Kaleb found his voice. ‘Lord, if it pleases you, I have duties to perform—’
He was ignored. ‘Before our primarch brought new, strong blood to our Legion, there were many rituals and habits that knotted around the Astartes. Most have been cut away.’ Grulgor’s face soured. ‘Some still remain, thanks to the dogged adherence of men who should know better.’
Mokyr nodded. ‘Captain Garro.’
‘Yes, Garro.’ Grulgor was dismissive. ‘He allows sentiment to cloud his judgment. Oh, he’s a fine warrior, I will give him that, but our brother, Nathaniel, is old in his ways, too bound by his Terran roots.’ The Astartes leaned closer to Kaleb, his voice dropping. ‘Or, am I incorrect in my judgment? Perhaps Garro keeps you around him, not out of some misplaced sense of tradition, but as a reminder? A living example of what it means to fail the Legion?’
‘Please,’ said the serf, his knuckles white around the handles of the cart.
‘I do not understand,’ said Mokyr, genuinely confounded. ‘How is this helot a failure?’
‘Ah,’ Grulgor said, looking away, ‘but for a turn of fate, this wastrel might have walked among the Legiones Astartes. He could have stood where you do now, brother, wearing the white, bearing arms for the Imperium. Our friend here was once an aspirant to the XIV Legion, as were we all. Only he fell short of greatness during the trials of acceptance, damned by his own weakness.’ The commander tapped his chin thoughtfully.
‘Tell me, serf, where did your will break? Crossing the black plains? Was it in the tunnel of the venoms?’
Kaleb’s voice was a whisper. ‘The thorn garden, lord.’ The hateful old memory emerged, fresh and undimmed despite the span of years since the event. The housecarl winced as he recalled the stabbing, poisonous barbs on his bare skin, his blood running in streaks all across his body. He remembered the pain and worse, the shame as his legs turned to water beneath him. He remembered falling into the thick, drab mud, lying there, weeping, knowing that he had lost forever the chance to become a Death Guard.
‘The thorn garden, of course.’ Grulgor tapped his fingers on his vambrace. ‘So many have bled out their last in that ordeal. You did well to survive that far.’
Mokyr raised an eyebrow. ‘Sir, do you mean to say that this… man was an aspirant? But those who fail the trials perish!’
‘Most do,’ corrected the commander. ‘Most of them die of the wounds they suffer or the poisons they cannot resist during the seven days of trial, but there are some few who fail but live on still, and even they will largely choose the Emperor’s Peace over a return in dishonour to their clans.’ He gave Kaleb a cool stare. ‘But not all. Some lack the strength of will even for that honour.’ Grulgor looked back at Mokyr and sniffed archly. ‘Some Legions make use of their throwbacks, but it is not the Death Guard way. Still, Garro chose to invoke an aged right, to save this wretch from the pit of his own inadequacy. He rescued him.’ Grulgor snorted. ‘How noble.’
Kaleb found a spark of defiance. ‘It is my privilege to serve,’ he said.
‘Is it?’ growled the Astartes. ‘You dare to parade your own deficiencies around us, the chosen men of Mortarion? You are an insult. You ape us, hang upon the tails of our cloaks while we fight for the future of our species, polishing guns and pretending you are worthy to be in our company?’ He pressed Kaleb’s cart towards the wall. ‘You skulk in the shadows. You are Garro’s petty spy. You are nothing!’ Grulgor’s annoyance flared in his eyes. ‘If I were captain of the First, the pointless ritual that granted your existence would be ended in a second.’
‘So, then,’ said another voice, ‘is the commander of the Second dissatisfied with his honoured role?’
‘Apothecary Voyen.’ Grulgor greeted the new arrival with a wary nod. ‘Sadly there are many things that I find myself dissatisfied with.’ He stepped away from the trembling housecarl.
‘Life is always a challenge in that regard,’ Voyen said with forced lightness, throwing Kaleb a sideways look.
‘Indeed,’ said the commander. ‘Is there something you wanted, brother?’
‘Only an explanation as to why you saw fit to waylay my captain’s equerry during the course of his duties. The battle-captain will be returning shortly and he will wish to know why his orders have not been carried out.’
Kaleb clearly saw a nerve twitch in Grulgor’s jaw in reaction to the temerity of Voyen’s reply, and for a moment he expected the senior Astartes to bark out an angry retort to the junior Apothecary, but then the instant was gone as some moment of understanding he was not a party to passed between them.
With exaggerated care, Grulgor stepped out of Kaleb’s path. ‘The helot may go about his business,’ he said, and with that, the commander dismissed them both and strode away with Mokyr at his side.
Kaleb watched them go and once again saw the glitter of the strange brass token as the Astartes tucked the coin-like object into an ammunition pouch on his belt.
He sucked in a shaky breath and bowed to Voyen. ‘Thank you, lord. I must confess, I do not understand why the commander detests me so.’
Voyen walked with him as the housecarl continued on his way. ‘Ignatius Grulgor hates everything with equal measure, Kaleb. You shouldn’t take it personally.’
‘And yet, the things he says… sometimes those thoughts are mine as well.’
‘Really? Answer me this, then. Do you think that Captain Garro, the leader of the Seventh Great Company, considers you an insult? Would a man of honour like him even contemplate such a thing?’
Kaleb shook his head.
Voyen placed his huge hand on the housecarl’s shoulder. ‘You will never be one of us, that is true, but you still serve the Legion despite that.’
‘But Grulgor was right,’ Kaleb mumbled. ‘At times, I am a spy. I go about the ship, invisible in plain sight, and I see and hear. I keep my lord captain conversant with the mood of the Legion.’
The Apothecary’s expression remained neutral. ‘A good commander should always be well informed. This is not plotting and scheming of which we speak. It is merely the report of talk and temper. You should feel no conflict in this.’
They arrived at the arsenal dais where the armament-servitors were waiting, and the housecarl presented them with the captain’s bolter. Kaleb felt a churn of tension coming loose inside him, the need to speak pressing on his lips. Voyen seemed to sense it too, and guided him to an isolated corner near a viewport.
‘It is more than that. I have seen things.’ Kaleb’s words were hushed and secretive. ‘Sometimes in quarters of the ships, where the crewmen do not often venture. Hooded gatherings, lord. Clandestine meetings of what can only be your battle-brothers.’
Voyen was very still. ‘You speak of the lodges, yes?’
Kaleb was taken aback to hear the Apothecary talk openly to him of such things. The quiet orders of men inside the Legiones Astartes were not something that was common knowledge to the outside world, and certainly they were things that a man such as Kaleb should not have been aware of. ‘I have heard that name whispered.’ The housecarl rubbed his hands together. The palms were sweaty. Something in the back of his mind urged him to say no more, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to get the words out, to be free of them. ‘Just now, I saw the commander give a medallion to Brother Mokyr. I have seen one before, among the personal effects of the late Sergeant Raphim after his death at the Carinea Moons.’ Kaleb licked his lips. ‘A brass disc embossed with the skull and star of our Legion, lord.’
‘And what do you think it is?’
‘A badge, sir? A token of membership for these surreptitious groupings?’
The Astartes gave him a level, unmoving stare. ‘You are afraid that these meetings might threaten the Death Guard’s unity, is that it? That sedition may be at their core?’
‘How could they not?’ hissed Kaleb. ‘Secrecy is the enemy of truth. Truth is what the Emperor and his warriors stand for! If men must gather in shadows—’ He broke off, blinking.
>
Voyen managed a small smile. ‘Kaleb, you respect Captain Garro. We all comprehend the might of our primarch. Do you think such great men would stand idly by and let subversion take root in their midst?’ The Apothecary put his hand on the housecarl’s shoulder again and Kaleb felt the smallest amount of pressure there. He became aware of the mass and strength of the warrior’s ceramite glove, enveloping his flesh and bone. ‘What you have seen in sideways glances and overheard rumours is nothing that should concern you, and it is certainly not a matter with which to distract the battle-captain. Trust me when I tell you this.’
‘But…’ Kaleb said, his throat becoming dry, ‘but how can you know that?’
The smile faded from Voyen’s lips. ‘I can’t say.’
IN HIS INFORMAL robes, Nathaniel Garro still cut an impressive figure, even among his own men who had yet to divest themselves of their battle armour. At the far end of the wide armoury chamber, in the section of the long iron hall that was the province of the Seventh Company, he moved through the Astartes and spoke with each one, sharing a nod or a grin with those in good humour, sparing a solemn commiseration for those who had lost a close comrade in the engagement with the jorgall. He singled out Decius for mild chastisement where the younger Astartes sat at work on his power fist, cleaning the oversized gauntlet with a thick cloth.
‘Our tactical approach at the bottle-world was not meant to be one of close combat, Solun,’ he noted, ‘you carry a bolter for good reason.’
‘If it pleases my captain, I have heard this lecture already today from Brother Sendek. He informed me, at great length and in intricate detail, of exactly how I had failed to adhere to the rules of engagement.’
‘I see.’ Garro took a seat on the bench next to Decius. ‘And what was your response?’
The young warrior smiled. ‘I told him that we were both still alive, rules or no, and that victory is the only true measure of success.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Of course!’ Decius worked at the power fist with great care. ‘What matters in war above all other things is the final result. If there is no victory…’ He broke off, finding his words. ‘Then there is no point.’
From nearby, Andus Hakur rubbed a hand over his stubbly grey chin. ‘Such tactical genius from the mouth of a whelp. I fear I may become giddy with surprise.’
Decius’s eyes flashed at the old veteran’s jibe, but Garro caught the moment and laughed softly, defusing it. ‘You must forgive Andus, Solun. At his age, his sharp tongue is the only blade he can wield with skill any more.’
Hakur clutched at his chest in mock pain. ‘Oh. An arrow to my heart, from my own captain. Such tragedy.’
Garro maintained an even smile, but in truth he could detect the weariness, the pain in his old friend’s forced jocularity. Hakur had lost men from his squad on the world-ship, and the pain of it was just below the surface. ‘We all fought well this day,’ said the captain, the words coming of their own accord. ‘Once more the Death Guard have been the tools that carve the Emperor’s will into the galaxy.’
None of the other Astartes spoke. Each of them had fallen silent, faces turned over Garro’s shoulder. As he cast around to learn why, as one, the men of the Seventh Company came to their knees.
‘My battle-captain.’
It perturbed Garro to realize that he had not even heard the approach of his primarch. As in the assembly hall before the assault, Mortarion made issue of his presence only when it suited him to do so.
Garro bowed low to the master of the Death Guard, dimly aware of Typhon at his lord’s side, and a servitor lurking behind the first captain’s cloak.
‘My lord,’ he replied.
Mortarion’s face shifted in a cool smile, visible even behind the breath collar around his throat and lips. ‘The Sisterhood has taken leave of us. They spoke highly of the Seventh.’
Garro dared to raise his gaze a little. Like him, the primarch was no longer clad in his brass and steel power armour, but instead in common duty robes over a set of more utilitarian gear. Still, even in such simple garb, there was no mistaking his presence. High and gaunt, a man spun from whipcord steel muscle, he was as tall in his deck boots as Typhon was in the First Company’s Terminator armour.
And of course, there was the manreaper. Sheathed across his back, the arc of the heavy black blade curved behind his head in a lightless sweep. ‘Stand, Nathaniel, please. It becomes tiresome to look down upon my men.’
Garro drew himself up to his full height, looking into the primarch’s deep amber eyes and steeling himself not to draw back. In turn, Mortarion’s gaze burned deep into him, and the captain felt as if his heart were held in the primarch’s long, slender fingers, being weighed and considered.
‘You ought to watch your step, Typhon,’ said the Death Lord. ‘This one, he’ll have your job one day.’
Typhon, ever sullen, only grimaced. Before the first captain, the primarch, and at the edges of his sight, the twin guards of the Deathshroud, Garro felt as if he was at the bottom of a well. The nerve of a common man would probably have broken beneath such scrutiny.
‘Lord,’ he asked, ‘what service may the Seventh Company do for you?’
Mortarion beckoned him. ‘Their captain may step forward, Garro. He has earned a reward.’
Nathaniel did as he was told, darting a quick look towards Hakur. His words at the lakeside echoed in his mind. We don’t seek accolades and honours. Garro had no doubt that the veteran was keenly amused by this turn of events. ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I deserve no special—’
‘That is not a refusal forming upon your lips, is it, captain?’ warned Typhon. ‘Such false modesty is unwelcome.’
‘I am merely a servant of the Emperor,’ Garro managed. ‘That is honour enough.’
Mortarion gestured the servitor forward, and the captain saw that it carried a tray of goblets and bowls. ‘Then instead, Nathaniel, might you honour me by sharing my drink?’
He stiffened, recognizing the ornate cups and the liquid in them. ‘Of… of course, lord.’
It was said that there was no toxin too strong, no poison so powerful and no contagion of such lethality that a Death Guard could not resist it. From their inception, the XIV Legion had always been the Emperor’s warriors in the most hostile of environments, fighting through chem-clouds or acidic atmospheres that no normal human could survive in. Barbarus, the Legion’s base, the adoptive home planet of Mortarion himself, molded this characteristic. As with their primarch, so with his Astartes: the Death Guard were a resilient, invincible breed.
They hardened themselves through stringent training regimens as neophyte Astartes, willingly exposing themselves to, chemical agents, contaminants, mortal viral strains and venoms of a thousand different shades. They could resist them all. It was how they had found victory amid the blight-fungus of Urssa, how they had weathered the hornet swarms on Ogre IV, the reason why they had been sent to fight the chlorine-breathing jorgall.
The servitor deftly mixed and poured dark liquids into the cups, and Garro’s nostrils sensed the odour of chemicals: a distillate of the agent magenta nerve bane, some variety of sword beetle venom, and other, less identifiable compounds. No Astartes in Mortarion’s service would ever have dared to call this practice a ritual. The word conjured up thoughts of primitive idolatry, anathema to the clean, impious logic of Imperial truth. This was simply their way, a Death Guard tradition that survived despite the intentions of men like Ignatius Grulgor. The cups were Mortarion’s, and in each battle where the Death Lord took the field in person, he would select a warrior in the aftermath and share with that man a draught of poison. They would drink and they would live, cementing the unbreakable strength of the Legion they embodied.
The servitor presented the tray to the primarch and he took a cup for himself, then handed one to Garro and a third to Typhon. Mortarion raised his goblet in salute. ‘Against death.’ With a smooth tip of his wrist, the primarch drained the cup to its dregs. Typhon show
ed a feral half-smile and did the same, completing the toast and drinking deep.
Garro saw a flush of crimson on the first captain’s face, but Typhon gave no other outward sign of distress. He sniffed at the liquid before him and his senses resisted, his implanted neuroglottis and preomnor organs rebelling at the mere smell of the poisonous brew; but to refuse the cup would be seen as weakness, and Nathaniel Garro would never allow himself to be accused of such a thing.
‘Against death,’ he said.
With a steady motion, the captain drank it all and placed the upturned goblet back on the tray. A ripple of approval drifted through the men of the Seventh Company, but Garro barely heard it. His blood was rumbling in his ears as punishing heat seared his throat and gullet, the powerful engines of his Astartes physiology racing to fight down the toxins he had ingested. Decius was watching him in awe, without doubt dreaming of a day when it might be his hand, not Garro’s, holding the goblet.
Mortarion’s chill smile grew wider. ‘A rare and fine vintage, would you not agree?’
His chest on fire, Garro couldn’t speak, so he nodded. The primarch laughed in a low chug of amusement. Mortarion’s cup could have contained water for all the apparent effect it had upon him. He placed his hand on the battle-captain’s back. ‘Come, Nathaniel. Let’s walk it off.’
AS THEY CAME to the ramp that led to the balcony above the grand armoury chamber, Typhon bowed to his liege lord and made his excuses, walking away towards the alcoves where Commander Grulgor and the Second Company made their station. Garro cast back to see the Deathshroud following them in lockstep, moving with such flawless precision that they appeared to be automata and not actually men.
‘Don’t worry, Nathaniel,’ said Mortarion, ‘I have no plans to replace my guardians just yet. I am not about to recruit you into the secret dead.’
The Flight of the Eisenstein Page 6