by Various
‘Your hands. Look at your hands.’
Tarikus could not help but glance downward. The meat of his hard, calloused fingers was gone, and in its place were arcs of bone that glistened like black oil.
‘The change is already upon you. It’s coming now. Let it happen.’
Ice filled his gut and Tarikus thrashed at the air, smashing aside a support frame, crashing back into the opened medicae tank where he had been healing. He tried to give a wordless shout of denial, but the sound would not form in his constricting throat. His muscles bunched and he shuddered, losing balance. Tarikus could feel a wave of something terrible billowing up inside him, reordering the meat and blood of his body as it moved. He spat and acid flew from his lips, spattering the walls with tiny smoking pits where the droplets fell. He tried to reject it, and failed.
He could hear battle beyond the doors of the chamber now, fast and lethal. Thunder rumbled all around, echoing through the stone at his feet. The Eyrie was under attack.
The Traitor Marine took a step towards him. When it spoke again, there was almost concern in its words. ‘The Primogenitor told me it would not be an easy transformation. But hold on, kinsman. You will be renewed in all but a moment. And then you will join us fully.’
‘I am not your kinsman!’ Tarikus roared, and the words were ragged animal sounds torn from the throat of some monster, not from his lips, not from the mouth of a Doom Eagle. ‘What have you done to me?’
Another chuckle. ‘You did this to yourself, Tarikus. Don’t you recall?’ The room seemed to contract, the walls closing in on them both. ‘On Dynikas. When you cast off your master. When you finally understood?’
‘Understood… what?’ All around him the stone of the medicae chamber flowed like wax into different shapes, and through the haze across his twitching vision the walls momentarily turned into planes of steel, vibrating with heat. The cell. The chains and the walls and the cell. Did I never really leave? Have I always been there?
The Traitor cocked its head. ‘You understood that you had been discarded. Forgotten. That your corpse-god is ashes and lies. That you mean nothing to the men who tried to make you their slave.’
Tarikus stumbled away, shaking his head, denying every word. ‘No!’ He tried to launch himself towards the other warrior, but the sudden heat robbed him of every ounce of energy. In place of sweat, oily fluids seeped from his skin, draining his vitality with them.
‘Don’t you remember?’ The Traitor gestured around, and Tarikus saw a distorted liquid mirror shimmer in the air. Upon it he saw himself in rags, kneeling before a towering figure in a coat made of human skin, a giant brass spider emerging from its back.
Fabius Bile.
‘No…’ he insisted. ‘This is a trick! That did not happen! I would never break my oath!’ Tarikus lurched back to his feet. ‘I would not turn!’
‘But you did,’ said the voice. ‘Because they hated you, forgot you.’ The Traitor gestured and Tarikus saw a line of figures in tarnished silver armour standing high behind him. Their proportions were monstrous; they towered like Dreadnoughts, each one jeering and mocking him. They had faces he knew: Zurus and Thryn. At their shoulders: Korica, Mykilus and Petius. And above them all, as tall as a Titan, Aquila himself.
Tarikus reached out his mutating talon-hand and they shrank away; and then the worst of it. As one, all the Doom Eagles turned their backs on him, casting him aside.
Suddenly the room was tight and small about him, the space at the bottom of a pit that stretched up and away, walls too sheer to climb, light too far to reach.
‘Poor Tarikus,’ said the voice, soothing and unctuous. ‘Is it any wonder you accepted the gift?’
Terror filled him at the words, but he could not stay silent. ‘What gift?’
The Traitor opened its claw-hand and in it lay a feather, a small curl of plume alike to those that an eagle might leave behind in passing. It was ink-black, a colour so deep and strong that Tarikus immediately knew that to touch it would be poison to him.
No sooner had he laid eyes on the barb than his chest began to burn. Tarikus gasped and clawed at the wet strips of torn tunic shrouding his torso and ripped them away. His transformed talon hands caught the surface of his skin and great rents appeared in the meat of him. From the wounds he had made, no blood flowed; instead cascades of tiny black feathers issued out, spilling from his body. He roared and felt his throat filling with a swarming mass. Tarikus retched and spat a plug of wet, matted quills from his lips.
‘Do you see now?’ said the Traitor. ‘A Chapter that rejected you, left you to perish in the cold, pitiless void. A cadre of false brothers who fled when their lives were in jeopardy. The lies you were told about fealty and honour, but all of it sand. Is it any wonder you were broken?’ The other warrior leaned in. ‘Is it any wonder you let us remake you in the Primogenitor’s name?’ He nodded. ‘And now the last shroud is released from you, kinsman. Now you are free to be one of us… and our first act will be to grind this Ghostmountain to dust.’
Tarikus could not stop himself from trembling. The worst of it was not the visions, or the perhaps-memories, or the sense of his own body slipping away from him. No, the worst of it was that he could not be sure. The Traitor’s words had the edge of truth to them.
How often in those long months in that cell had he lain in torment, one single question desperate on his lips. Why have I been forgotten? His every waking moment as an Adeptus Astartes had been in service of something greater than himself, and in return, in exchange for the surety of fate and death the Doom Eagles gave, Tarikus had the priceless gift of brotherhood. The certain knowledge of comradeship among his kindred, the knowing that he would never be lost, not so long as a single son of Gathis still drew breath. So why did they never come for me? Why did they count me dead and be done, never to speak my name again?
‘Because it is a lie,’ said the Traitor. ‘And has ever been one.’ He gestured around. ‘We will never lie to you, Tarikus. You will always know the truth with us.’ The hand extended out to him once more. ‘Take it.’
The thunder outside and the flashes of blue-white light coursed all around him. Tarikus looked up and saw the outstretched hand, the turncoat Astartes – and beyond, the shadows of the Doom Eagles.
They were judging him.
Time halted for Tarikus, and the questions that had bombarded him since he had returned to the Eyrie were echoing through his mind. The accusations welled up from within.
He could imagine a shade of himself – a weaker, broken Tarikus – who might have had the flaw of character to yield to the strain of his confinement on Dynikas. This ghost-Tarikus, this pale copy of him, made bitter by his abandonment, clawing in desperation for the one thing every Space Marine wanted… The bond of brotherhood. Without their comradeship, the Astartes were nothing. Everything they were was built upon that foundation. What horror it would be to lose that, to be cast adrift and counted as unkindred. A weakened soul, captured at the lowest moment, might be persuaded to bend the knee to a former foe for just a taste of that blessed bond once again. A fragile spirit, yes, who would willingly hide their new loyalty beneath the cloak of the old, and carry poison back to those who had deserted them. Poison and murder, all in the name of revenge.
Suddenly, events were moving again, and he was aware of the Traitor nodding. ‘Yes. You see now, don’t you?’
But that shade, that weakling who appeared in his thoughts… Whatever it was, it was not Tarikus, son of Gathis, scion of Aquila. He drew himself up and with a vicious shove, pushed the turncoat aside.
Tarikus glared up at the silent, condemning gazes of his Doom Eagle brethren, peering at the phantoms of their faces. ‘I am not a heretic.’ He spoke, and with each word that left his mouth, Tarikus felt his vitality returning to him. A sense of righteous power enveloped him, and with it the wrongness of his changed body bled away. Moment by mome
nt, he began to feel correct. With every breath, he moved closer to the warrior he had always been – and with a surge of strength, Tarikus realised that he had not felt so certain of anything in years. Not since before he had been taken prisoner. ‘Judge me if you will,’ he shouted, ‘I do not fear it! You will look inside my heart and see only fealty! I am Tarikus!’
The hazed faces of his former squad mates danced there in the wraith-light. Korica: impulsive and brave. Mykilus: steadfast and strong. Petius: taciturn and measured. They did not turn from him. They had not forgotten him.
Behind him, the Traitor was getting to its feet, coming towards him with murder in its eyes. ‘Fool–’
He silenced the enemy by grabbing his throat and tightening his grip until the Traitor could only make broken gurgles. Gunfire-thunder rumbled louder and louder in his ears and Tarikus bellowed to make himself heard. ‘I am a Doom Eagle! My fidelity will never falter!’ He threw his enemy to the ground. ‘I did not break! I will never break!’
A great pressure, silent but deafening, pushed out from inside his thoughts, and all at once the warped walls around him exploded like glass beneath a hammer.
Tarikus swept around; he was intact, unchanged. Everything that had happened in the phantom room was gone, vanished like shafts of sunlight consumed by clouds. He stood before the open healing tank, then turned and found the Librarian Thryn coming back to his feet. The psyker was nursing an ugly bruise forming at his throat. He spat and eyed the other Astartes.
‘You?’ said Tarikus. He sniffed the air, scenting the greasy tang of spent mind-power. ‘You cast a veil over me… All of it illusions and game-play.’
‘Aye,’ Thryn replied, rough-voiced. ‘And you almost tore the breath from me in the process.’
Tarikus advanced towards the psyker, his hands contracting into fists. Anger burned in his eyes, and the question of Thryn being clad in armour and himself not didn’t cross his thoughts. ‘I should beat an apology from you, witch-kin.’
‘You should be thanking me,’ Thryn retorted. ‘At last, I finally saw into you. Saw what you hid from us.’
‘I hid nothing,’ Tarikus spat.
Thryn shook his head. ‘Don’t lie to me, not now. You hid your fear, Tarikus. The black and terrible fear that came upon you in the darkest moments of your confinement, when just for a moment, you wondered what would happen if you weakened.’ The Librarian gave a crooked, unlovely smile. ‘How very human of you.’
Gradually, Tarikus’s fists relaxed. ‘I looked into the darkness, across the edge of the abyss,’ he said slowly. ‘And I turned away.’
Thryn nodded. ‘Indeed you did. And now I have the answer I wanted.’ He offered his hand to the other Doom Eagle. ‘Your integrity is assured. You are returned to us, brother. In body, mind… and in soul.’
Tarikus shook his hand in the old fashion, palm to wrist. ‘I never left,’ he said.
‘When will there be an end to this?’ grated Korica. He glared at Zurus, and the other warrior nodded slightly.
‘I have no answer for you,’ admitted the sergeant. He looked away, his gaze crossing the towering black marble fascias of the memorial towers, each reaching up and away towards the ornate ceiling far overhead. He saw something moving; a travel platform, dropping towards them.
Mykilus saw it too, and he pointed. ‘Look there.’
Petius took a tentative step towards the edge of the gantryway, then halted. Like all of them, he was unsure of what meaning lay behind the urgent summons that had brought them to the relical.
In the next moment, the platform had arrived and a figure in duty robes stepped off, pushing past them.
‘Tarikus?’ Zurus could not keep the amazement from his voice. He had truly believed that he would never see the errant Astartes again. Thryn was not known for his lenience in matters of judgement. Then his thoughts caught up with him and Zurus allowed himself a small smile. He had been right about his lost brother; suddenly, all the doubts he had harboured about this duty and his part in Tarikus’s ordeal were swept away, and it was as if a great weight fell from his shoulders.
Korica extended his augmetic arm towards Tarikus, but the veteran pushed past him, not slowing. The other Doom Eagles followed Tarikus down the length of the gantryway until he halted before a particular memorial slab.
Zurus knew what would come next the instant before it happened. The veteran’s fist shot out and punched through the bubble of glassaic at the end of the panel and then folded around the death-remnant inside.
He watched the other warrior draw out a blood-streaked hand, and in it, a battle-worn combat blade. Tarikus looked down at the knife, and then up at them for the first time. His steady, clear-eyed gaze crossed each one of them in turn, ending with Zurus. The veteran opened his mouth to speak – and then thought better of it. Instead, Tarikus acted.
With a slow, steady draw of blade point over stone, he etched a heavy line through his own name, erasing the record of his death. He reclaimed his life. Mykilus was the first to speak. ‘Welcome back, sir.’ He bowed his head. ‘If we had only known that the Red Corsairs had not killed you–’
‘No.’ Tarikus held up his hand. ‘You will not speak of that again. And by my order, you will not carry any guilt over what happened.’ He stepped forward and moved from brother to brother, tapping each on the shoulder in turn. ‘I hold no malice. You did no wrong that day.’
Then he was looking at Zurus. The Doom Eagle sighed, and made a decision of his own. He reached beneath his robes and his hand returned with a fetter of black and silver links pooled in the palm; it was the honour-chain that signified his command of the battle squad. He offered it. ‘This also belongs to you, I believe.’
Tarikus showed quiet surprise. ‘The squad is yours, brother. You have made it so. These men are your men.’
Zurus shook his head. ‘No. It has been my honour to lead them into battle in the name of the Emperor and Aquila, but I have never been their commander, not in the manner you were. I have only been… the caretaker of that post. You have seniority over me, the laurel and the honours. It is your right to reclaim your prior status.’
The veteran came closer, his brow furrowing. ‘You are sure you wish to step down, Zurus? I know my brothers would not have followed you if you had not been worthy of it.’ He nodded at the chain.
Zurus pressed the links into Tarikus’s hand. ‘I will not take that which by right is yours.’ He stepped away. ‘I will find another place in the Chapter.’
‘You already have a place, sir,’ said Korica. He glanced at Tarikus, and the veteran sergeant nodded.
‘Aye,’ said the other Doom Eagle. ‘I have need of good men, who see clearly and fight well.’ Tarikus held up the honour chain. ‘I will accept this on condition that you remain in the squad as my second.’
Zurus thought on the offer, then nodded. ‘That seems a fair bargain.’
Tarikus was silent for a long moment; then he wrapped the chain about the hilt of the knife and put it into his belt. ‘Come, then, kinsmen. The enemy tasks me.’ He gestured up towards the distant roof, where glimmers of constant storm-light flickered. ‘I have been dead long enough.’
Zurus followed his commander’s gaze upward to where the rain fell, steady and ceaseless as the Emperor’s wrath.
A Good Man
Sandy Mitchell
As the tide of war swept across the Sabbat Worlds, most of us could be forgiven for taking more notice of its rise than of its ebb. But after the battlefronts moved on, leaving rockpools of conflict and its aftermath beached by their withdrawal, the vital task of restoring the Pax Imperialis was only just beginning. On world after shattered world, a veritable second crusade of those with the necessary expertise to manage the reconstruction followed hard on the heels of the first.
Which was how Zale Linder came to Verghast, around the middle of 771, among a swarm of Administra
tum functionaries charged with the restoration of good order there. He wasn’t much to look at, so typical of his brethren that he might have escaped notice altogether, had he not worked so assiduously at coming to my attention; but that was to be later, and to really appreciate his story, I suppose we’d better start at the beginning.
We can only imagine Linder’s reaction to his surroundings when he first set foot on the shuttle apron at Kannack. Armed men were everywhere, in the uniforms of PDF regiments, or the Imperial Guard units left to garrison the planet, and the scars of the recent fighting were more than evident on the port facilities surrounding him. Come to that, as most of the shuttles approaching the Northern Collective overflew the glass-walled crater where Vannick had once stood, he’d probably seen some of the worst devastation even before his arrival.
For a man more used to the musty recesses of a scriptorium, the noise, bustle, and constant tang of combustibles from the surrounding manufactoria must have been disconcerting in the extreme. Nevertheless, by all accounts, he rallied at once, chivvying the small knot of brown-robed scribes towards the rail terminal, though few of them were quite so quick to adjust to their new surroundings as he was.
The echoing hall with its multitude of platforms, from which services departed to destinations throughout the North Col and beyond, probably seemed as alien to the Administratum adepts as the landing field had been, but they found a local service into Kannack itself without much trouble. The Verghastites had become used to off-worlders by this time, particularly bewildered-looking ones speaking strangely-accented Gothic, and the booking clerk who wrote out their tickets in a flowing copperplate hand directed them to the correct platform with all the polite deference due to customers he’d overcharged by about five per cent.
The train rattled its way to Kannack Hub in little more than an hour, affording Linder a few brief glimpses of the spoil heaps and outlying reclamation zones, before burrowing into the side of the Western Spine like a worm into an apple. The last couple of kilometres of track ran within the lower hab levels, through tunnels and caverns of steel and brick, some spaces large and open enough to seem like small towns in their own right, while in other places the enclosing walls whipped by disorientatingly just the other side of the window.