‘My boy,’ he said. ‘It gladdens me to see you.’
Traditionally, it’s considered an honour – and a prophetic sign of great deeds in one’s future – to be given a name matching one of Saturn’s moons. Such nomenclature was accordingly rare; as far as I was aware, beside myself and Enceladus, only Tethys stood among the knighthood’s current generation. As a matter of interest, the last knight to bear the name Hyperion died four thousand, three hundred and eighty-one years before I swore my oaths of service to the Golden Throne. He was killed with all honours, in battle with the Archenemy. His brothers recovered his remains. I’d visited his grave several times.
Enceladus’s voice was strong despite his age. As he was so fond of reminding me, he’d been crusading when the millennium was still newborn.
We didn’t salute one another, we embraced without shame. ‘Sothis,’ he said, not quite a question.
‘I would like to see him,’ I said. ‘But that’s not why I came here.’
‘Speak as we walk. I will take you to him.’ And he did.
We walked the Dead Fields, boots echoing around the catacombs, moving between the statues and plaques. Each chamber contained the interred dead of an entire century – the sarcophagi numbering in dozens to hundreds, room by room, depending on the number of brothers fallen in those particular decades. You could walk for hours in the Dead Fields, and never read the same inscription twice. I’d done it myself, many times.
We passed beneath the watchful stone eyes of a granite army, walking side by side along the black stone floor.
‘You’ve heard the call to war?’
He nodded. I could hear the soft purr of the mechanics in his augmetic spine. ‘I have. Armageddon is a bleak and unwelcoming industrial globe, but when has the value of dirt and iron mattered when the knighthood calls a crusade? The abomination must be banished. I may come to the gathering tonight, I may not. Either way, there will be war. The sins of Armageddon will not go unanswered.’
‘Enceladus,’ I said. ‘Master…’
‘It has been a long time since you trained under my guidance, Hyperion. I think we can put the “master” aside now, don’t you?’
I gave him a look. ‘You greeted me with “boy”.’
He didn’t chuckle. He never did. A smile was all I’d ever gotten from him. ‘Forgive an old knight his habits. Do as I say, not as I do.’
We passed more graves, walking down the centuries, closer to the present day. The smell in the Dead Fields is a mix of dust flavoured by endless journeys through ventilation exchangers, coupled with mouldering bones and mildewing parchment. Spicy, in a way. Difficult to imagine, for no tomb ever smells quite alike. Memories never smell the same.
‘You’re building up to say something. I sense it in your mind.’
I glanced at my former mentor. ‘Galeo sent me.’
That stopped him in his tracks. ‘Did he now?’
Rather than explain in words, I let the offer settle in his mind. A gentle nudge was all it took to get it there.
We resumed walking. Enceladus seemed more annoyed than confused. The lines of age cracking his face seemed deeper, less kindly. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘How can Justicar Galeo ask this of me?’
‘There is no other to ask, master. Castian cannot go to war under strength.’
‘Ah. Foolish of me not to see at once. We can’t risk one of the new initiates on a crusade none of us are likely to survive, can we?’
I tried not to laugh. ‘The noble justicar didn’t phrase it in quite those terms. And how do you know we are destined to die?’
‘A guess, from the Wolves’ desperation in contacting us.’ He met my eyes for a moment. ‘Galeo has guessed the same. That’s why he’s asking me to join Castian. As I said, we can’t waste young lives.’
‘Castian needs a fifth knight, master. You are a proven warrior.’
‘I am old, Hyperion. There is a reason they appointed me to the Sepulcar’s role.’ He gestured at the statues as we passed them. ‘I like it here. I like the peace, the serenity. I fought my wars, boy. I fought them for centuries, crusading when the millennium–’
‘When the millennium was newborn. I know, master.’
‘I have no desire to do this.’ He met my eyes with the lenses that replaced his own.
‘Is that a refusal?’
The ancient knight shook his head. ‘Of course not. Only in death does duty end. I fear I may slow my brothers down, that’s all. I have no wish for my nameplate in the Dead Fields to read that I died an old and useless warrior, unable to keep pace with his kindred.’
‘Would you rather it read that you died down here, alone in the dark?’
Enceladus’s lips quirked in the suggestion of a smile. ‘Perhaps. I’ve seen things you can’t imagine, Hyperion. I hope you never have to.’
Silence reigned between us the rest of the way. When we reached Sothis’s grave, Enceladus stepped back to give me room.
My first thought upon seeing the statue was that Malchadiel stood cast in the grey-black stone, rather than Sothis. Gone were the scars that made a patchwork of his face; here he was cast in his perfect prime, as Malchadiel still remained. Beyond that discrepancy, the statue was so lifelike I almost drew breath to speak to it. The cast of his eyes, tilted slightly down, matched his patient attention so perfectly. He neither smiled nor scowled, but regarded his surroundings with a thoughtful stare.
At his boots, the plaque read in gold on black:
Sothis of Castian
Knight of the Eighth Brotherhood
Valiant to the last. Revered by his brothers in life.
Remembered for the lessons taught by his death.
‘Your servitors and serfs work fast,’ I said.
‘They do. Most are psychic, in the least and most basic sense. They lay their hands on the fallen, perceiving his life through echoes, and sculpt the image from there. I’ve seen them create a statue from a block of untouched granite in less than an hour.’
He paused then. ‘It looks so much like him,’ Enceladus added at last. ‘I will always be proud of you, Hyperion, for you are the strongest of all the knights I ever trained. But Sothis was by far the noblest. Everything he did – every deed, every word – filled me with pride. He had more heart than Malchadiel, and more loyalty than you. Given time, he would have rivalled Dumenidon with a blade.’
What could I say to that? There was no answer but to nod, for he spoke the truth.
‘He died for me, master. I will never forget it.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Enceladus replied. ‘I know that. No one blames you, except perhaps Malchadiel. You’re right to remember his sacrifice. Sothis believed your life was worth more than his. Make sure he died being right about that.’ The old knight turned away. I didn’t think less of him for his silent tears.
My gauntlet rested on Sothis’s breastplate, as if I could feel a heartbeat within the cold granite.
+Thank you,+ I sent into the stone, into the plaque with its gold letters, into the body interred beneath.
‘I sense your guilt, Hyperion,’ my master said behind me.
I thought of the moment again: of Sothis coming apart in the daemon’s claws, of a blood-storm spilling into the air as a shower of red diamonds.
Finally, I lifted my hand away from my brother’s chest.
‘I’m making no effort to hide it, master.’
II
Before we left the Dead Fields, I paid my respects at the Tomb of the Eight. Here, immortalised in blood jade, the first eight Grand Masters of the Brotherhoods stood at the catacombs’ entrance. Seven of them claimed a plinth of silver, depicting their names and the brotherhoods they’d commanded. The central display, on a plinth of gold, was the statue of the first Supreme Grand Master – Lord Janus himself – his helmeted head tilted up in watchful reverence, looking towards the stars he was destined to save. Time had toyed with the jade statues, but erosion’s fingers hadn’t yet managed to wipe all detail fr
om their forms. Perhaps in another ten thousand years, knights of my order would come to pay their respects to featureless figures down here in the dark.
Or perhaps Vasilla was right, and this millennium would be our last. My skin crawled afresh at the thought.
The statue on the eighth plinth showed a warrior in the same armour of blood jade as his brothers, one boot lifted to rest on a sculpted boulder. He carried a nemesis halberd, the spearpoint thrust into the plinth itself, letting him lean upon it with casual indifference. Whatever features he possessed in life were hidden beneath his helm, which in turn was weathered to near smoothness by time’s touch.
Khyron
Grand Master of the Eighth Brotherhood
‘Already, you exalt me for my triumphs,
When I ask only that you remember me for my treacheries.
Victory is nothing more than survival.
It carries no weight of honour or worth beyond what we ascribe to it.
If you wish to grow wise, learn why brothers betray brothers.’
I’d never understood the words, though they’d always fascinated me. Was the truth behind the inscription locked in the inner sanctum’s archives, secreted away only for the eyes of our leaders? Who could say? We had as many legends of our brotherhood’s founding lord as there were stars in the night sky. The champions he’d slain, the wars he’d won, the daemons he’d banished – who knew how much had been twisted through the centuries? Even our records, meticulous as we liked to believe them, still suffered from human error when inscribed, and a great deal of our records were sequestered by knight-lords and our Inquisitorial masters.
I rose from my reverence, and looked back at Enceladus. ‘Who will serve as Sepulcar in your absence?’
‘The servitors can abide, for a time. The serfs will manage them.’
‘And the Ferrymen?’
He said nothing. Even his mind retreated from mine, growing colder, tighter. Some secrets were not to be probed, even between close kindred.
‘Forget I asked,’ I said.
+Hyperion.+
+Coming, justicar.+
‘Enceladus, I am summoned.’
The old knight acceded with a nod. ‘Go, my boy. Tell Galeo he has my blade, for what it’s worth. I have preparations to make down here before we leave for Armageddon.’
III
The Hall of Champions could seat one thousand warriors in neat order, with room for a legion of serving menials.
That night, it housed scarcely more than a hundred of us. Even this was a gathering of rare significance; like all Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, we rarely came together outside of the largest crusades. A handful of squads was considered a force worthy enough to purge an entire world – what gathered there in the hall then would have conquered nothing short of an entire subsector.
Every squad gathered bore the heraldry of their own brotherhoods, with the tilt plates affixed to each justicar’s shoulder guards declaring their own squad’s prowess and history. I saw the names and deeds of knights I’d only read about in the archives, just as I saw a spread of titles and squads I’d never heard of at all.
How many of them saw the Seven Blade insignia of Castian on Galeo’s shoulder guard and felt stirred by the presence of such a squad? I couldn’t guess. He received more than his fair share of nods and salutes, however. My justicar’s heroism had been told in countless tales across two hundred years. I was proud to stand at his side, and prouder still to have Justicar Castian’s skull on the weapon over my shoulder.
Lining the Hall of Champions on either side were the statues that gave the immense chamber its name: A marble army – the Stone Legion, we’d named them during our decades as squires and acolytes – stood in silent vigil. Nine and a half thousand years of war is an eternity for heroes to rise from the ranks and fall in battle. Every one of the knights enshrined here in white stone had entire litanies written in honour of their deeds. Our greatest heroes, immortalised in marble, still standing among us. Galeo would surely stand with them one night, when his blade no longer defended mankind among the stars. It was difficult to imagine his graven image rendered in cold stone, watching from the walls.
He smiled as he sensed my thoughts.
+Perhaps,+ he allowed. +Nothing is certain.+
Castian himself was here – one of the few knights beneath the rank of paladin or captain to be placed in such exalted company. He stood with his head bowed in solemn reverence, eyes sculpted closed, both hands resting on the nemesis warding stave he’d favoured in life. The haft of my weapon had been forged for my hands and tuned for my consciousness, but the similarities were there for all to see. Not for the first time, I felt unworthy in the eyes of my brothers.
Rather than sit at the feasting tables, we stood in loose ranks, squad by squad, facing the highest table.
Tradition dictated that one of the Grand Masters of the Eight Brotherhoods must always remain on Titan, guarding it in his brothers’ absence. Lord Karas Vaurmand, Grand Master of the Third Brotherhood, stood by the table. His posture spoke of his grave frustration, with his fisted gauntlets pressed to the table’s surface, supporting him as he leaned forwards to address us. His face betrayed his advanced age – he was a warrior that would never see four hundred again – while his burnished armour dictated victory upon victory in gold-leaf script.
Four paladins, armoured in colossal suits of Terminator warplate, stood at his side. Unhelmed, they watched the gathering with naked eyes, their own faces lined by the trials of several centuries’ service. I’d never met any of them face to face, but I knew all four of them by name, by deed, and by the destruction they’d brought to mankind’s enemies.
Vaurmand took a breath before continuing. His voice was low enough to carry with ease.
‘The Space Wolves vessel Veregelt lies dead on the surface of our world. It carried naught but fragments of a message Logan Grimnar would have us hear. Now she lies at the heart of her own tomb-canyon, broken by her final fall to the surface and split open to the poisonous air. More than that, she caused lamentable loss of life among our fleet. This, you all know. We know the Wolves of Fenris fight on Armageddon. We know they believe the situation dire enough that the Great Wolf has broken his vow of secrecy and told his warriors that we exist. If we are to believe what we’ve seen, no other way existed for him to reach us.’
Vaurmand paused, letting his words sink in. If the Space Wolves survived Armageddon, the Chapter would need to endure telepathic scouring. Only Adeptus Astartes Chapter Masters could know we walked in the Imperium’s shadows. So stated the tradition, and so had it always been since our Founding. Most Imperial Guard regiments we fought beside were simply executed. Mere men armed with cheap lasrifles were an inexhaustible commodity all too easily replaced in humanity’s empire.
‘The Veregelt’s wreckage was wretched with taint, with no pure survivors. The downed escape pods held nothing more than the slavering dregs of an infected crew, seeking to preserve their worthless lives for another handful of hours. Each of them has been tracked, codified, and purged.’
Rare was the enemy that managed to set a defiling foot upon Titan’s surface. Several of the knights beat their fists against their chestplates in applause, while others shared whispered words.
‘We also have the warning brought by the noble Galeo of Castian, and his knights of the Eighth Brotherhood. Another Space Wolves ship, this one cast off-course, also soured by the foulest taint. And with them comes something more: a survivor. Inquisitor Annika Jarlsdottyr of the Ordo Malleus has questioned this Wolf. He speaks of a world lost to war, of entire continents overrun by the Archenemy.
‘Our own augurs and Prognosticars have spoken with the survivor, as I speak with you. They have studied the testament of Justicar Galeo, and listened to the words of Inquisitor Jarlsdottyr. They quest now, piercing the Sea of Souls, to see with their own eyes the poison that threatens Armageddon.’
The gathering of so many powerful minds generated a mute
d background hum, underlying everything Lord Vaurmand said. But as he reached those last words, when he spoke of our own prophets and seers heeding the Wolf’s warning, I felt the presence of every knight grow sharper. To look upon the gathered warriors, nothing was different – but to hear their minds, every consciousness was suddenly as keen as a sword’s edge.
‘Brothers,’ Lord Vaurmand continued. ‘Before this, our Prognosticars sensed no greater unrest in the Sea of Souls, else the call to crusade would have come down from the monastery’s spire-tops long before now. Whatever madness the Archenemy has brought to Armageddon, the Ruinous Powers masked it well. I bid you sit, and feast in the sanctity of this great hall. The truth will be ours before the night’s end.’
We saluted in unity, all one hundred and twenty-three of us. As we turned to take our places at the feasting tables, a voice drifted through my mind, as subtle as my own thoughts.
+Castian,+ it said. +Come with me.+
IV
Few souls, even among our order, ever set foot in the monastery’s Augurium. At the height of the tallest tower, high enough that its spire pierces the toxic Titan skies, sits the aerie of the knights we name Prognosticars.
Lord Vaurmand led us from the teleportation platform, after sparing us the sixteen thousand steps – or a slow lifter ride up the tower’s side. We emerged in a preparation chamber, the marble floor patterned in pink veins, with two paladins standing watch before a great gate of blackened bronze. Each of them wore Terminator plate with personal heraldry: the former bore a crow clutching a blade in its talons; the latter, two crossed halberds above a red skull.
Even the floor fascinated me. +This marble is from Holy Terra,+ I pulsed to my brothers.
+How do you know?+ Mal sent back.
+The pink veins in the stone. That kind of marble doesn’t form anywhere else in the Sol System.+
Our boots thumped across the sacred stone as we approached the paladins. Lord Vaurmand inclined his head. The rest of us gave more distinct bows.
The Emperor's Gift Page 16