Jean-Robur watched the inexorable approach of the armoured giant, the huge sword in its massive gauntleted hand crackling with energy. His fist tightening around the handle of his own falchion, Jean-Robur’s thoughts raced, trying to devise a way out.
But there was no way out. There was nowhere to run. With madness and confusion on all sides, it was unlikely Jean-Robur could get very far even if he did try to escape, and despite their massive size and heavy armour the giants were able to move surprisingly quickly, so the giant stalking towards him would likely catch up before Jean-Robur was able to take more than a dozen steps.
Jean-Robur’s emotions were numb. He felt like an observer inside his own head, viewing his surroundings at a step removed. He found himself thinking briefly of the taste of a glass of vintage wine he’d sampled months before, and the whisper kiss of silk sheets against his bare skin, and all the other sundry pleasures he’d left behind in Caritaigne and that he would now never know again. He would meet his end, here on this distant and barbaric island, and would never enjoy the privilege and status that his spurs would have afforded.
But if he were to die, so be it. He would show the shade of his cousin Benoit and all the braying fools like him that Jean-Robur du Queste was every inch a man. He would give no enemy, whether Sipangish or islander or unknown giant come from the stars, the satisfaction of seeing a proud son of the house of du Queste unmanned by fear. He would not beg for his life, but would face his death bravely and without fear.
Jean-Robur raised the point of his falchion, squaring his feet in a ready stance. Once again he heard from behind him an angry voice shouting in the incomprehensible and guttural tones of Sipang, but he paid it no mind. He readied himself for a duel he knew he could not win.
But though his every rational impulse told Jean-Robur that he had not the slightest chance of defeating so large and powerful an opponent, nevertheless did his darting eyes seek out any possible advantage. He might fall before the armoured giant, but Jean-Robur was not about to go down easily.
Zatori raised his master’s tachina overhead, teeth bared, and shouted out once again his cry for vengeance.
“Murderer, prepare to taste vengeance! With this blade I shall restore the honour of the one slain by your cowardice and treachery! Your blood shall assuage the spirit of the dead!”
But this time the Caritaigne murderer did not even seem to notice Zatori’s shouts of anger as he approached. Before, at least, the Caritaigne had glanced in his direction before turning dismissively away, but now the murderer just stood fast, facing the armoured giant that was now only a half-dozen steps away.
Zatori was almost within striking range of the Caritaigne’s back, while the murderer focused his attention on the armoured giant.
“Turn, murderer, and face justice!” Zatori shouted, now only a few paces behind the Caritaigne. But the murderer did not turn, either not hearing Zatori or not caring.
Zatori knew he could strike the Caritaigne down in a single blow, before the murderer even knew the attack was coming. But even as hungry as Zatori was for vengeance, and to remove the stain from Father Nei’s sullied honour, still Zatori found he couldn’t bring himself to stab an opponent in the back. Not even one who had himself used such a cowardly attack. To defeat the Caritaigne dishonourably would do nothing to cleanse Father Nei’s honour, but would only stain it further.
If the Caritaigne murderer would not turn and face Zatori, there was only one alternative, though it pained Zatori to consider it. He would help to defeat the murderer’s opponent in honourable combat, and then demand that the Caritaigne face him.
Taking several long strides to the right, Zatori came abreast of the Caritaigne—well beyond the reach of the Caritaigne’s blade, in case the murderer chose to launch a treacherous attack at him in these final moments—and raised his tachina towards the armoured giant. The Caritaigne did not acknowledge his arrival, but only glanced in his direction for the briefest of instants, with no more attention than he gave to casting his gaze on the ground underfoot, or the proximity of the nearest bodies and wreckage around them—Zatori was just another factor in the immediate environment, but the real enemy was the armoured giant.
The chances of the two young swordsmen defeating the massive figure seemed remote to say the least, whether or not it was a holy warrior they faced. But if Zatori died, it would be with his own honour intact. And if he were unable to restore the sullied honour of Father Nei, then he would have to attempt some redress from the land of spirits. Zatori hoped that his master’s spirit would understand.
Taloc watched as the Sipangish halted a few paces behind a Caritaigne swordsman, shouting a challenge whose words Taloc could not comprehend but whose general meaning was unmistakable. But when the Caritaigne refused to turn, the Sipangish bafflingly refrained from attacking, and instead took up a position to the Caritaigne’s right, evidently intending to fight against the giant at his enemy’s side.
Taloc did not believe for an instant that any mortal could stand against one the massive sky-devils, even two mortals fighting side-by-side. But while his father’s blood-debt demanded to be paid, Taloc could not help but admire the courage the two enemies displayed in standing against so unstoppable a foe. These two faithless were exhibiting the kind of bravery that Eokaroeans sang about in song, the kind of heart that earned untold glory for a warrior’s clan and a name for a nameless ironbrand. Cutting down the Sipangish who had killed his father would pay Tonan’s blood-debt, to be sure, but how much greater the glory Taloc could bring to his clan and to his father’s name if he were to stand bravely alongside these faithless against one of the unstoppable invaders from the sky?
And if the three should prevail, against all hope and reason, and defeat the sky-devil? Why, Taloc could simply take payment on his father’s blood-debt then and there, and kill the Sipangish with his own ironbrand.
Taloc paced ahead, veering to the left of the Caritaigne, opposite his Sipangish quarry, and raising his ironbrand turned to face the sky-devil’s approach.
It was possible they could defeat such a giant. It hardly seemed likely, though, so Taloc resolved not to let it worry him. More than likely they would all meet their ends at the point of the sky-devil’s crackling blade, and then their respective blood-debts would fall on the shoulders of others to pay.
Captain Taelos of the Imperial Fists stopped a half-dozen paces away from the three Triandrians standing in a line. In his right fist he held the handle of his power sword, energy coruscating up and down the blade’s edge like heat lightning. In his left hand he held an auspex, that pinged faintly like the sound of raindrops hitting the still surface of a pond. The giant raised the device, pointing it first at the Eokaroean warrior, then the Caritaigne duelist, then the Sipangish squire. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, the giant clipped the device to a hook at his waist, and regarded the three young men for a moment, his own expression hidden behind his armoured helm.
“Come on, what are you waiting for?” shouted Jean-Robur du Queste in the liquid sounds of Caritaigne, waving his falchion impatiently.
“Hurry if you would please, stranger,” Zatori Zan said calmly in the language of Sipang. “I have a matter of honour that must be addressed.”
“For the glory of the clan of Tonan!” called Taloc s’Tonan in the strident tone of Eokaroe. “And for the glory of the Great Father in the Sky!”
None of the three Triandrians could understand one another, but it hardly mattered. Captain Taelos was fully versed in all the languages of Triandr, thanks to linguistic implants via hypno-conditioning onboard the Imperial Fist strike cruiser Capulus while still en route to the planet.
But though he was conversant in all the planet’s tongues, when he addressed the three young swordsmen before him, Captain Taelos first spoke Imperial Gothic, the common language of the Imperium of Man.
“I greet you in the name of the Emperor of Mankind, ho sits in undying glory upon the Golden Throne on Holy Terra its
elf.”
The three Triandrians clearly did not understand the captain’s words, but from their expressions it appeared that they fund the sound of them hauntingly familiar.
“You have been examined, and found worthy of a signal honour.”
The three Triandrians exchanged glances, none of them able to puzzle out the captain’s meaning. Then, without a word being exchanged, the three turned their attentions back to Captain Taelos and raised their blades defiantly against him.
Taelos laughed, a sound like the rumbling of distant thunder.
“I admire your spirit, and I salute you,” he said in the language of Eokaroe, then in the tongues of Caritaigne and Sipang.
The three Triandrians swordsmen seemed startled to hear the familiar sounds of their native languages rumbling from the captain’s helmet.
“I come to your world seeking recruits, not vassals,” he said in each language in turn. “I offer you the chance to join a noble brotherhood of warriors, and to live a life you cannot even dream is possible.” He raised his sword before him, point towards the heavens. “You will travel beyond the stars, and see sights you can scarcely imagine.”
The three swordsmen slowly lowered their weapons. Captain Taelos knew what choice they would make. But it was important that it be their own decision.
“Come with me, and I will make you more than mere men. I will make you holy warriors—Sons of Dorn!”
Captain Taelos ushered the three swordsmen to the nearest Thunderhawk, taking the blade from each as they clambered tremulously onboard. Sergeant Hilts was already there, supervising the loading of the candidates.
“It would seem a successful cull,” Taelos said, his gaze scanning the battlefield, and his battle-brothers escorting young warriors in small groups to the gunships.
“Nearly two thousand, at last count,” Sergeant Hilts replied.
“Good,” Taelos answered. “With luck, perhaps a few of them will survive the trials.”
Hilts nodded in reply. “We should get a few neophytes out of this crop, I would expect. And maybe some of them will even make it to battle-brother.” He gestured to the three Triandrian blades the captain held in his fist. “Starting a collection, sir?”
Taelos looked from the veteran-sergeant to the blades, thoughtfully, but didn’t reply.
PART TWO
“Pain is the wine of communion with heroes.”
–Rhetoricus, The Book of Five Spheres
CHAPTER FOUR
Captain Taelos stood at the railing of the command dais onboard the strike cruiser Capulus. Having only returned from the planet’s surface, he was still encased in full gold power armour, a gauntleted hand on the hilt of the power sword sheathed at his side. Only his head was bare, and as he cast his narrowed gaze about the command deck, he could feel the faint touch of the ship’s recirculated air against his naked flesh.
All around him dozens of servitors operated the innumerous controls that governed the ship’s systems and processes, making ready for the moment which was fast approaching when the Capulus would break orbit and leave Triandr behind. In another few generations, perhaps, the Imperial Fists would return to this remote world to cull the population once more for potential recruits, but for the moment it was of no further interest to the Chapter.
The long months of Taelos’ current recruiting mission were finally nearing an end. When the Capulus next left realspace and translated into the empyrean, the Navigator would guide the ship through the warp’s insane geometries back to the Chapter’s fortress-monastery, the Phalanx. Taelos would present to Chapter Master Pugh a cadre of neophytes, and perhaps then Taelos would be granted permission to pursue his warrior pilgrimage.
Of course, that thin hope was predicated on the notion that any of the current crop of aspirants had the mettle to pass muster as neophytes in the first place. And that remained to be seen.
Captain Taelos was shaken from his reverie by the sound of heavy footfalls approaching the command dais, and turned to see the approach of a trio of figures.
First came Librarian Borgos, in robes of golden yellow that set off the somewhat sallow cast of his skin. His nose was long and slightly curved like a raptor’s beak, and on his cheeks were the same sort of criss-crossed duelling scars worn by Taelos and most other Imperial Fists, badges of honour earned in the Arena Restricta. And above those white-scarred cheeks, Borgos’ eyes were milky-white and sightless. Combat injuries had claimed Borgos’ vision long decades before, but unlike other Astartes who found themselves in his position, the epistolary had refused augmetic implants. Instead, he chose to use other senses to guide his way through the world, his psychic abilities perceiving far more than merely mundane sight could ever see. And any opponents on the field of battle who thought that his blind eyes made him any the less capable of wielding the force sword that hung at his hip soon learned the error in their reasoning.
“Greetings, Librarian,” Taelos said, inclining his head in an abbreviated nod.
“Captain,” Borgos said simply.
Next came Apothecary Lakari. On his back he wore the portable narthecium he carried into combat, though the chances of encountering an enemy onboard the strike cruiser were all but nil. Taelos had once asked the Apothecary why he carried the portable narthecium while onboard the Capulus, when the ship’s Apothecarion contained a full-scale narthecium, to say nothing of housing every other tool and treatment required for the healing arts. Lakari had looked at Taelos as though he had begun suddenly to spout gibberish, and calmly explained that one could never predict when injury might befall an Astartes, and that it simply paid to be prepared.
“Apothecary,” Taelos said, nodding in Lakari’s direction.
The Apothecary responded only with a quick glance in Taelos’ direction and a brief nod in return.
Last came Chaplain Dominicus, his face hidden behind a silver death’s-head mask, his coal-black armour encrusted with the ribbons and scrolls of countless purity seals. Around the Chaplain’s neck hung his rosarius, an amulet depicting an Imperial aquila, wings outstretched, with the icon of a black fist emblazoned on its breast—not merely a symbol of the Ecclesiarchy, the amulet incorporated a force-field generator, and served to protect the body as well as the soul. In the Chaplain’s hands was his crozius arcanum, a skull-headed staff that served Dominicus both as staff of office and as power weapon of choice.
“And the Emperor’s blessings on you, captain,” Dominicus said, lowering the skull-head of his staff in benediction.
“The Venerable Dorn keep you in his graces, Chaplain,” Captain Taelos replied. He then turned to regard the others. “My thanks for responding to my summons. I wanted to let you know that we have completed our business on Triandr, and will presently begin the journey back to the designated rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.”
“I trust that your journey planetside was a success, captain?” Librarian Borgos asked, head tilted slightly back and sightless eyes trained on the empty air before him, his voice so quiet it was scarcely above a whisper.
“The Thunderhawks returned to the Capulus with bellies filled with recruits,” Taelos answered, “just over two thousand young Triandrians in all.” He paused, a slight smile tugging up the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly. “Though whether that number represents ‘success’, I suppose, depends largely on your findings.” He glanced from the blind eyes of the Librarian to the Chaplain’s silver skull-mask to the bare face of the Apothecary. In a sense, the captain’s fate rested in the hands of these worthies, as they would be responsible for the exhaustive examination of the aspirants in the months-long journey back to the Phalanx. And if too many of the aspirants were found wanting, the Capulus would be despatched on another recruiting mission, and Taelos’ hopes to seek atonement on a warrior pilgrimage would be once more put in abeyance.
“I have reviewed your preliminary scans,” Apothecary Lakari said, “and the results are promising.” The captain and the other Imperial Fists who had gone on
the recruiting mission to the surface of Triandr had performed preliminary physical examinations by auspex, as they had on more than a dozen worlds before, returning to the strike cruiser only with those candidates who fit the physical profile. But the examinations which the Apothecary would employ in the coming weeks and months would be considerably more robust, and could potentially find defects and incompatibilities undetectable by a standard auspex.
Like the recruits culled from the worlds already visited by the Capulus on this recruiting mission, the aspirants selected from the planet below were all young men between the ages of ten and fourteen years, all of suitable phenotype and morphology. Any potentials who had been beyond the age of fourteen had been left behind, deemed as already too fully grown for the successful administration of an Astartes’ implants, which required that the recipient’s body still be in the process of development. And while an auspex could do a basic scan of tissue compatibility, there was the possibility of variation on the genetic level that could still result in implanted organs failing to develop properly, which could only be identified in cellular-level examination in a fully equipped Apothecarion.
“A surface scan of the incoming Thunderhawks betrayed no trace of warp-taint in the minds within,” Librarian Borgos said in his whisper-quiet voice, “but infection by the Ruinous Powers can often be insidious and difficult to root out. Individual examinations will be required to confirm that there are no hints of taint or other mental weakness among them.”
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