Soul Drinker

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Soul Drinker Page 17

by Ben Counter


  'I feel stronger.'

  'It's hard for us to judge.'

  'I mean psychically. I felt it on the Geryon platform. The Hell has never gone that deep, Pallas. It has served us well, but never that well. Yser says it is strength born of faith, now we have seen the truth. The Architect's blessing.'

  Tellos stirred on the slab. The anesthetics couldn't even keep him under for an hour at a time - as if something had woken inside him that straggled and fought any attempt to make him lose control. Sarpedon had forbidden him to be imprisoned, as he had committed no crime, and it was all Pallas could do to keep track of the assault sergeant. Several attempts had been made to take the twin blades Tellos had jammed into the stumps of his wrists, but he had always found new ones. It was eventually decided that it was best to leave them as they were.

  'In any case, commander.' said Pallas, 'it can hardly put us in good stead. There will doubtless be an investigation of great thoroughness and any abnormalities will be noticed. But without facilities or power, there is little I can do.'

  Power. The dim light and lack of working equipment on board the darkship was deliberate - no simple brig existed that could hold a Soul Drinker against his will, and so a whole ship was set aside for incarcerating Marines under investigation. Its plasma reactors were crippled so it could only travel latched on to another ship, preventing its use for escape, and the weapons systems had been torn out. Power was limited to the most basic life support requirements. This darkship had once been the strike cruiser Ferox - now it had no name.

  A vox-icon flickered at the back of Sarpedon's eye.

  Chaplain Iktinos's dour voice sounded in his ear. 'Your Chapter Master requests the presence of Librarian Sarpedon. A shuttle will be sent. You will come alone.'

  'Tell him I will be ready.' Sarpedon switched to another channel. 'Sergeant Givrillian, make ready for diplomatic escort duty. We are going to the Glory!'

  CHAPTER MASTER GORGOLEON adhered to one rule in war: the rule of despair If an enemy despairs, if he does not believe there is any hope left, if he has seen his comrades dead and maimed by the hand of invincible foes, he has lost. When he is in such a state he cannot resist - whether he is to be cap­tured or killed, or merely broken, there is nothing he can do. Battles are won when one side is rendered incapable of fight­ing, and that is best achieved by the massive and unrelenting infliction of despair. This was one of Daenyathos's prime tenets for the conduct of war, and it was one Gorgoleon had turned into a science. It was why he was Chapter Master. It was why he so rarely failed.

  Despair was usually created by inflicting fatal or mutilating damage on an enemy, but there were other ways. That was why the walls of his private chambers had been stripped out and replaced with carved marble slabs depicting his life as a warrior - here he was, kneeling on a pile of the dead, back-to-back with the long-dead Chaplain Surrian as the pulse shots blazed down at him. Here he strode into the halls of the Archfoul and looked it in the eye as bolter-fire poured into its corrupt flesh. Again, in the jungles of Actium, and again, in the shattered streets of Helsreach. Gorgoleon's entire chanson had been carved out here, an epic of his life chiselled into the stone.

  He didn't really care for it personally. There had been careers more glorious than his in the long history of the Soul Drinkers, and he needed no picture-book to remember it all. But it inspired a measure of awe in those who saw it and, in the right circumstances, he had hoped it would inspire despair.

  A servitor shuffled along the long gallery that led to Gor­goleon's chambers, past the carvings of his early heroics. 'The shuttle approaches.' it said in it's the thin, feeble voice. The servitor had once been a Chapter serf, who had become too aged and decrepit to be of further use and had been rebuilt as Gorgoleon's personal valet. Gorgoleon took pains to make the menials in his presence especially wretched.

  'Convey permission to board the Glory. Have Sarpedon leave his escort squad in the shuttle bay and send him to my presence immediately. Ensure he is not rested or fed.'

  'Yes, Lord Gorgoleon.' lisped the wizened servitor, and limped off across the gilded tiles of the chamber.

  Gorgoleon settled his armoured bulk into the ivory chair. Pict-slates set into the hardwood of his desk flashed images of Sarpedon and the officers now apparently under his com­mand. He called up the Chapter command citations from Quixian Obscura, Karlaster Bridge and the Haemon Forest. Sarpedon had turned battles, buying time when all was lost, sowing confusion to crack open impenetrable positions. Gor­goleon switched to a list of active commands. There was only one - Van Skorvold Star Fort, joint command with Caeon. Librarians rarely took such roles in the Soul Drinkers, where combat-hardened regular officers were favoured to lead from the front. Caeon must have trusted Sarpedon's competence and integrity to have selected him. But everyone, even veter­ans like Caeon, can make mistakes.

  He went further back, calling up Sarpedon's earlier record. Sarpedon was something rare - possessing both the mental qualities needed for selection as a Marine, and the great psy­chic potential required to use his powers without danger of possession. The unusual nature of his talents had not dis­suaded the Librarium from taking him on, almost as an experiment.

  As a novice his adherence to the tenets of Daenyathos had been something of note. As a new Marine he had proven capable of using his psychological advantage to take on opponents far superior in number. His should have been a fine career, an example of Daenyathos's teachings applied exactly to the practice of war. But instead, something had gone wrong.

  Gorgoleon could find nothing mat suggested instability or incompetence. In other circumstances he would have consid­ered Sarpedon a good model for novices - an ideological soldier who wielded the beliefs and traditions of the Chapter like a weapon.

  Yet he had rebelled. He had spilt the blood of his allies. His words to the Inquisitorial envoy he had slain were the most damning of all - it seemed Sarpedon had turned his back on the very Imperium the Soul Drinkers were supposed to shep­herd towards greatness.

  Gorgoleon was good at his task. He had rarely had cause to bring a fellow Marine into his chambers and subject them to that same despair he believed in, to see if they would break down and confess to some sin. And this time, the whole Chapter was at stake - nothing really scared him, but even he had felt the tension in his gut as he heard the ugly words of Inquisitor Tsouras grinding from the astropath's throat.

  He had heard the stories - Astral Claws, Thunder Barons, Chapters who had fallen from grace and become everything they feared. The Soul Drinkers would not be added to that list. Not while he still lived.

  The brass-banded doors slid open and a protocol servitor thrummed in. 'Into the presence of Dorn and the Emperor's sight, announcing Librarian Sarpedon.'

  Sarpedon did not look like a man who had suffered months of privation. The darkship had been stripped of all supplies, and the few the Marines had brought with them had been squandered on the filthy rag-tag prisoners they had insisted on bringing with them. As Sarpedon strode along the gallery, Gorgoleon saw he seemed as healthy as he had been on the eve of battle.

  The chambers were designed to force anyone entering to walk past the great galleries of Chapter history and Gorgoleon's own deeds. Sarpedon was not distracted. He looked utterly determined.

  Gorgoleon, still seated behind the desk, waited for Sarpe­don to reach him, letting the silence last as long as possible. 'Librarian Sarpedon.' he said at length, 'there are matters we must discuss.'

  Sarpedon stood proudly, hands behind his back, no fear in his face. 'Indeed there are.'

  'Perhaps you have not yet been made fully aware of the consequences of your actions. Several months ago I received a communication from Inquisitor Tsouras on behalf of the lords of the Ordo Hereticus. We were commanded to down our weapons and submit ourselves to an Inquisitorial purge. We refused, as Dorn himself would have done. And then we ran.'

  'My Lord Gorgoleon, I too have had dealings with-'

  'We ran!' ye
lled Gorgoleon, standing and slamming his fist into the desktop. 'Do you understand what you made us? We were fugitives! Us! The best the Imperium can produce, and we ran like criminals! They would have taken our weapons, Sarpedon. They would have stripped us of our armour and entombed us in some prison-rock until they had decided not to kill us. We would have been treated like vermin, Sarpedon! They forced me to order this fleet to flee, as if we were noth­ing more than cowards. I cannot begin to describe the humiliation - to ran when every word Daenyathos ever wrote extols us never to retreat. But that was not the worst, Sarpedon. That was not the worst.'

  'It is a complex matter, lord-'

  'No, Sarpedon, it is very simple indeed. After the insult of demanding we hand over our guns and walk in chains, I received a second communication far worse than any I have seen.'

  Sarpedon paused, perhaps straggling to force out the unholy words. 'We were declared Excommunicate Traitoris.'

  'Excommunicate!' Gorgoleon spat out the word. 'We are the lowest of the low, Sarpedon. We are the worst of the worst of the worst. I sent you out with Caeon to restore a terrible injustice, and you return bearing only dishonour such as this Chapter has never beheld. They can kill us on sight, Librar­ian! They can remove any trace of us! They can end our existence!' Gorgoleon stood suddenly, stopped for a moment, let his rage boil down. 'What happened to you, Sarpedon? What could have made you so abhor the beliefs you held dear that you let your brothers fall so far? Why did you fire upon your allies, and defy the highest authorities of the Imperium? Why did you stain us all with your taint?'

  'Why?' said Sarpedon evenly. 'Because I believe, Lord Gor­goleon. I believe in justice and dignity, and in the will of the Emperor. I believe in the best of men being given their due. I believe that those who would deny us that due are our ene­mies, because they defy everything that makes us great. I am accused of shedding the blood of my allies. But the Imperium is no ally of mine.'

  Gorgoleon shook his head, 'No, of course not. Because that vagabond preacher says so. Dorn's flesh, even your Chaplain kneels at his sermon! Sarpedon, you had such strength of mind. But now you have brought foulness upon us all. You understand, there is only one option left open to me.'

  Sarpedon was silent. There was no trace of repentance in his face - he knew full well what Gorgoleon would have to do.

  'The Ordo Hereticus want me to hand you over.' said Gor­goleon. With your head on a spike and your brothers burned to ash, they would rescind the order of Traitoris. I would be rid of a traitor and the Inquisition would have their heretic to burn. After enough purging and sacrifice, we might be free of the taint again. Hand you over, and we would eventually be free once again.'

  'But you have not, Lord Gorgoleon.'

  'No. Why would that be, when you have committed the gravest sins a Marine ever can?'

  'Because only my brothers may judge me.'

  Gorgoleon would have dearly loved to have thrown the Librarian to the wolves for the dishonour he had wrought. But he could not. Though his hate was cold in his veins, there were certain principles that made him a Soul Drinker and not just another man. 'Only your brothers. The Inquisition knows nothing of the standards a Marine must maintain, or the beliefs he holds dear. We are but one step removed from the Emperor, Sarpedon, for His blood ran in the veins of Dorn, and Dorn's in ours. No one can judge you but a fellow Marine, before the eye of the Emperor.'

  'Such were the words of Daenyathos, Lord Gorgoleon.'

  'And I intend to follow them. You have led us into a terri­ble place here, Sarpedon, but there is no excuse for failing to honour our traditions. The trial shall be in the Chapel of Dorn, in three days. The Emperor will lend strength to the arm of the righteous man.'

  'I am ready, Lord Gorgoleon. I do only the Emperor's will.'

  'So will I, Sarpedon. For the greater the sin, the greater the judge. And I am the greatest man of this Chapter. For your crimes, you must face me.'

  'So it shall be.' Sarpedon was impassive. Was it denial of his treachery? Or was there genuine belief there? Had he really convinced himself that stabbing his allies in the back had been a right and honourable thing? Impossible. It was either mendacity or delusion.

  'No fear? You know what I have done. You can see it carved into the walls of this chamber. You heard the tales when you were just a novice. I need just to think it, and you will be dead. You are tough, Sarpedon, but you're not that tough.'

  'I have faith, Lord Gorgoleon. There need be nothing else.'

  Gorgoleon fixed the traitor with a hard stare - but there was no fear there, or even anger at his imminent death. What had happened out there? Had the loss of the Soulspear really done so much to addle his mind? They said he was having visions, and there were even hints of physical corruption amongst them.

  It was the only way. He had to die, and justice had to be done.

  'Three days.' he said quietly. 'Hope that Dorn will forgive you, for I will not.'

  Sarpedon turned and left, ignoring the intricate carvings of Gorgoleon reaping fields of the dead and pouring bolter-rounds into hordes of xenos.

  He could have been so much, thought Gorgoleon. Some­thing unique. And in a way he was, for the Chapter had never known shame such as Excommunication.

  But the Soul Drinkers would not fall from the Emperor's light. Not while Gorgoleon was still alive. But before he could begin to heal the wound of dishonour, Sarpedon would have to die. And though he was a brother Marine, Gor­goleon would enjoy pulling him apart.

  THE SHIELD-RITES TOOK many hours if they were unabridged. Normally a cut-down version of the rites was conducted in battlefield conditions, when time was at a premium on the eve of battle. But before a warrior set off on a crusade, or when he had ample time to contemplate the task ahead of him, they were to be observed in their entirety.

  Sarpedon had nearly finished. In the half-light of the dark-ship his eyes picked out the sheen on the ceramite of his armour where he had scrubbed off the grime that had built up over the last months. It was easy to miss where it was ground into the seals and plate joins, and the gold was worse - it took so much care to keep it from tarnishing, and each bullet scar needed delicate reworking.

  Sarpedon took a breath of the incense as he fitted the lens back into the eyepiece of his helmet. He wouldn't be actu­ally wearing it, of course, but these rites were about preparing the spirit of the armour and every piece had to be included. He always felt strangely raw out of his armour, as if the armour was his skin and without it he was naked and bleeding. The faint stirring of the circulated air rasped against his back, and even when he breathed it seemed cold and harsh.

  He placed the helmet to one side, satisfied that it was ready. Every piece of the armour - the greaves and kneepads, thigh-pieces, gauntlets, backpack, and all the rest had been checked by Lygris and cleaned by Sarpedon. At last, before the fight, it was a sacred thing again.

  The door of his cell hissed open. Sarpedon heard the padding of bare feet and knew who it was.

  'Father Yser. Thank you for coming.'

  'Anything for the flock, Lord Sarpedon. There must be many things troubling you.'

  Sarpedon turned to face the priest - without his matted beard and layer of grime he looked healthier in spite of the conditions. 'Yser, there is every chance I will die today. This has been the case for me many times and I have no fear of it, but... there are things I would like to know.'

  'Ask.'

  'I have seen things, Yser. In my dreams. I have seen a world steeped in filth, with something terrible at its heart calling out to me. My body is changing, too. I do not eat, and things have begun happening to my bones that Pallas cannot explain. I have never been afraid of anything, Yser, but this is different. I need to know what all this means. Why am I receiving these visions, and why am I changing?'

  Yser smiled. 'Lord Sarpedon, we have all felt it. This is the hand of the Architect of Fate. The Emperor is preparing you. He has shown you the world you must be overcome to prove your worth.
The trial you must undergo today is the same -the Architect saw the injustice done to you and turned it into a test that will make you stronger.'

  'I have followed the will of the Emperor for many years, Yser.' said Sarpedon. 'I have never felt anything like this.'

  'Because you never knew the truth, Sarpedon. You followed a lie. But now you know the truth, and you are at last truly doing His will.'

  If it was true... the idea that he might actually feel the touch of the Emperor was more than Sarpedon could really comprehend. How many had been done such an honour in the ten thousand years since the Emperor ascended to the half-life of the Golden Throne? None?

  'But none of this will matter.' Yser continued, 'if you are dead. Can you win this fight?'

  'Gorgoleon is the finest warrior this Chapter has produced for centuries, Yser. Before, I would have said I had no chance of defeating him. But everything is different now.'

  'No, Sarpedon. Everything is the same as it ever was. The only thing that has changed is you.'

  Sarpedon stood and picked up the massive barrel chest-plate, with its winged chalice wrought in gold and the collar where the aegis hood would lock. 'Thank you, Yser. Tell my brothers I shall be armed and ready, there is no need to keep them waiting any longer. And Yser?'

  'Lord Sarpedon?'

  'They will bring me my force staff. Bless them for me, father, and wish me well.'

  IT WAS WHISPERED between the brothers, and spoken aloud only by the Chapter's higher echelons, that Dorn was the inheritor of the Imperium.

  There had been twenty primarchs created by the Emperor as templates for the superhumans that would conquer the galaxy in His name. But there were dark forces watching Him and meddling through mortal tools, and the primarchs were born flawed. Fully half would be revealed as traitors in the fires of the Horus Heresy. The others were tormented vam­pires, hot-blooded butchers, barbarian thugs, power-hungry tyrants. All passed on their flaws to the Chapters who bore their gene-seed, and inflicted them with some stain of dis­honour that was never spoken of, yet which had started wars.

 

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