by Gav Thorpe
He turned back to them and gestured towards the small door to one side.
‘The Supreme Grand Master’s library.’ He ran a hand along the ornate table, the dark wood smooth beneath his touch. ‘The Supreme Grand Master’s desk. Now mine. As are the Supreme Grand Master’s labours.’
‘We stand to bear the burden with you,’ said Dagonet, ‘as we did for your predecessor. But the choice is yours. Naberius chose us as his Right Hand and Left Hand – you may choose one, both or others as yours.’
‘A waste of deliberation,’ Azrael replied. ‘I can think of no finer officers in the Chapter.’
‘Do not be so swift to dismiss alternatives,’ said Ezekiel. As always he spoke softly, his voice carrying a weight far beyond its volume. ‘We will take no slight if you decide others are more suited to your temperament. Sammael, for instance, is a bold and decisive leader. The lower ranks glory in his achievements and daring. He would make a fine champion.’
‘Or Sheol,’ suggested Dagonet. He twirled his goblet between his fingers, the dark red wine within threatening to spill over the rim but never quite doing so. ‘Like yourself, he once considered joining the Reclusiam. A warrior of particular intelligence and heart.’
‘I would think you do not enjoy the position,’ Azrael said with a short laugh. ‘You seem eager to name your replacements.’
Neither of them shared his humour. They exchanged a look and it was Dagonet that spoke.
‘Your appointment comes with twofold duties, Azrael. You are the commander-in-chief, Chapter Master of the Dark Angels. You have the experience and skill to command fearlessly and competently.’ The Master of Sanctity shrugged. ‘But name any man amongst the Inner Circle and that would be true. One does not become a senior officer without merit. Your tenure, whether long or short, shall not lack for military achievements.’
‘Your praise overwhelms me, Brother-Chaplain.’
‘It is the second duty, the Hunt, which will define you,’ Dagonet continued. ‘I am the custodian of the Chapter’s spirit, Ezekiel the guardian of its mysteries. You must be master of both, and through your leadership of the Inner Circle your accomplishments and legacy will be defined. Accomplishments that few will ever acknowledge and fewer still will celebrate.’
‘To be the Right Hand and the Left Hand is to hold power at the deliberations of the Inner Circle,’ Ezekiel continued. ‘You must be assured that whomever holds such titles is worthy of the trust and authority that comes with them. Do not be persuaded by Naberius’ decision – you must make your own, fully and freely.’
‘And I have,’ Azrael replied, his tone sharper than he intended. He sat behind the desk, gaining himself a little time to regain his composure. ‘I can think of no better candidates and I refuse to expend further effort for no gain. If my ascension is to mean anything it is to signal a fresh desire for action, for impetus, not inertia.’
‘As you wish,’ said Dagonet, standing. Ezekiel rose also but remained silent.
‘Brother-Chaplain, we shall speak at the council,’ said Azrael, by way of dismissal. ‘Ezekiel, remain with me a while longer.’
When Dagonet had departed, Azrael sat with his elbows on the desk, chin rested on his fists, looking at the Chief of Librarians. He met the unwavering stare of Ezekiel’s mismatched eyes, determined not to avert his gaze despite his unease at their scrutiny.
‘What do you know of my examination by the Watchers in the Dark?’
‘Only that at which I was present,’ Ezekiel replied. ‘Naberius tried to tell me of his experiences but I refused to listen. I would advise the same to you. What passes between you and the Watchers, then and now and in the future, is for you alone.’
‘I fear their trial has placed more doubts in me than it has settled. I am reminded of my many mistakes and defeats.’
‘Give me a leader that has never made a mistake and I will show you a man that never had to learn a hard lesson. We laud victory. We must value the forge of defeat equally.’
Azrael accepted this with a nod, heartened by the thought. He continued to watch Ezekiel, who seemed unmoved by his new commander’s scrutiny.
‘Who are you?’ Azrael eventually asked.
‘A question that masks another, brother-commander,’ replied the Librarian. ‘What do wish to know about me?’
‘I know your duties, Ezekiel, and the marks of honour next to your name. I can look up your battle history, the story of your novitiatehood. I even know your role within the darker quest we undertake, and your dealings with the Fallen.’ Azrael sat back. ‘These are the things you have done, the duties you perform. Tell me, who are you? What are you to me?’
‘You cannot define the indefinable,’ the Librarian said slowly. He stepped past Azrael and waved towards the starfield beyond the window. ‘What is a star? A pinprick of light. A monster capable of devouring worlds. A lifegiver. A collection of volatile atoms. A beacon.’
‘Did you refuse to give Naberius straight answers as well?’ growled Azrael.
‘I am what you need me to be, Supreme Grand Master.’ Ezekiel laid a hand on the desk in front of Azrael, fingers splayed. ‘I am your confidante, if you wish. Your advisor, should you require it. A judge, if that is what you desire. Your conscience, if you need me to be so. Your enforcer, your avenger, your guide and your critic. Any and all of these things I shall be.’
‘You mean “can be”, surely?’
Ezekiel straightened and set his inhuman stare upon Azrael, unblinking and intense. He seemed to swell in size while the shadows in the chamber darkened, making the gold flecks of his eye brighter, and the red gleam of the false lens in the other seem all the closer.
‘I do not choose the roles, and neither do you, Lord of the Rock. I will simply be what is required, shaped by your choices, moulded by your acts.’
The Lord of the Librarius turned away and the room returned to its normal state.
‘You must understand a simple fact, Azrael,’ Ezekiel told him, not turning around. ‘I am more powerful than you. My abilities and training have honed me into a creature as far above a Space Marine as you are above a normal man. If I desired it, I could slay you out of hand. I need not even raise my sword to do so.’
Azrael pushed to his feet, an angry retort swelling inside, but it was halted as Ezekiel turned around, his expression not one of belligerence but sorrow.
‘I do not say these things to threaten you, Azrael, because I do not need to. Despite your conditioning, against all the defences prepared in your mind against the likes of me, I could unpick your thoughts as a thief at a lock. More than that, I could reassemble them as I desire, to make a puppet of you to my whim.’
The Librarian sighed, head bowed, a moment of very human frailty Azrael had never seen in Ezekiel before.
‘You think your loyalty was tested? You think that your character, your strength of purpose was pushed by your induction into the Chapter, by your trials with the Watchers in the Dark? Think on what examinations my kind undergo, what judgements are arranged against us for the simple fact of a quirk of nature? Forget my suitability to become a Space Marine. When first I was found, my life and soul as a human hung in the balance.’
His face grew stern again, eye narrowed.
‘I am a psyker. A witch. A doomsayer. A necromancer. I dwell in a place between worlds, not entirely of one or the other. I walk paths no other man can see. I open doors to places where the greatest evils dwell. I confront temptations that would crush the will of lesser folk.’
Azrael said nothing, taken aback by the usually taciturn Librarian’s outburst.
‘You ask what I am to you? You demand that I explain myself to you, Supreme Grand Master?’ Ezekiel returned that inhuman stare to his lord. ‘I am nothing, for if not, I would be everything!’
Stunned, Azrael made no intervention when the Chief Librarian turned away. With a flick of a hand Ezekiel opened the door and strode out, his talisman and charms clattering. Azrael blinked as the door slammed shu
t.
For several minutes he looked at the door, trying to absorb what had happened. The only firm conclusion he could draw from the entire episode was that he would have to phrase his questions more precisely in future.
Date Ident: 941939.M41
The tower stands on a hill, broken, its empty windows a dead stare, battlements tumbled from within.
Lightning flashes. There is a face in the lowest window; frail fingers clasp at the metal bars. The night air is torn by a plaintive howl, not of any animal, but the unleashed despair of a man.
The twilight that breaks across the sky is no dawn, it is the glow of devouring flames. From the ground itself rises the fire and in the crackle of its burning washes a maniac’s cackle. The licks of fire that paw at the ruin are questing fingers seeking entry. The inferno surrounds the tower, its ruddy light caught on the age-worn stones.
From the tower the man shrieks and moans, his pain a piercing felt keener than any dagger wound. The flames consume him, releasing an agony that is overwhelming, all-devouring and eternal. The burning is not the burning of another, but of the dreaming observer.
He that was without the tower is now within and only he can break himself free.
Azrael rose from his sleep-like state, the dream an itch at the back of his mind. He lay on the hard slab of his cot for several minutes, trying to catch the last images but they fluttered from his thoughts like the embers of a dying fire on a breeze. They were replaced by a memory of small hooded figures with ruby eyes.
He sat up, scanning the cell for interlopers, but he was alone, the door bolted. He recalled the words of Ezekiel, his promise of non-interference, and had to trust that the psyker was true to his commander.
The Chapter Master took the ewer of water from the nightstand beside the cot and drank heavily, ignoring the plain metal cup beside it. The cold liquid refreshed his body even if it felt as though a dark fog continued to permeate his thoughts.
There was something he had to do, he was certain of it, but could not recall the specific task. Instead, he walked over to the vox-caster on the desk. He pressed the runes to connect to the Librarium. After a delay of several seconds the link crackled into activity.
‘This is Supreme Grand Master Azrael.’ The extra word in his title came surprisingly naturally. ‘Inform the Chief Librarian and the Master of Astropaths that they are to broadcast an invitation to our Successor Chapters to attend at the Tower of Angels for a grand council. The sons of the Lion will convene in full at Rhamiel.’
The Hall of Decemial echoed with the tread of the company masters and other officers of command rank. Their robes and hoods were gone; they came garbed in their war-plate, as warriors of the Dark Angels, not members of the Inner Circle. The audience chamber was nearly a hundred metres long, situated above one of the great gates of the fortress once known as the Angelicasta.
Banners and rolls of honour from ten thousand years of war adorned the walls, overhanging each other in places, so great was their number. The heraldry of a thousand captains surrounded the proceedings; the standards of sergeants and squads otherwise long forgotten by history formed the backdrop of Azrael’s first council as Supreme Grand Master.
At one end of the hall was a low stage set with a throne, its back higher than the tallest Space Marine, made of intricately carved obsidian and ebony. This chair dominated the room despite the vastness of the hall. Its size warranted attention but its presence was far greater, for this was the Throne of the Lion and the mark of the Primarch lay upon the wood and stone. Every Space Marine that entered looked upon the chair and gave a quick bow, as though Lion El’Jonson were still sitting upon its dark frame.
A little way ahead and to the right of the forbidding throne was set another chair, itself a sizeable piece of furniture that would have graced any monarch’s hall, but dwarfed and made plain by its companion. Azrael stood before the Regent’s Seat, fully armoured, the Sword of Secrets laid upon the broad oval table placed in front of the thrones for the council’s deliberations.
The table was nearly thirty metres long and ten wide, its surface once heavily lacquered in red but now a dark brown, almost black with centuries of wear and patina. At the edges the wood was split and knocked from ten millennia of fists pounded in support of a speech, of knives belligerently plunged into the timbers and fingertips jabbed in emphasis.
Gold leaf marked a winged sword at its centre, and about the icon were arranged six other symbols: a key and a gate; an hourglass and a flame; and a sword and a gauntlet, their original meanings now lost to antiquity.
This was the public face of the Chapter command, the known seats of the ruling council, distinct from the secret, hidden chambers of the Inner Circle. The galleries and hall were open to all to witness the deliberations and oaths of their leaders, though few were the times in ten thousand years that any but a handful of Dark Angels had been spared of battle duty to observe such meetings, save for on those rare occasions decreed by the Supreme Grand Master that recalled the entirety of the Chapter during momentous events.
Such was not this day. The Dark Angels were at war; companies still engaged across Rhamiel to contain the uprising and guard against the threat of the Night Lords and other traitors. To mark his ascendancy, Azrael had permitted his commanders half a day of reflection and debate. The Supreme Grand Master was absolute authority incarnate within the Rock, but he was not a tyrant.
A few warriors whose injuries prevented them returning to the battlefield watched with interest, alongside several score of Neophytes and Scouts for whom the occasion was a first glimpse of such Chapter spectacle, and also a much-desired break from the hard routine of training and studies. Some tried to maintain the solemnity they thought appropriate of such occasions, others chattered excitedly, exchanging tales and rumours of each hero of the Chapter that entered the grand audience chamber.
Opposite the thrones were immense double doors, made of wood carved with two identical figures of the Angel of Death. Azrael could not help but remember his trial when he looked at them, hiding a shudder of discomfort at the recollection.
By the great doors stood two young Neophytes, each no more than sixteen Terran years of age, dressed in tabards and cloaks of deep green. One had a long clarion in his hands and let forth a pealing note as each Chapter dignitary entered. As the last echoes resounded around the Hall of Decemial, the other youth called out the name and titles of the council member.
‘Captain Ballan of the Seventh, Lord of the Unbowed, Master of the Watchers!’
With a wheeze and hiss of hydraulics from his artificial spine and left arm, Ballan paced down the hall to his position next to Araphil of the Sixth.
‘Master Chaplain Denathiel, Bearer of the Ebon Scrolls!’
The senior Chaplain made his way to the opposite side of the table to sit next to Asmodai, the recently promoted Master of Repentance. Azrael could not help but notice that the two of them did not exchange so much as a glance. Dagonet was already seated, either oblivious to this antipathy or choosing not to engage with it in the public forum of the council hall.
‘Captain Calogrant of the Eighth, Lord of the Wrathful, Master of Condemnation!’
Calogrant was short, comparatively, heavy-jowled and thick-browed. His bald scalp caught the light of the hundreds of lumens that lit the chamber. His dark eyes fixed on Azrael and did not leave the Supreme Grand Master even when seated at the table.
‘Captain Xerophus of the Ninth, Lord of the Remorseless, Master of Relics!’
And on they came, Saphamedes of the Tenth, and Epistolary Dalgar, and another Chaplain of the Reclusiam, Sapphon, until all thirty members of the Chapter Council had been assembled bar one.
Last appeared a warrior in Terminator armour, newly painted with fresh heraldry. He held before him the Sword of Silence, kin-sword to Azrael’s own Heavenfall Blade, offered up with hilt pointed towards the Supreme Grand Master.
The heralds fell silent at this point. The assembled officers stood
, all eyes turned to the newcomer. With hisses and clatters of gear they unsheathed swords and freed their axes, hammers and maces from their slings. Thirty-eight weapons raised in challenge, thirty-eight relics of the Chapter whose histories were better known even than their bearers, offered in defiance of the stranger amongst their ranks.
Azrael then stood, picked up the Sword of Secrets and sheathed it at his hip, drawing his cloak over it, hiding the weapon.
‘My first appointment – Lanval of the First, Lord of the Deathwing, Grand Master of the Knights of Caliban.’
‘I have been bidden here by my lord,’ the Terminator declared, his voice carrying easily to the furthest reaches. He drew the Sword of Silence and raised the glittering blade towards Azrael and then to the others. ‘I have come to answer my duty. Do any here deny me?’
For several seconds silence descended. Lanval faced down his challengers, expression stern, eyes moving from one Master of the Chapter to the next.
‘Praise Lanval!’ Zadakiel of the Fifth was the first to lift up his sword. ‘Grand Master!’
‘Praise Lanval!’ added Sammael, raising the Raven Sword in salute to his new brother-in-command. ‘Grand Master!’
A chorus of ritual assents and cheers swelled up from the company of officers, welcoming Lanval into the council. All but one had raised their weapons in acknowledgement of Azrael’s choice and their attention turned to the last.
Ezekiel stood with the point of Traitor’s Bane levelled at the candidate – the edges of the force sword glinted with psychic power, matching the golden motes that dazzled in the Chief Librarian’s remaining eye. For several seconds more the Librarian remained motionless. Azrael held his breath. It was Ezekiel’s right, as any council member, to oppose the appointment, but such a right had not been exercised for many centuries.
‘Praise Lanval.’ The Chief Librarian’s hoarse whisper seemed louder than the shouts of the others combined. Traitor’s Bane lifted in acceptance. ‘Grand Master.’