by Guy Haley
Araezon surveyed the neophytes. ‘You are performing satisfactorily. Eat. Then we shall begin your training.’
After they broke their fast, Araezon led them in a period of meditation designed to balance the working of their new bodies, so he said. Not long after that, a wheeled servitor came to the barracks and commanded monotonously that the neophytes follow. The cyborg set off at a fast pace, and the neophytes ran to keep up with it in a column four abreast. The halls and passageways of the fortress-monastery seemed endless, honeycombing the rock curving round the great central space. Although it was spotlessly clean, lavishly decorated and in fine repair throughout, much of it appeared deserted except for the odd blood thrall or man-machine. Dante wondered what kind of place it was, how it was built and how extensive were its halls. Lorenz had other matters on his mind.
‘What do you suppose our first training will be?’ said Lorenz. ‘Swords? Guns? Maybe they’ll teach us how to fly!’
Dante shook his head. ‘It’ll be nowhere near so exciting. This is going to take years.’
‘You’re a pessimist, you know that?’ grumbled Lorenz.
Dante proved to be right. They entered a large hall. The servitor halted suddenly, the neophytes right behind it running into its back. Lights snapped on, revealing yet another massive hall, this one full of rows of workbenches and tools and objects covered in dust sheets.
The column broke up in confusion, the young Space Marines wandering around the place.
‘What’s this?’ said Ristan. He picked up a pot from a bench. ‘Where are the weapons? These are paintbrushes!’
‘Is this the Armoury?’ someone else said. ‘Are you malfunctioning?’ he said loudly and slowly to the servitor.
The servitor spun around to face the youth. ‘This is your destination,’ it said in its dead voice. ‘This is not the Armoury.’
It reversed and turned, and rolled out of the room at the same pace it had led them there, scattering neophytes.
‘Are we here alone?’ said Laziel.
‘What are we supposed to do?’ said a neophyte called Arvin.
At the far end of the room, a figure jerked into life. The young Space Marines’ attention went to the movement instantly, like a flock of hunting raptors catching sight of prey. A battered-looking servitor limped up the room. The left arm, shoulder and left half of its face had been replaced by machinery, as had most of its legs. Although the workmanship of its decoration was astounding, the mechanicals must have been poorly made or worn, because it lurched unsteadily towards them.
‘Great, another servitor,’ said Ristan.
The machine-man’s remaining eye burned.
‘That’s not a servitor,’ said Dante.
‘Your young friend is correct!’ barked the ruined man. ‘I am Brother Cafael, Master of Artistry.’ He clanked closer.
‘Artistry? We were supposed to be warriors!’ said Laziel, holding up the paintbrush. ‘How am I supposed to defend the Imperium with this?’ A nervous laugh rippled through the neophytes.
Cafael increased his pace and came to a stop before Laziel. He stared at the neophyte long and hard. Laziel waved the paintbrush at him.
Too quickly to see, Cafael swung out his arm and sent the young Space Marine sprawling to the ground.
‘I have served the Chapter for six hundred years,’ said Cafael. ‘Ninety years ago, I was crippled. I am no more fit for combat duty. Do not underestimate me because of my infirmity. I may be half a man, but I am twice the warrior you are.’
He held out his organic arm to Laziel and hauled him back up. Laziel bobbed his head apologetically.
Cafael swivelled and addressed the room. ‘There are many battles you must fight as Blood Angels. None are as hard as the one you will fight with yourself. You will have noticed the great thirst that you feel.’
The scattered neophytes nodded.
‘In a circle! Comport yourselves like warriors, not a rabble!’ shouted Cafael. The neophytes quickly rearranged themselves. ‘The thirst will abate as you adjust to your change. But it will return throughout your lives, and when it does it can overthrow sanity. Here I will teach you the Five Angelic Graces, so that you might learn to control the thirst, which we name as red, and to avoid its worse twin, the rage, which we name as black.’
Cafael fixed them all with his ferocious stare.
‘These urges derive from the passions of Sanguinius. We are fortunate to feel such emotion, for we harness it for the purposes of our art and our warmaking. But there is danger in it. Sanguinius was made to be perfect. We are made in his image, but alas, we are not perfect, and such great passions as he bore overfill the human soul so that reason spills out. A man cannot bear easily the choler of a demigod. For though the gifts given you are many and varied in their wondrousness, great power brings evil with it in many forms. As you learn to control your gifts, you must learn to control your passions, the red and the black, and direct them to your will, lest they supplant it.’
His revelation stunned the neophytes into silence.
‘You will learn more of the Red Thirst and Black Rage in time, how they affect you and where they come from. For now, let it be known that they exist, and that you must oppose them through the Five Graces of our Chapter. Your first lesson is their names,’ he said gruffly. ‘They are thus: Focus, Humility, Mercy, Restraint and the last and greatest of all, Forgiveness.’
‘Are these a warrior’s traits, my lord?’ said Lorenz. Dante nudged him hard, but Lorenz blocked his elbow.
‘There are the Warrior’s Virtues, as there are the Angel’s Graces. You will learn both, in time,’ said Cafael. ‘With me, you shall focus on the graces. Ask me not of the virtues again today.’
‘Why should we forgive our enemies? The creatures that prey on the Imperium deserve neither forgiveness nor mercy,’ said Arvin.
Cafael turned a metal-toothed smile on Arvin. His face was like a ruined cathedral, a glorious building shattered by war that preserved some vestige of its beauty, but those metal teeth tipped the balance in favour of hideousness.
‘You will fight and kill men and women. You will slaughter whole worlds at the command of our Chapter Master, and you will do so willingly. You may come to wish to kill everything you see, in the end. You must learn when to stay your hand. But you are right, my boy. No one who defies the Emperor of Mankind deserves our forgiveness!’ he said.
‘Then I ask you again, why should we forgive our enemies?’
Cafael made a dismissive noise. ‘You are callow, and arrogant with youth. You see with certainty the answer to the wrong question. Forgiveness is not for our enemies. Forgiveness is for ourselves,’ he said. ‘You will have seen the great artworks of our home and the fine decorations lavished upon the wargear of our brothers.’ Cafael raised his voice and held up his hand to indicate the carved ceiling, the frescoes around the walls. ‘All of this was done not by our thralls, but by we brothers. Through the calm practice of the arts, you shall master your passions and yoke them to good. Then you shall be able to master the galaxy.
‘Make no error, the education you shall receive will broaden your minds in every direction. Deep understanding of history and mathematics, and many other subjects will be yours. The arts of war your other instructors will teach you will save your lives, and the lives of thousands of others. But the arts I shall impart will save your souls. The precision of engineering, the application of paint, the striking of the sculptor’s hammer, the wielding of the calligraphy pen – through these and more shall you defy the monsters that dwell within you. You look like Blood Angels, but you are yet boys given the power of gods. Without the Five Angelic Graces, the gifts the Emperor has given you will be useless. You will not learn to use them, and the power of our lord’s anger will overwhelm you. These lessons are as important, if not more so, than the combat doctrine you will be asked to absorb. Is that clear?’
The neophytes nodded and said yes.
‘Good. Firstly, you must learn how to liv
e in splendour as Sanguinius decreed, for all beauty was precious to him. Under my supervision you shall outfit your barracks and make it a place fit for angels to dwell. Now choose a bench. And choose carefully – it will be yours for the next five years. The first lessons are always the hardest. Fail them, and you will fail all.’
The boys chose desks randomly. None of them had anything to recommend them over the others.
Cafael waited for them to be ready.
‘We begin,’ he said, and took up a paintbrush.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Combat instruction began four weeks after their lessons in artistry. Dante absorbed everything eagerly, but his favourite lessons were those under Cafael. He took deep joy in the creation of beautiful objects. The lessons were formal to begin with, but as their expanded minds mastered new skills quickly, they were soon given free rein to create whatever they wanted. They were not yet permitted to modify their uniform or gear, but their barracks was gradually transformed. Painted panels covered over the pipework. The walls were hidden behind murals and stucco work. There was no plan behind the works, and they clashed in style and skill. But the drabness of their new home was replaced by a crude approximation of the fortress-monastery’s splendour.
Remembering the angels his father had created for the family roamer, Dante decided to make something similar. The golden angel who had come to him in the desert provided him with a model, and he set to work. Unlike his father, he had access to all the tools of a metallurgist, and his plans grew in ambition. He sketched for days, until he grew despondent and set his book down.
‘Neophyte Dante!’
Dante looked up. He had become so mired in self-reflection that Cafael had come up on him unawares.
Cafael spoke over the clatter of tools in the workroom. ‘Why do you sit inactive?’
‘I plan a statue to honour my father, but as I draw, I realise that the work will far surpass his own, and this seems arrogant, as if I would deliberately belittle him.’
‘You cannot belittle Sanguinius,’ said Cafael.
‘I meant my other father.’
‘You have grown beyond him and all other mortals,’ said Cafael.
‘It does not mean I love him less,’ said Dante.
‘You must put him from your mind.’ Cafael rested his calloused hand on Dante’s shoulder. ‘You have a new father now. The memory of your life before will fade in time.’
‘Will I forget?’
‘Some do. Some forget everything. Some remember. If you held your father in such high regard, you will never forget him entirely.’
‘Do you remember?’ asked Dante.
Cafael’s face softened to near humanity. ‘No, neophyte. I can recall nothing from before my insanguination. I do not remember remembering. To my mind, I have always been a Blood Angel. Now, let’s have a look at your sketches. You are to attempt a bronze?’
‘Yes, my lord. It seemed fitting, although I would like to make the wings from ribbon, if I can get it to look right. That’s what my da… my father used. When I was a child, I used to like the way they fluttered in the wind. It would be good to capture that somehow.’
Cafael picked up Dante’s sketchpad. On the first leaf were many studies of detail for the statue’s hands, executed in soft charcoal. He made approving noises. ‘These are very good. You have a natural talent that your training here will only bring out.’ He turned over another page. ‘This face for example is…’ He frowned, the skin of his forehead puckering oddly where it joined the metal of his augmetics. He flicked the pages over quickly. He held the pad out suddenly. On the page was a full sketch of the angelic warrior Dante had seen. It wasn’t the statue he planned to make, but a drawing of how Dante remembered him. From there he had meant to work up a treatment for his bronze.
‘Who is this? Where did you see him?’ said Cafael urgently.
‘My lord, have I done something wrong?’
‘Where did you see him?’ repeated Cafael.
Dante paled at Cafael’s tone. ‘In the desert, on the way to Angel’s Fall on Baal Secundus. Why? Who is he?’
Cafael looked around to see if any of the others had noticed or were listening. Seeing they were not, he leaned in close. ‘Follow me. Immediately.’
The Citadel Reclusiam perched upon the rim of the Arx Angelicum, six-sided and massive, its walls carved into louring skulls that looked in all directions over the desert but one. From the sixth side the soaring Tower of Amareo sprang to spear the sky, the stone flower of its machicolated top sprouting from the peak and laying its shadow across the world like a sword blade.
Dante was taken to the Citadel Reclusiam by blood thralls in black, whose faces were tattooed with the Chaplaincy’s death’s head. He asked them repeatedly where he was being taken as they took stair after stair up through the Arx Murus. One grew tired of his demands and opened his mouth to show the stub of his severed tongue. After that, Dante asked no more. He was taken across a drawbridge of bright steel that projected from the mouth of one of the citadel skulls. Once within, he was sequestered in a cell whose outer wall was open to the desert.
Dante sat on the edge, marvelling at the size and scale of the Arx. It was a fortress carved from a hollow mountain, the black rock of its flanks planed smooth, studded with weapons batteries, hangar slots, windows and soaring statuary. Lesser peaks around the Arx were remade into redoubts topped with immense defence lasers. The soapy film of void shields encased the whole, dividing it from the deserts. Through the faint purple sheen of the field, Dante looked out over dunes that went on forever under the afternoon sun. He searched the sky for home, but Baal Secundus had not risen. This made him profoundly sad, and he sat and let his legs dangle from the edge. He looked between his knees at a drop a thousand feet high, and he felt nothing. No sense of fear, no terror of the urge to jump. It was a height, a measurable vertical distance, that was all.
He occupied his mind with a thorough survey of the Arx Angelicum. For a while, he derived pleasure from the hot wind blowing over the desert. The void shield tainted it with its strange scent, but allowed it through. Its touch reminded him that Baal truly shared kinship with his sisters.
The door peeped and yawned open. Dante’s improved eyes adjusted instantly to the darkness of the interior. Malafael filled the entrance. The Chaplains – and they were numerous – never removed their armour in sight of their battle-brothers, but the suit of each was highly individual. By their wargear were they recognisable.
‘Brother-neophyte, come to me,’ said Malafael.
Dante went before him and fell to his knees.
‘Tell me what you told Cafael, Dante.’
‘I told him of the golden warrior I saw on Baal Secundus, my lord.’ He related the story of how an angel had saved him from dying of thirst, and how he had seen him again during the Winnowing of Weariness.
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes!’ said Dante.
‘Dante, you have no reason to fear to speak your heart and mind to me, if you are telling the truth.’
‘I am, my lord!’ Dante lifted his eyes. The Chaplain rested a heavy gauntlet upon his head.
‘I believe you. Stand, and come with me.’ Dante followed the huge figure of the armoured Chaplain through the high spaces of the Reclusiam’s heart. A large cross-shaped chamber rose to the top of the citadel. The four ends terminated on the inner face of a skull. The carving inside was as accomplished as on the outer surfaces, and the stone had been cut to a shell so thin it was partly translucent. At the very centre was a large altar under a baldacchino a hundred feet high. Another Chaplain walked by, trailed by servitors pumping out scented smoke from chimneys embedded in their backs. Otherwise, the giant space was empty.
‘Do you recall that I was forced to execute one of the neophytes in the Hall of Sarcophagi?’ said Malafael, his voice echoing around the Reclusiam.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Dante.
‘And has Cafael impressed upon you the peril of succu
mbing to the passions of our lord, the Great Angel?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘That boy I killed had fallen into the Black Rage while he changed. It can happen to any of us, at any time, as soon as the gene-seed is implanted. There are triggers of course, and it can be avoided. That is why we teach you the graces and the arts. But the rage cannot be held off forever. Not by anyone, only forestalled.’
‘I understand, my lord.’
‘I was close to executing you,’ said Malafael bluntly.
‘Why?’
‘Throughout the process of insanguination, you raged and thrashed in your sarcophagus. You shouted out the names of ancient monsters and heroes.’ He laughed gruffly. ‘Such was your might, you scored the inner lid of the device with your bare hands.’
‘I remember none of this.’
‘You would not. You were deep in the blood fever. Some of my order thought you would emerge a monster. Others maintained you would be a warrior of great importance. But you emerged perfect. No aspirant in our records has suffered so much as you and emerged alive, let alone sane.’
‘And what did you decide, my lord? I do not feel special.’
‘You are wise not to think you are someone of import, neophyte. For all I knew at the time, your swift descent into madness was certain. But now I am not so sure. Here.’
He led Dante to a wall into which was set a gleaming brass representation of the golden warrior.
‘It is him!’ said Dante.
‘And you have never seen this image before your vision in the desert?’
‘No, my lord, I swear. I saw statues of angels at Selltown and in Kemrender. Nothing like this. Who is he?’
‘It,’ said Malafael, breathing a deep sigh, ‘is the Sanguinor. No one truly knows who or what it is, only that at times of peril it comes to aid the Chapter. So dire are the circumstances under which it appears there are few witnesses. Throughout our nine-millennia history, it has appeared only so many times as to half fill a slender codex. Each appearance is recorded. Now, the question your revelation poses is, should we include another entry in the record?’