Voar did not really like anything in the traditional human sense, since he had lost much of his emotional centre over the course of his various augmentations. But as much as he could, he liked this place. It was a place of both industry and wisdom. The exacting standards of the Techmarines were something to admire, as was the devotion the crewmen had to the orders of their Imperial Fists masters. The Crucible of Ages could have been lifted straight out of an Adeptus Mechanicus forge world, which was as high a compliment as a magos of the Mechanicus could pay.
Archmagos Voar had been summoned here. Ordinarily one did not summon an archmagos, but he was a guest here on the Phalanx and his datamedia still contained enough matters of etiquette to suggest he should accept the request to come to the Crucible.
In the centre of the Crucible stood an Astartes who was not a Techmarine. He wore Terminator armour, its yellow ceramite panels lit red and orange by the molten streams. He was testing the weight and balance of several hammers recently forged and left by the cooling pool. Each hammer was as long as a man was tall but the Imperial Fist swung them as if they weighed nothing. He swung each in turn a few times, running through a simple weapons drill, then scowled and placed each one back in the pile. None of them seemed to please him very much. None of them, presumably, was the equal of the thunder hammer he carried strapped to the back of his armour.
'Demenos!' shouted the Imperial Fist over the din.
One of the Techmarines turned to him. 'Captain Lysander?'
'What grade of material are you using for your hammer heads? These things feel like they would splinter against a child's hand! And the shafts are about as sturdy as straw!'
Techmarine Demenos bowed his head. 'Many of my forgemen are new, captain,' he said. 'They have yet to understand the artificer's art. These weapons are exemplars of their competence thus far. They shall be used as training weapons, I would imagine.'
'If you wish to train our novices to fear the failing of their wargear, then they will do perfectly,' retorted Lysander. He picked up a sword this time and made a few thrusts and chops with it. 'This is better,' he said. 'This would go through a few skulls.'
'My own work,' said Demenos.
'Then you need to learn how to balance a hilt. Good work, though.' Lysander spotted Voar trundling between the forges towards him. 'Archmagos! I am glad you could come. I think perhaps this place is more suited to your tastes than the rest of the Phalanx.'
'I have no tastes,' replied Voar. 'A magos metallurgicus could gain no little pleasure from the specifications of your forges, no doubt, but my specialities lie in the fields of reverse engineering and theoretical mechanics.'
'Well, be that as it may,' said Lysander, 'the Crucible itself is not why I requested your presence. This is.' Lysander took from a compartment in his armour a tube of black metal, as long as a normal man's forearm. Its surface was knurled into a grip and on one end it had a small control surface with indented sensors. 'Perhaps you recognise it?'
Voar walked up to Lysander and took the cylinder. Voar's bionic hand did not fit the grip well - it was sized for a Space Marine's hand.
'This is the Soulspear,' said Voar flatly.
'As seized at the Lakonia Star Fort,' said Lysander. 'The seed of the conflict between the Priesthood of Mars and the Soul Drinkers. We recovered it from the Brokenback before it was scuttled. I understand that it is to be considered your property. It was taken from you by the Soul Drinkers, and as heretics they have no right to it. Therefore its possession defaults to the Adeptus Mechanicus. Specifically, you.'
Voar turned the weapon over in his artificial hand. 'I confess that my dealings with emotive matters are long behind me,' he said, 'but still I have the impression, a remnant of some human sense if you will, that you are not happy about this situation.'
'The Soulspear is a relic of our primarch,' replied Lysander. 'Rogal Dorn himself found and re-engineered it. By rights it should belong to one of the successors of Dorn's Legion, the Imperial Fists or one of our brother Chapters. I have no shame in that belief. Any son of Dorn would say the same. But my Chapter Master has no wish to see another rift between the Adeptus Astartes and the Mechanicus, and I must bow to his decision. Here.'
Lysander touched a finger to one of the control surfaces and a tiny laser pulse punched a microscopic hole through the ceramite of his gauntlet's finger joint. Twin blades of pure blackness shot out of each end of the cylinder. The air sighed as it was cut apart by the voids of the blades.
'Vortex blades,' said Lysander. 'A vortex field bound by Throne knows what technology from before the Age of Imperium. Activated by a gene-lock keyed to the genetic signature of Rogal Dorn. This was wielded by Dorn's own hand, archmagos. A man of whom no Fabricator General can claim to be the equal. The saviour of the Emperor Himself at the height of the Heresy. The greatest soldier this galaxy has ever seen, and I say the greatest man, too. Remember that, whatever you choose to do with this relic. Fail to show Dorn's own handiwork the proper respect and the Imperial Fists just might choose to risk a new rift after all.'
'I see,' said Voar. 'Your information has been logged and will be made available to all those given the honour of examining this device.'
'In return for this,' said Lysander with obvious disdain for Voar's manner, 'the Chapter Master expects the Adeptus Mechanicus to conduct their part in the trial with all the honour that your status as a guest here demands. This is no place to settle a feud between the Soul Drinkers and the Mechanicus. No place for vengeance.'
'Your battle-brothers are not all of the same mind,' said Voar. 'Nor, logic suggests, will many of the visiting Astartes agree with such a stance. There is a great deal of vengeance sought on the Phalanx, and the better part of it stems not from the Mechanicus.'
'Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh has pronounced on the subject,' said Lysander. 'He has tasked me, among others, with seeing his word made law.'
'Then it shall be abided by,' said Voar with a nod of his head. It seemed the archmagos was not capable of any gesture of greater deference. 'Our interest is in justice.'
'If you cared about justice, archmagos, you would give the Soulspear to us.'
'And if you cared about justice, brother-captain, then Sarpedon would have died on Selaaca.' Archmagos Voar wheeled around and left the forge, the Soulspear clutched in his bionic hand.
Also by the same author
Galaxy in Flames
Blacklibrary.com
Questing Knight
By Anthony Reynolds
I
THE SILVER MOON of Mannslieb resembled a sickle blade hanging low in clear night sky. Patches of snow shone brightly beneath it, and while it was almost a month into spring, the wind whipping across the fields still held a touch of winter’s bite. Hunched against the icy gale, two riders were making their weary progress along a muddy road, passing fields, abandoned hovels and isolated clumps of woodland.
They travelled in silence, one behind the other, offering no conversation. The only sound accompanying them was the steady clomping of hooves, the jingle of tack and the ghostly whispering of the wind.
The lead rider drew his travel-stained cloak tighter around his shoulders as the wind picked up. His features were completely hidden in the deep shadow of his hood, yet his eyes glinted in the moonlight. He rode a massive warhorse, over sixteen hands high at the shoulder, and had a large sword strapped across his back. In stark contrast to his companion, he rode in the languid manner of one who had spent most of his life in the saddle.
The second rider looked decidedly awkward, slumped in the saddle of a mange-ridden mule. The plodding beast was a picture of misery, head hanging almost to the ground as it trudged through the mud, laden with heavy packs and chests. This rider was shivering, for while he too wore a cloak, it was threadbare and moth-eaten. His head was nodding towards his chest. Losing the battle to keep his eyes open, he pitched sidewards. He came awake with a muffled yelp, and after a brief, inelegant struggle, he hauled himself back upr
ight.
‘I will not wait for you if you fall off again, Chlod,’ said the lead rider without turning. Chlod’s hood had fallen back, exposing his brutish head. His hair was shaved short in a vain attempt to rid him of lice, and his eyes were piggish and uneven. He had only one ear, the other having been hacked off by a Norscan shaman years earlier, and his jutting jaw and heavy brow made him look like a simpleton. He glared at his master’s back, and pulled a grotesque face.
‘Make that face again, Chlod, and I will cut off your thumbs,’ said his master.
‘Sorry, my lord,’ said Chlod, knowing that it was not some idle threat.
They continued along in silence once more. Chlod blinked the sleep out of his eyes and concentrated on his surroundings. He thought they looked vaguely familiar, but it was hard to say under the cover of darkness, and besides, it had been many years since last he had set foot in Bretonnia.
‘Where are we, my lord?’ he said at last.
‘Home,’ came the reply.
IT FELT STRANGE to say the word, thought Calard. Home.
Six long and difficult years had passed since he had left Castle Garamont. It felt like a lifetime. Six years ago he had taken up the grail quest, setting aside his lance and handing over the running of his castle and lands to his young cousin, Orlando, under the watchful eye of Baron Montcadas. Orlando had been just a boy when he had left, and by now he would be all but unrecognisable, on the cusp of becoming a man.
Calard had travelled the Old World and beyond seeking the Lady of the Lake, patron goddess of Bretonnia. Never in all that time had he spent more than a single night in one place, as per the decree of his oath, lest the Lady find him wanting.
Seeking the Lady’s divine favour, he had bested creatures foul and murderous in the forests of the Empire, championed the oppressed in the burning lands of Araby far to the south, and battled alongside dwarf thanes against screaming hordes of greenskins far beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains. He had fought in a dozen duels of honour, one against a monstrous ogre tyrant. He had battled trolls upon the frozen oblast of Kislev, rescued a nobleman’s daughter from sacrifice at the hands of a band of cultists beneath Altdorf, and emerged victorious from the famed Dance of Blades in the cutthroat city of Sartosa, off the coast of Estalia. Always, he chased the elusive presence of the goddess, yet always she led him further on. Now, she had brought him back to his homeland.
For months, Calard’s dreams had been haunted by a recurring vision. Though he could not discern its full meaning, one thing was certain beyond any doubt; the goddess wished for him to return to Castle Garamont.
Calard reined his destrier in as he topped a tussocked rise. He drew his hood back. Gone was any hint of softness in his appearance, the years on the road having hardened his body and his mind. His eyes were dark and stern, and his cheeks rough with stubble. His hair was unwashed and hung past his shoulders, and his face was tanned. As alert and lean as a hunting wolf, he stared over the fields into the distance. His eyes narrowed.
‘Master?’ said Chlod, after a minute. ‘What is it? I see nothing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Calard. ‘Where are the lights of Castle Garamont? We should be able to see them on the horizon from here.’
The mighty fortress dominated the landscape for miles around, and its men-at-arms always kept its beacon fires burning through the hours of darkness. Nevertheless, the western horizon was ominously dark.
‘Perhaps someone forgot to light them?’ offered Chlod, but Calard shook his head.
‘There is something wrong here,’ he said, his eyes glinting fiercely in the moonlight. ‘I’ll move quicker alone. Follow after me, and keep to the road. Do not tarry.’ Chlod nodded.
With a flick of the reins Calard urged his destrier into a canter and began riding towards the distant silhouette of Castle Garamont.
Mannslieb was just touching the horizon by the time he drew close. Dark and ominous, his family castle loomed above him. He circled around it in a wide arc, scouting for danger, but saw no sign of life other than a startled fox and a mated pair of ghost-owls hunting for prey. Calard’s expression was grim. The scent of ash filled the air, and several of the castle’s towers had collapsed. There were no sentries upon the walls, and no light in any of its windows. By all appearances, it was utterly abandoned, and had been left to ruin.
Nevertheless, Calard’s experience had taught him to be cautious, and he completed his wide circuit around the castle before he began his approach from the south, angling towards Garamont’s main gatehouse. Out of habit, he ensured that the wind was always in his face, so as to mask his scent from anything ahead.
The drawbridge was lowered and in a state of disrepair, and the rusted portcullis was up. Calard rode through the gatehouse into the courtyard beyond, staring around him at the ruin of his once great castle.
The keep was a burnt-out shell, its pale stone blackened with soot, and the wind howled mournfully through its empty halls. The stables were completely gone, with nothing but a few charred stumps and charcoal marking where they had stood. The north-east wall had partially collapsed, the debris scattered on the ground like grave markers.
Dismounting, Calard tied his warhorse to a fire-blackened post before climbing the stairs towards the keep. One of its doors was gone, while the other hung forlornly on one hinge, creaking in the breeze. Drawing his sword, he moved into the keep’s dark interior.
He passed through its empty halls, his expression betraying none of his surging emotions. The inside of the keep was now open to the sky, the upper floors completely gone, and the stars were visible high overhead. A few thick supporting beams remained intact, but even these were charred and looked as though they might fall at any moment. The grand stone staircase that rose from the main entrance hall still stood, rendered pointless now that it climbed nowhere, and its steps were thick with ash.
Bones and scraps of armour protruded from the debris in one hall, and these Calard inspected carefully, turning them over in his hands in an attempt to discern what tragedy had befallen his home. Chipped bone showed evidence of heavy sword blows, and as he prowled deeper into the ruin, he found more evidence that a great battle had taken place here some years earlier.
Without conscious thought, Calard found himself in a small annex off the western wing, where the castle’s shrine to the Lady was located. No divine power had protected it from the fire that had clearly ravaged the keep, and only a few jagged shards remained of its once beautiful stained-glass windows.
Something caught his eye, and Calard sheathed his sword and knelt before the fire-blackened altar. Half-buried amongst the rubble, a small statue of the Lady remained intact, lying on its side. It was covered in soot and chipped, but Calard picked it up and placed it reverently upon the altar. Closing his eyes, he began to pray.
There was noise outside and Calard was instantly on his feet, sword drawn. Moving silently and keeping to the shadows, he ghosted back through the ruined hall.
‘Master?’ called a voice.
‘Silence, fool,’ Calard hissed, stepping from the concealing darkness of the ruined keep.
‘What happened here, master?’ said Chlod. He half-climbed, half-fell from the saddle, and tied his mule to the post alongside Calard’s steed.
Calard’s eyes were locked on the ground at the peasant’s feet.
‘Stand still,’ he ordered.
‘What?’ said Chlod, turning in Calard’s direction.
‘Be still! Stop moving,’ said Calard, and the peasant froze. Calard moved forward, studying the ground intently. There were prints in the mud that he had not noticed earlier. ‘Back away over there,’ he said, gesturing.
‘Shall I prepare you some food, master?’ said Chlod, doing as he was bid.
‘Fine, but no fire,’ said Calard, not looking up. ‘It would be seen for miles around.’
Careful not disturb the tracks, Calard crouched and studied them intently. They were difficult to read, for the prints were old and cros
sed over themselves time and again. Nevertheless, after several minutes Calard had identified the tracks of nine separate individuals and their steeds. He judged that they had made camp here a week ago, perhaps two.
His eyes narrowed when he came across one particularly clear hoof-print. The depth of the track indicated a horse heavily burdened, and the mark of its shoe was clear. In the centre of the imprint was the blacksmith’s mark. Calard recognised the heraldic device instantly.
‘Sangasse,’ Calard spat.
Standing, Calard marched towards his waiting warhorse, and called for Chlod to make ready to depart.
‘Where do we go, master?’ said the peasant as he hurriedly began packing up his pots.
‘To visit an old neighbour,’ said Calard, his voice filled with rage.
II
‘MALORIC!’
The sky glowed with pre-dawn light. The peasants of Sangasse had been awake for hours, working the muddy fields. Many of them had halted their work as Calard had passed by, leaning on hoes and muttering under their breath. Calard had ignored them, his head held high and his face a grim mask.
Though they were neighbours, no knight of Garamont had set foot on Sangasse lands for over six generations without blood being spilt. The border between the two powerful noble families had long been disputed, changing hands countless times over the centuries. As Calard had ridden towards the border, his anger had deepened, for it was clear that the Sangasse family had claimed much of Garamont’s land in his absence. By the time he arrived outside the gates of Castle Sangasse, a formidable bastion built atop a natural rocky bluff, his rage was incandescent.
Hammer and Bolter - Issue 1 Page 18