Dante

by Guy Haley

  ‘But the choice of the Council of Bone and Blood is final,’ said Dante.

  ‘Yes, and men’s minds will be bound by that, but their hearts are another matter. We Blood Angels are creatures of great and terrible choler. Anger is too easily sparked from our souls. If you look like you are setting yourself above others–’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘Do not interrupt me again,’ said Malafael firmly. Dante clenched his fists and breathed through his teeth. ‘I am not impugning your honour,’ continued the Chaplain. ‘Others will not see this relationship you appear to have with the Sanguinor the same way I do. They will see an ambitious brother who is desirous of high office.’

  Dante began to speak, but Malafael spoke over his objection.

  ‘There have been many examples throughout man’s long history of people claiming divine intervention in order to grow their own power, often for what seemed like noble reasons. The Sanguinor is not divine, but it is mysterious, and it is dangerous. Be wary, that is all.’

  Dante breathed, fighting his anger. He let his mind go blank, reaching for elusive restraint.

  ‘I understand,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You show great control. That is good. I advise you to rest, Dante. If you are chosen, the Blessing of the Host will tax you. You will need your strength.’ He stood from his throne and rested his armoured hand on Dante’s shoulder.

  ‘Who knows, after tomorrow we may be able to share a drink, after all.’

  All lights were extinguished within the Arx Angelicum. The strength of the Chapter present on Baal gathered in the Basilica Sanguinarum, mortal and Space Marine both. A thousand blood thralls, two hundred brothers, all the Chapter’s unassigned neophytes. They were helmless but armed for battle. Dante felt naked among them, standing by the sealed door in naught but a pair of three-quarter-length breeches. Bowls of glowing coals gave off pillars of red smoke. Red glass screened the windows of the basilica, so that the cathedral appeared drenched in blood. Serf choirs sang low, repetitive hymns that quickened and shushed like the thrum of blood in veins, while others chanted a wordless heartbeat. Blood scent was thick and coppery. The sound of blood, the scent of blood. Dante’s mouth watered, and he became lightheaded.

  A semicircle of thrones were arrayed in front of Sanguinius’ statue. In them sat those Chaplains and Sanguinary Priests currently on the home world. Their armour gleamed redly. Their helm lenses glowed in the low, ruddy light.

  High Chaplain Bephael stood. Of all his brethren only he went unhelmeted, as was his right as their leader.

  ‘Brother-Sergeant Dante!’ he called down the length of the basilica’s aisle. His pale skin glistened. His teeth flashed, eerily bright. ‘The Council of Blood and Bone has sat these long hours in deliberation. You have been judged worthy to lead your brothers in battle. Do you accept our judgement?’

  ‘I do!’ Dante shouted down the length of the basilica.

  ‘Will you undertake the pains of the Blessing of the Host?’

  Dante spoke clearly. ‘I will!’

  ‘If you falter, you will return to your squad. If you pass, you shall be made captain. Is this simple term acceptable to you, o brother of the blood?’

  ‘It is!’ shouted Dante.

  ‘Then come forward, and face the kiss of steel.’

  One member of every squad turned on the spot to face the aisle. With a single movement, all of them drew their combat knives. The oiled rasp was as delicate as a breath.

  Dante walked forwards. He passed through the ranks of servitors, then by the hooded blood thralls singing their heartbeat song. A pair of cyber-cherubim swept down from their eyrie in the vaulting, trailing his banner between them on chains. A herald seraph flew before them, chanting his name. ‘Dante, Dante, Dante.’

  As he passed the first of his battle-brothers, the one chosen for the honour of the blessing stepped out.

  ‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ he said. His knife flashed brightly in the red light, as if it were covered already in wet blood. The edge slashed across Dante’s chest, opening up a long cut. Blood welled from it, and ran down his body. The Space Marine stepped back and licked his knife clean.

  Another stepped out. ‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ he said. His cut was shallower, slicing into Dante’s upper arm.

  Dante continued, his footsteps falling in time to the heartbeat chant.

  ‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ said another, and slashed at him. This blow bit deep, and Dante gritted his teeth at the pain.

  Despite the rapid clotting of his wounds, dripping blood left a trail behind him. It ran from his fingers and gathered between his toes, making the stone floor slick. Still he measured his pace. Cut after cut came. The feeling of light-headedness intensified. His thirst was aroused by the scent of his own fluids.

  He approached the Council of Bone and Blood.

  ‘Kneel!’ commanded Bephael.

  Dante knelt in a puddle of his own blood. Already the last of the cuts were closing, and the blood ceasing its flow. His banner cherubim fluttered overhead. The herald seraph flew down to head height.

  ‘Lord High Chaplain Bephael,’ it said in a piping voice. ‘We present Brother-Supplicant Dante, of Squad Dante, of the Fifth Battle Company, the Daemonbanes, for your judgement.’ It bowed its head and flew back to its roost.

  Bephael raised both his hands like wings. Sanguinary High Priest Tazael stood and unveiled the Red Grail, the most holy relic of the Blood Angels. The other Sanguinary Priests rose and undid their gauntlets. Tazael handed the grail to an acolyte and cut his wrist, allowing nine drops of blood to fall into the chalice. He went to each of the Priests in turn, and they did the same, opening their veins with a small, curved knife the shape of a claw. As the grail was filled, Bephael put both hands atop Dante’s head and spoke.

  ‘Brother-Sergeant Dante!’ he intoned. ‘As you have not faltered today, do you swear never to falter in battle?’

  ‘I do so swear,’ said Dante.

  ‘As you have bled today, do you swear to bleed for our Chapter, in the name of the Emperor of Mankind, and His Imperium?’

  ‘I do so swear.’

  ‘As you have suffered the blessing of our brothers, do you suffer the blessing of command?’

  ‘I do so swear.’

  ‘Do you swear to protect the weak and smite down their oppressors, to resist the thirst and the rage so long as you are able?’

  ‘I do so swear.’

  ‘And do you accept the judgement of the Council of Bone and Blood?’

  ‘I do.’ Dante’s words echoed over the pulse-hymn.

  The grail was brought forwards. Dante tilted his head to the side. A nick was made in his throat. Nine drops of blood were added to the mingled vitae inside. The cup was full.

  ‘Then drink!’

  The grail was held to Dante’s lips. He sipped at first, then gulped as the blood touched his tongue. His thirst swelled and his fangs slid from his gums, scraping on the metal of the grail. He grabbed the cup and upended it, draining it dry. He blinked. The blood filled him with borrowed life; his senses sang. Never did he feel so alive as after sharing the sacrament.

  Quickly as it came, it ebbed. The blood began dying as soon as it left the veins of its hosts, and its refreshment was fleeting. Tazael took the grail away, wiped it clean with fresh white cloth, and covered it over again.

  ‘My Brother-Chaplains.’ Bephael turned to the grim, skull-faced figures still sitting to his left. ‘Do you uphold the judgement of the Council of Bone and Blood, and the Chapter Council, of which it is part and ruler of? Do you deem Brother Dante worthy of the direction of the Red Council in war?’

  ‘I, Chaplain Fernibus, so uphold the judgement,’ said the first, and stood.

  ‘I, Chaplain Verimus, so uphold the judgement,’ said the second, and stood.

  So it went on.

  ‘I, Chaplain Malafael, so uphold the jud
gement,’ said Dante’s mentor. Then the last, until seven Chaplains and nine Sanguinary Priests stood in a semi-circle in front of their chairs.

  ‘It is done,’ said Bephael. ‘Stand, Dante, Lord of the Fifth Host, captain of the Daemonbanes!’

  Dante stood and turned. The heartbeat chant ceased.

  ‘Hail Dante, Fifth Captain of the Blood Angels!’ his brothers shouted, and went to their knees.

  Dante’s hearts filled with pride. The council came to him one by one and took his hand, and offered their congratulations.

  The ritual was over, and the feasting began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE PROMISE OF HOPE

  998.M41

  Mandeville point

  Outside the Aegis Diamondo

  Cryptus System

  From one of the Blade of Vengeance’s observation domes, Commander Dante watched the ships of the First, Second and Fifth Companies peel away from the fleet. They accelerated hard, their engine stacks blazing brighter than suns. He watched for an hour, Sanguinius’ death mask under his arm, wishing to see the sight of his men with his own senses, not those of his suit. The stack shine of the vessels dwindled into the wider starscape of the Red Scar and was lost in the slow undulations of the cosmic landscape.

  A flash came from their position. A purple globe enveloped them. The light hurt Dante’s eyes, bored through his optic nerves and scratched his brain. Still he watched as the warp enfolded his warriors.

  The globe blinked out. The ships were gone.

  The dome’s angel of address swivelled on its podium. Its mechanical mouth opened. ‘The task force has departed, my lord,’ said Asante. ‘We are making preparations to enter the warp ourselves. I note you are in observation dome upsilon. I will be ordering the external shutters closed soon, my lord.’

  ‘Thank you, Asante. I am done here.’

  Dante felt better. The crushing sense of futility had been alleviated by Arafeo’s sacrifice. He thanked his equerry in his heart. He could not grow used to this state of mind. His weariness would return, and he dare not take more blood for fear of where the red road led. But for now, at this crucial juncture, he could think clearly, and a plan was forming in his mind.

  He turned away from the giant armourglass panels. The segments of their shutters rose up point first from their housings outside. The dome shook as they crawled up their tracks to meet at the apex.

  The door opened and Corbulo entered. He looked more drawn and haunted than ever.

  ‘My lord,’ said Corbulo.

  ‘What can I do for you, brother?’

  The dome shutters clanged together, sealing the dome against the void and the coming storms of the warp.

  ‘I have tested the small amounts of Satryx elixir we managed to recover from the Cryptus System.’ He was despondent. The chemical had been used by the inhabitants of the Cryptus worlds to stave off madness. Corbulo had hoped it would similarly alleviate the thirst and rage. ‘I believe it would have treated the flaw. It was not a cure, but it was a start, and now it is all gone. Satryx is devoured, and the stocks at Cryptus lost.’

  ‘Can you synthesise it?’

  Corbulo shook his head. ‘No. Its structure is too specific. I apologise, my lord.’

  ‘No one should bear his burden alone, not while he has a brother. The search must go on, Sanguinary High Priest. We can never falter, never stop. It is a setback, that is all.’

  ‘I was sure this would be it. I do not know how many more near successes I can bear. I should put the darkness from me and concentrate on my duty.’

  ‘Your visions?’

  Corbulo nodded. ‘They grow worse. I… I cannot speak of them. But I will submit myself for penance to Ordamael for my doubt. The Sanguinor itself said there was hope. We live in an age of wonder.’

  Dante lifted his helmet onto his head. The seals locked, replacing his face with Sanguinius’.

  ‘Hope is not always enough, Corbulo, but while there is blood, there is strength.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HOMECOMING

  764.M40

  The Great Salt Waste

  Baal Secundus

  Baal System

  The Thunderhawk banked. The Great Salt Waste slipped by, an endless tract of white, flat as paper, tinted a barely perceptible pink by the glow of Baal’s parent star. It was hard to credit now, but until Dante had experienced artificial illumination and the colours of other stars, he had never seen true white. Every colour in the system, and everything in the Red Scar beyond its bounds, was polluted by the shades of blood.

  Something as big as the waste could not fail to impress, but its featureless nature undid the spectacle of its size, making it inconsequential. Human experience gave scale to all things. Without it, the enormousness of the universe, the size of its stars, the sweep of its oceans, the number of suns and of worlds and of men, were incomprehensible. So it was with the Great Salt Waste. It was both magnificent and nothing from the air.

  Dante watched the waste through the ship’s auguries, sampled it through his sophisticated sensorium. He understood it now like he could not before, but he could never know it. No man could.

  Black shapes on the salt drew his attention, crawling beetle-slow over the land.

  ‘Brother Vulastin,’ he said. The servant of the Armoury piloting the ship turned to look at Dante, his rust-coloured armour a subtly different shade to the blood-red of Dante’s own.

  ‘Put down there, by the nomads,’ he said.

  ‘We are not due to stop here, brother-captain,’ said the Techmarine. ‘Our schedule demands we pass on to Selltown and edify the locals there.’

  ‘All must hear the call of the Trial. There are youths in those roamers. They have as much right as any to be informed of their chance.’

  ‘The Salt Clans are small and scattered,’ said Vulastin. ‘Few recruits will be found among them.’

  In the communications station behind the pilot and co-pilot’s seat, Lorenz laughed.

  ‘You evince the independence of the Armoury too strongly, brother. Do as the captain says.’

  ‘He may be assigned herald, and captain. But he has not ordered me to set down,’ said Vulastin. ‘I follow the direction of the Master of the Blade, and the schedule I have tells me to head next for Selltown.’ The Techmarine looked to Dante to see if he would be ordered. Dante remained silent.

  ‘Do it for the graces, you damn fool,’ said Lorenz. ‘The captain wishes to go home. He was one of those few recruits.’

  Vulastin glanced at Dante. ‘As you wish, sergeant. Captain.’ He pushed the flightstick forwards. Engines howling, the Thunderhawk sped towards the caravan.

  They came in fast, landing before the lead vehicle. The caravan stopped abruptly. It was so similar to his own clan, Dante thought. There was the great hauler in the centre, not so impressive now he had seen voidships and the Arx Angelicum, and three dozen roamers. They looked like the one he had been born in. One could have been, for all he knew.

  The population spilled out of their homes, pointing at the ship. The men organised themselves into a loose phalanx, fingers ready on spring gun triggers. They were waiting when Dante strode out of the front of the Thunderhawk. The whole clan stood in nervous silence. Dante halted. The wind made his cloak and banner snap. Now he was there, he realised he had no clear reason for coming down and speaking. Was it nostalgia? Kinship? The people were so malnourished, stunted by hard living. They were dirty, the few parts of their exposed skin blistered with chemical and radiation poisoning. He was an angel, perfect. He felt no connection to them. He was disappointed, and regretted his impulsive decision.

  Still, he had a task to perform. He would see it done.

  ‘Let it be known that the time of the Duplus Lunaris is nigh upon us,’ said Dante, his amplified voice roaring across the salt flats. ‘Fifty youths will be chosen and taken to the Arx Angelicum upon Baal, there to dwell with us in brotherhood and fight the wars that must be fought against the
foes of man. If there be any here with the guile and the courage to attempt our testing, let him make his way to us at Angel’s Fall, so that he might be judged among the rest.’

  ‘Angel’s Fall is a long way from here,’ someone muttered in the crowd. He had his voice pitched very low, not knowing Dante’s enhanced senses could hear.

  Dante rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword and surveyed the silent crowd again. There was nothing, no feeling. No sign of any kin. He scolded himself. What had he expected – to see his father come out to beg his forgiveness and protest his love? The man was long dead. Dante had no kin but his battle-brothers.

  He turned to go, but a boy burst from the crowd and ran towards him. His mother gasped and called him back. The men shifted unsurely. So, this was what happened when you were confronted by your legends. Fear.

  But the boy was not afraid. He came right up to Dante, staring at him with wonder. Hesitantly Dante turned again and looked down at him. Other children came forwards a little, shrugging off the protective hands of their parents, but no other dared come so close.

  ‘You are an angel, a servant of the Great Angel?’ said the boy.

  ‘I am,’ said Dante.

  ‘There are stories of one boy from our clan, who ran away to join them more than a hundred years ago. Do you know him? Are the stories true?’

  ‘I know a man who was a boy,’ said Dante. ‘He ceased to believe in stories the day his mother was buried in the salt along with his brother who never had the chance to take a single breath in this life.’

  ‘You know him?’ The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Is it true he sailed the seas of the void, and battled dragons? Did his gifts give him wings, and the power to run through the stars? Is it true that he became the lord of angels?’

  ‘Most stories are not true,’ said Dante. ‘But what this boy failed to grasp, when he lost his belief, is that in stories lies the essence of truth. In that way, a fiction can sometimes be truer than fact.’