Hammer and Bolter - Issue 2

by Christian Dunn

  The Imperial Fists 4th Company took up their positions, a hundred Imperial Fists gathering to serve as honour guard to their Chapter Master. Next the Howling Griffons filed in, Borganor scowling at the Observatory as if its tenuous connection with the Soul Drinkers made it hateful.

  The other captains were next. Commander Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine was accompanied by a dozen Sanguinary Guard, their jump packs framed by stabiliser fins shaped like white angels’ wings and their helmets fronted with golden masks fashioned to echo the death mask of their primarch, Sanguinius. Gethsemar himself wore several more masks hanging from the waist of his armour, each sculpted into a different expression. The one he wore had the mouth turned down in grim sorrow, teardrop-shaped emeralds fixed beneath one eye. Siege-Captain Daviks of the Silver Skulls wore the reinforced armour of a Devastator, built to accommodate the extra weight and heft of a heavy weapon, and his retinue counted among them his Company Champion carrying an obsidian sword and a shield faced with a mirror to deflect laser fire in combat.

  The Iron Knights were represented by Captain N’Kalo, an assault captain who wore a proud panoply of honours, from a crown of laurels to the many honoriae hanging from the brocade across his chest and the Crux Terminatus on one shoulder pad. He led three squads of Astartes, his Iron Knights resplendent in the personal heraldry each wore on his breastplate and the crests on their helms. The Doom Eagles came in at the same time, represented by a single squad of Space Marines and Librarian Varnica. Where Varnica stepped, the stone beneath his feet bubbled and warped, his psychic abilities so pronounced that the real world strained to reject him, even with his power contained and channelled through the high collar of his Aegis armour.

  Finally, Captain Lysander led in Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh. Vladimir took his place on the throne – as the Justice Lord of this court he was the highest authority, and it was at his sufferance that any defendants, witnesses or petitioners might speak. Lysander did not stand in the gallery, for he was to serve as the Hand of the Court, the bailiff who enforced his Chapter Master’s decisions among those present. Lysander looked quite at home patrolling the floor of the dome around the dock, and his fearsome reputation both as a disciplinarian and a warrior made for a powerful deterrent. A Space Marine’s temper might move him to leave the gallery and attempt to disrupt the court’s proceedings, even with violence – Lysander was one of the few men who could make such an Astartes think twice.

  The tension was obvious. When Lord Inquisitor Kolgo arrived to join his Battle Sisters, the sideways glances and murmured comments only grew. Space Marines were all soldiers of the Emperor but many Chapters did not have regular contacts with others and some developed fierce rivalries over the millennia. The Imperial Fists had both retained the livery of their parent Legion, and been feted above almost all other Chapters for the service to the Imperium – no little jealousy existed between them and other Chapters who coveted the honours they had been granted, and no one could say that such jealousy was absent from the court.

  Fortunately, nothing papered over such schisms like a common enemy.

  Sarpedon was led in, restraints binding his mutant legs, by a gang of crewmen marshalled by Apothecary Asclephin. Asclephin had conducted the investigations into Sarpedon’s mutations – indeed, his findings were part of the evidence that would be presented to the court.

  Sarpedon was herded into the dock, and his restraints fixed to the mountings inside the pulpit. Sarpedon still had the physical presence to demand a hush from the court in the first moments they saw him. He was bent by his restraints and he lacked the armour which was the badge of a Space Marine, but even without his mutations he would have demanded a form of respect with the scars and bearing of a veteran and the defiance that refused to leave his face. The inhibitor hood clamped to his skull just made him look more dangerous. One of Lysander’s primary duties was to watch Sarpedon carefully and subdue or even execute him at the first suggestion that the Soul Drinkers Chapter Master was using his psychic powers.

  Sarpedon’s eyes passed across the faces of the assembled Space Marines. He recognised Borganor and Lysander, and Vladimir he knew by reputation. Kolgo he had never met, but the trappings of an inquisitor sparked their own kind of recognition. Several times the Soul Drinkers had crossed paths, and swords, with the Inquisition. The Holy Ordos had sent their representative here to take their pound of flesh.

  Then Sarpedon’s eyes met Reinez’s.

  Brother Reinez of the Crimson Fists was alone. He had no retinue with him. His armour was pitted and stained, the dark blue of the Crimson Fists and their red hand symbol tarnished with ill maintenance. Reinez wore a hood of sackcloth and his face was filthy, smeared with ash. Strips of parchment covered in prayers fluttered from every piece of his armour.

  There was silence for a moment. Their eyes had all been on Sarpedon, and none had seen Reinez enter.

  ‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. His voice was a ruined growl. ‘You took my standard.’

  Reinez had been the captain of the Crimson Fists 2nd Company during the battles with the xenos eldar on Entymion IV. The Soul Drinkers had taken the company standard in combat. Reinez was not a captain any more, and his trappings were those of a penitent, one who wandered seeking redemption outside his Chapter.

  ‘The court,’ said Vladimir, ‘recognises the presence of the Crimson Fists. Let the scribes enter it in the archives that–’

  ‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. ‘You took my standard. You allied with the xenos. You left my brothers dead in the streets of Gravenhold.’

  ‘I fought the xenos,’ replied Sarpedon levelly. ‘My conflict with you was sparked by your own hatred, not my brothers’ wish to kill yours.’

  ‘You lie!’ bellowed Reinez. ‘The life of the xenos leader was taken by my hand! But it was not enough. None of it was enough. The standard of the Second was taken by heretics. I travelled the galaxy looking for an enemy worthy of killing me, so I could die for my failings on Entymion IV. I could not find it. I turned my back on my Chapter and sought death for my sins, but the galaxy would not give it to me. And then I heard that the Soul Drinkers had been captured, and were to be tried on the Phalanx. And I realised that I did not have to die. I could have revenge.’

  ‘Brother Reinez,’ said Vladimir, ‘has been appointed the prosecuting counsel for the trial of the Soul Drinkers. The role of the Imperial Fists is to observe and administer justice, not to condemn. That task belongs to Brother Reinez.’

  Sarpedon could only look at Reinez. He could scarcely imagine that any human being in the Imperium had ever hated another as much as Reinez obviously hated Sarpedon in that moment. Reinez had been shattered by the events on Entymion IV, Sarpedon could see that. He had been defeated and humiliated by Astartes the Crimson Fists believed to be heretics. But now this broken man had been given a chance at a revenge he thought was impossible, and if there was anything that could bring a Space Marine back from the brink, it was the promise of revenge.

  ‘The charges I bring,’ said Reinez, ‘are the treacherous slaying of the servants of the Emperor, rebellion from the Emperor’s light, and heresy by aiding the enemies of the Imperium of Man.’ The Crimson Fist was forcing down harsher words to conform to the mores of the court. ‘The punishment I demand is death, and for the accused to know that they are dying. By the Emperor and Dorn, I swear that the charges I bring are true and deserving of vengeance.’

  ‘This court,’ replied Vladimir formally, ‘accepts the validity of these charges and this court’s right to try the accused upon them.’

  ‘Chapter Master,’ said Sarpedon. ‘This man is motivated by hate and revenge. There can be no justice when–’

  ‘You will be silent!’ yelled Reinez. ‘Your heretic’s words will not pollute this place!’ He drew the power hammer he wore on his back and every Space Marine in the court tensed as the power field crackled around it.

  ‘The accused will have his turn to speak,’ said Vla
dimir sternly.

  ‘I see no accused!’ retorted Reinez. He jumped over the row of seating in front of him, heading towards the courtroom floor and Sarpedon’s pulpit. ‘I see vermin! I see a foul stain on the honour of every Astartes! I would take the head of this subhuman thing! I would spill its blood and let the Emperor not wait upon His justice!’

  Lysander stepped between Reinez and the courtroom floor, his own hammer in his hands. ‘Will you spill this one’s blood too, brother?’ said Lysander.

  Reinez and Lysander were face to face, Reinez’s breath heavy between his teeth. ‘The day I saw a son of Dorn stand between a Crimson Fist and the enemy,’ he growled, ‘is a day I am ashamed to have seen.’

  ‘Brother Reinez!’ shouted Vladimir, rising to his feet. ‘Your role is to accuse, not to execute. It is to prosecute alone that you have been permitted to board the Phalanx, in spite of the deep shame with which your own Chapter beholds you. Petitions will be heard and a verdict will be reached. This shall be the form your vengeance shall take. Blood will not be shed in my court save by my own order. Captain Lysander is the instrument of my will. Defy it and you defy him, and few will mourn your loss if that is the manner of death you choose.’

  The moment for which Reinez was eye to eye with Lysander was far too long for the liking of anyone in the court. Reinez took the first step back and holstered his hammer.

  ‘The Emperor’s word shall be the last,’ he said. ‘He will speak for my dead brothers.’

  ‘Then now the court will hear petitioners from those present,’ said Vladimir. ‘In the Emperor’s name, let justice be done.’

  The archivists of the Phalanx were a curious breed even by the standards of the voidborn. Most had been born on the ship – the few who had not had been purchased in childhood to serve as apprentices to the aged Chapter functionaries. An archivist’s purpose was to maintain the enormous parchment rolls on which the deeds and histories of the Imperial Fists were recorded. Those massive rolls, three times the height of a man and twice as broad, hung on their rollers from the walls of the cylindrical archive shaft, giving it the appearance of the inside of an insect hive bulging with pale cells.

  An archivist therefore lived to record the deeds of those greater than him. An archivist was not really a person at all, but a human-shaped shadow tolerated to exist only as far as his duties required. They did not have names, being referred to by function. They were essentially interchangeable. They schooled their apprentices in the art of abandoning one’s own personality.

  Several of these archivists were writing on the fresh surfaces of recently installed parchment rolls, their nimble fingers noting down the transmissions from the courtroom in delicate longhand. Others were illuminating the borders and capital letters. Gyranar cast his eye over these strange, dusty, dried-out people, their eyes preserved by goggles and their fingers thin bony spindles. Every breath he took in there hurt, but to a pilgrim of the Blinded Eye pain was just more proof that the Emperor still had tests for them to endure.

  ‘Follow,’ said the archivist who had been detailed to lead Gyranar through the cavernous rooms. This creature represented the dried husk of a human. It creaked when it walked and its goggles, the lenses filled with fluid, magnified its eyes to fat whitish blobs. Gyranar could not tell if the archivist was male or female, and doubted the difference meant anything to the archivist itself.

  The archivist led Gyranar through an archway into another section of the archives. Here, on armour stands, were displayed a hundred suits of power armour, each lit by a spotlight lancing from high overhead. The armour was painted purple and bone, with a few suits trimmed with an officer’s gold. Each was displayed with its other wargear: boltguns and chainswords, a pair of lightning claws, a magnificent force axe with a blade inlaid with the delicate patterns of its psychic circuitry. The armour was still stained and scored from battle, and the smell of oil and gunsmoke mixed with the atmosphere of decaying parchment.

  ‘This is the evidence chamber,’ said the archivist. ‘Here are kept the items to be presented to the court.’

  ‘The arms of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Gyranar. He pulled his hood back, and the electoo on his face reflected the pale light. The scales tipped a little, as if they represented the processes of Gyranar’s mind, first weighing down on one side then the other.

  ‘Quite so. Those who wish to inspect them can claim leave to do so from the Justice Lord. Our task is to make them available for scrutiny.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  The archivist tilted its head, a faint curiosity coming over its sunken features. ‘They will be disposed of,’ it said. ‘Ejected into space or used as raw material for the forges. The decision has yet to be made.’

  ‘If the Soul Drinkers are found innocent,’ said Gyranar, ‘presumably these arms and armour will be returned to them.’

  ‘Innocent?’ replied the archivist. The faint mixture of mystification and baffled amusement was perhaps the most extreme emotion it had ever displayed. ‘What do you mean, innocent?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Gyranar, bowing his head. ‘A wayward thought. Might I be given leave to inspect this evidence for myself?’

  ‘Leave is granted,’ said the archivist. It turned away and left to take up its regular duties again.

  Father Gyranar ran a finger along the blade of the force axe. This was the Axe of Mercaeno, the weapon of the Howling Griffons Librarian killed by Sarpedon. Sarpedon had taken the axe to replace his own force weapon lost in the battle. Such had been the information given by the Howling Griffons’ deposition to the court. Its use suggested a certain admiration held by Sarpedon for Mercaeno. It was probable that a replacement weapon could have been found in the Soul Drinkers’ own armouries on the Brokenback, but Sarpedon had chosen to bear the weapon so closely associated with the Space Marine he had killed.

  It was a good weapon. It had killed the daemon prince Periclitor. Gyranar withdrew his thumb and regarded the thin red line on its tip. The Axe of Mercaeno was also very sharp.

  Across the hall from the axe was a pair of oversized weapons, too big to be wielded by an Astartes, and with mountings to fix them onto the side of a vehicle. Gyranar knew they were the weapons of a Space Marine Dreadnought – a missile launcher and a power fist. They, too, were in the livery of the Soul Drinkers. Their presence told Gyranar that everything the Blinded Eye had foretold was coming to pass. He was a cog in a machine that had been in motion for thousands of years, and that its function was about to be completed was an honour beyond any deserving.

  Gyranar knelt in prayer. His words, well-worn in his mind, called for the fiery and bloodstained justice of the Emperor to be visited on sinners and traitors. But his thoughts as they raced were very different.

  The archives. The dome being used as the courtroom. The Halls of Atonement. The map being drawn in the pilgrim’s mind was beginning to join up. Soon, he would hold his final sermon, and the contents of that pronouncement were finally taking shape.

  ‘Everything,’ said Lord Inquisitor Kolgo, ‘is about power.’

  The inquisitor lord paced as he spoke, making a half-circuit around the gallery seating, watched by the Battle Sisters who accompanied him. His Terminator armour was bulky but it was ancient, the secrets of its construction giving him enough freedom of movement to point and slam one fist into the other palm, stride and gesticulate as well as any orator. And he was good. He had done this before.

  ‘Think upon it,’ he said. ‘In this room are several hundred Astartes. Though I am a capable fighter for an unaugmented human, yet still the majority of you would have a very good chance of besting me. And I am unarmed. My weapons lie back on my shuttle, while many of you here carry the bolters or chainswords that you use so well in battle. I see you, the brothers of the Angels Sanguine, carrying the power glaives that mark you out as your Chapter’s elite. And you, Librarian Varnica, that force claw about your fist is more than a mere ornamentation. It is an implement of killing. So if you wished to
kill me, there would be little I could do to stop it.’

  Kolgo paused. The Space Marines he had mentioned looked like they did not appreciate being singled out. Kolgo spread out his arms to take in the whole courtroom. ‘And how many would like to kill me? Many of you have experienced unpleasant episodes at the hands of the Holy Ordos. I am a symbol of the Inquisition, and casting me down would be to strike a blow against every Inquisitor who ever claimed his jurisdiction included the Adeptus Astartes. I have, personally, gained something of a reputation for meddling in your affairs, and am no doubt the subject of more than a few blood oaths. Perhaps one of you here has knelt before the image of your primarch and sworn to see me dead. You would not be the first.’ Kolgo held up a finger, as if to silence anyone who might think to interrupt. ‘And yet, I live.’

  Kolgo looked around the courtroom. The expression of Chapter Master Vladimir was impossible to read. Other Space Marines looked angry or uncomfortable, not knowing what Kolgo was trying to say but certain that they would not like it.

  ‘And why?’ said Kolgo. ‘Why am I not dead? I am satisfied that it is not through fear that you refrain from killing me. A Space Marine knows no fear, and in any case, the fulfilling of a blood oath takes far higher priority than the possibility of being lynched or prosecuted by your fellow Astartes. And as I have said, I myself am scarcely capable of defending myself against any one of you. So what is it that keeps me alive? What strange gravity stays your hands? The answer is power. I have power, and it is a force so irresistible, so immovable, that even Space Marines must make way for it sometimes. I say this not to tempt you into action, I hasten to say, but to show you that it is matters of power that determine so much of the decisions we make whether we understand that or not.

  ‘This trial is about power. It is about who holds it, to which power one bows, and the natural order of the Imperium as it is created by the power its members wield. I say to you that the principal crime of the Soul Drinkers is the flouting of that natural order of power. You have refrained from violence against me because of the place I hold in that order. Sarpedon and his brothers would not. They act outside that order. Their actions denigrate and damage it. But it is this order that holds the Imperium together, that maintains the existence of the Imperium and the species of man. Without it, all is chaos. This is the crime for which I condemn the Soul Drinkers, and thus do I demand to fall upon them a punishment that not only removes them from this universe, but proclaims the horror of their deaths as the consequence for railing against the order the Emperor Himself put in place.’