletion order on us, you know,’ said Luko.

  ‘They could probably hang you for knowing we exist.’

  ‘It is the Imperial Fists who hold sway here,’ replied Sennon. ‘The

  Inquisition may have its due from us once we leave the Phalanx, but

  that is an acceptable price to pay to see justice done in so grave a

  case as this.’

  ‘It must be such a relief to see such a simple galaxy around you,’

  said Luko, but the scorn was drying out from his voice. ‘Imagine

  knowing what is right and wrong. Imagine believing, completely

  believing, that one way was good and another was bad, and never

  having to think for yourself about it. I have such envy for you, pilgrim.’

  ‘Then you doubt that you have taken the right path? Doubt is a sin,

  Captain Luko.’

  Luko smiled without humour. ‘Thanks. I’ll add it to the list.’

  ‘I shall pray for you.’

  ‘No, you will not. I will not be prayed for.’

&nb
sp; ‘You are in chains. You have no say in whether you are prayed for or

  not.’

  That, at least, was something Luko had no stomach to argue.

  Sennon knelt before Luko’s cell, eyes closed and head bowed. His

  breathing became quieter, and for all Luko knew the young pilgrim

  might have died there before his cell.

  ‘I have such envy for you,’ said Luko, too quiet for anyone but

  himself to hear.

  Sarpedon barely registered the journey back to his cell as the Imperial

  Fists marched him out of the Observatory of Dornian Majesty once

  again. The first couple of times he had sized up his guards and the

  route they took for the best time to attempt escape. His hands were

  manacled but he still had the use of his legs – the six he had

  remaining, at least – and he was faster and stronger than any of the

  four Imperial Fists flanking him.

  But he could not take them all down. They were armed and

  armoured, Sarpedon was not. The inhibitor collar prevented his use of

  the Hell, which might have sown enough confusion for him to flee.

  From what he had gathered about the layout of the Phalanx, it would

  be difficult to put any distance between himself and the dome,

  crammed with hostile Space Marines, before the alarm was raised.

  The idea of escape was now all but forgotten, filed away in that part of

  an Space Marine’s mind where rejected battle plans lay waiting to be

  dusted off again.

  Captain Borganor was ahead of Sarpedon and his Imperial Fist

  minders, at a junction of corridors where the science labs and map

  rooms surrounding the Observatory met the stone-lined corridors of the

  Atoning Halls.

  ‘Halt, brethren,’ said Borganor. ‘I would speak with the prisoner.’

  ‘On what authority?’ said the lead Imperial Fist.

  ‘On that of brotherhood,’ said Borganor. ‘I have no dispensation from

  Lord Vladimir, if that is what you ask. I merely wish to put the question

  to the defendant that every Space Marine on this ship has longed to

  ask. I shall not hold you long. As a brother, I ask this of you.’

  ‘We have all heard the outrages visited upon the Howling Griffons by

  the Soul Drinkers,’ said the Imperial Fist. ‘Ask if you will, but you shall

  not hold us long.’

  ‘My thanks,’ said Borganor. The Imperial Fists backed away from

  Sarpedon a little to give Borganor a semblance of privacy as he