‘Push through!’ Donato yells.
And his Archangels obey. Donato sees it in flashes, by the light of gunfire and by the roar of Maeklus’ heavy flamer
Phaello, choosing his targets. Not wasting a single round.
Ivaro and Lurani with their storm-shields locked and braced.
Victorno, crushing the skull of a flesh-hound to ashes.
Ebellius turning aside the beast that come for Maeklus with a roar that is both joy and anger.
Darrago, holding the company standard high. The only gold in the darkness.
Sanyctus, swift for one clad in Terminator plate. The kind of speed that comes from angels’ blood. That comes from the song that Donato has spent decades ignoring. In the flashes of bolter-fire, Donato sees Sanyctus tear cultists asunder with his claws. Sees him break them against the marble and grow the pools of blood on the floor. As the fight drains away like the blood does over the edges of the steps, he sees Sanyctus fall to his knees with a crash of armour plates. There are furrows carved into the stone wall from where he put out his claws to try and keep from falling.
Donato goes to his side as the last of the cultists dies, and the last of the flesh-hounds are sent howling back to the warp.
‘Brother,’ he says. ‘Can you stand?’
Sanyctus raises his head. Drool strings his teeth when he opens his mouth to speak.
‘Can you hear it, brother-captain?’ he slurs.
Donato can hear many things. The hum of armour and power weapons. The thunder of his hearts. Those damned ever-present whispers. The song in his blood. Before he can say anything, Sanyctus turns his head and looks at him sidelong.
‘He watches us,’ he says, in a voice made of broken edges. ‘Our father sees. He calls for us.’
Donato has served for centuries, he has seen and heard and endured terrible things, but in that moment he feels the claws of unease cut deep. He remembers hearing words like those before, long ago. A different world. A different brother.
He remembers what he had to do.
‘Our father,’ he says. ‘You hear our father?’
Sanyctus blinks. He looks away from Donato and down at the marble floor, and the mess that is left of their enemies.
‘I fell,’ he grunts, and he sounds more like himself. ‘When did I fall?’
Donato moves his finger from the trigger of his gun. He maglocks it to his armour and puts out his hand.
‘You haven’t,’ he says, and he pulls Sanyctus to his feet, with the unspoken end of that sentence echoing in his head.
Not yet.
THE SANGUINE TEAR, NOW…
‘Could you have killed him in that moment?’ The question cuts Donato’s retelling short. The silence that falls is heavy. ‘Could you have made that choice?’
Donato looks at his brother and wonders if the question is really to do with what happened in the shrine, or if it is to do with this particular brother’s own duty.
‘I did not have to,’ Donato says.
‘That is not an answer.’
Donato has to think of training then. He has to steady his hearts.
‘In the event of a true failure, and without one of the Chaplaincy present, dealing with that failure falls to the officer of rank. It would have fallen to me.’
His brother tilts his head again in that same way as before. ‘That is still not an answer, brother-captain.’
Donato thinks of the moment in the shrine. Of Sanyctus’ words.
Our father sees.
He thinks of a scream that becomes a roar. Of an angel, becoming animal.
‘Yes,’ Donato says, with certainty. ‘I could have made that choice. I could have killed him, if I had to. When a soul is truly lost, death is a mercy.’
‘A mercy,’ his brother says. ‘For them, or for us?’
That roar echoes in Donato’s head again.
‘Both,’ he says.
THE SHRINE OF SANGUIS GLORIA, THEN…
Their path upwards brings the Archangels to another ossuary. This one is above the heartline of the shrine, so it is built for the rich and the powerful. The consecrated bodies of the dead are set into the walls and ceilings and the tall, spiral columns. The bones are coated with gold leaf, studded with gemstones and laser-etched with prayers and hymnals. Far above, slaved cherubim still circle lazily on old commands, scattering handfuls of silk shreds made to look like feathers. But the rich and powerful dead are not the only dead in the ossuary. It is the site of another slaughter. Of another rite, but this time the sacrifices are not pilgrims or priests.
They are angels.
‘The keepers of the chalice,’ Darrago says.
The Company Ancient has taken a knee to turn one of the dead. The body is shattered and broken. There are tectonic cracks in the ceramite and the plasteel is twisted and misshapen as if by heat. There is not much of the face left to recognise, but the mark of the keepers still remains. It is a loop of white silk tied around the Blood Angel’s vambrace, sewn with the icon of the golden chalice. Donato knows that Darrago wore it at one time, long ago, as he did.
But it is not the only mark that the keepers of the chalice bear.
On the throat of the shattered and broken body that was once one of their brothers, there are marks made by teeth.
‘Something drank from them,’ Donato growls.
Darrago gets back to his feet.
‘Just like the other sacrifices,’ he says.
The false feathers fall against Donato’s armour, brushing over the plates with a sound like whispers.
Just like the other sacrifices, the whispers say.
The words echo from all around them. From every curling scrap of silk and every set of frozen, gold-leafed jaws. The words are harmonised, almost choral. Donato reacts instinctively. He raises his combi-weapon and points it, though there is no target to see. No threats highlighted in his helm’s display.
‘Show yourself!’ he bellows.
Myself?
The words dizzy him, even through his helm, and he feels his nose start to bleed.
I would rather show you yourself, the whispers say.
The ossuary around Donato runs like wet paint and sloughs away. In its place grow spires and arches and panels of stained glass. They push up around him and enclose him. Donato’s hand goes to his chest, to that aching, old scar. The wind howls around him, bringing with it the smell of fire.
Perdicia.
It is always Perdicia.
Around him, his brothers fight against Zalak’s traitors. A clash of arterial red, and bruised crimson. Donato sees Ebellius and Maeklus, fighting side by side. One breaks, the other burns. He sees Darrago, planting the banner pole and standing defiant as the wind pulls at the cloth. He sees Victorno leading the charge. Phaello, sending one of the Word Bearers reeling with a well-placed shot. Lurani and Ivaro, with their shields locked. He sees Sanyctus by the flash of his claws as he cuts down another of the traitors.
Last of all, Donato sees Tur Zalak, standing at the head of the hall with his arms outstretched. Darkness coils around him like smoke. He grins, showing needle teeth.
Donato roars at the sight of him and charges forwards. His tread sends cracks through the floor underfoot, and it begins to give way. Donato’s world turns and he loses sight of Zalak. His brothers cry out around him as the floor collapses, and together they all fall through cavernous darkness until Donato loses sight of them too.
He lands like a comet striking earth. More shattered marble. He should be shattered, too, from that height, but he is not. Dust rains down on him from above and it too sounds like whispers against his Terminator plate. Perdicia is gone, as is the Temple of the Emperor Ascended. He is back in the shrine of Sanguis Gloria, with the old wound in his chest aching so much that it is almost blinding. Donato puts his hand to it again, and finds it comes away bloody. His battleplate is split, the way it was on Perdicia. Struck by a traitor’s blade.
‘You are a fool, Angel.’
The words are familiar, because Donato has heard them before. He knows the voice. It is carefully pitched and controlled. Each word enunciated.
The voice of a traitor.
Tur Zalak stands under the fall of dust. It glitters on his warped, battle-scarred armour like ice. The Dark Apostle’s face is what enrages Donato the most. Aside from those needle teeth of his, Zalak looks much as he might have before he turned. His eyes are painted with charcoal ash, golden markings tattooed beneath them.
He does not look like the monster that he is.
‘I will kill you,’ Donato says, with certainty. ‘You will fail here, as you did on Perdicia.’
Zalak smiles. ‘You might consider Perdicia a failure,’ he says. ‘But I do not. Had I completed the rite there, the reward would have been paltry in comparison to what I will be given in trade for all of this. For Sanguis Gloria, and the chalice. For true angels’ blood.’
Donato tries to get to his feet. To kill Zalak. To break him, as he should have on Perdicia. The action makes him bleed all over the marble and himself. Makes the curse in his blood sing.
‘That is far enough,’ Zalak says.
Another figure stirs in the darkness beside the Dark Apostle. It is a woman dressed in ragged robes marked with pointed sigils. She is so thin that she looks as though she was built from bones deemed too poor for the ossuary. She sticks close to Zalak like a second shadow and looks out at Donato through her tangled fall of blonde hair.
You will listen, she says, in a voice that sounds like whispers. Like feathers made from silk, brushing over his armour. That voice locks Donato’s limbs and holds him still. The psyker giggles and Donato sees pointed, bloody teeth, made for tearing.
‘You,’ he growls. ‘You bled my brothers.’
Donato struggles against the binding the psyker has placed on him. His limbs burn and his armour creaks with the stress of it.
Zalak just smiles. ‘Visia here did not bleed your brothers,’ he says. ‘They did it to one another, after they fed upon the Militia Gloria, and the priesthood.’
‘Lies,’ Donato says, struggling to such a degree that his vision dazzles. Even his bionic eye crazes with static.
‘You should have seen it, Larracus,’ Zalak says, as if he has any right to name Donato like a friend would. ‘You Blood Angels are thought of as perfect, but I can tell you that you are never more so than when you stop fighting what makes you strong.’
‘Lies,’ Donato says again, as his vision flickers.
Zalak sighs. ‘Show him,’ he says to the psyker he called Visia.
He sees it in violent, swift glimpses. Donato is struck by the smell of blood and by the taste of it, as if he himself has done the tearing. His jaw locks, crashing his teeth together.
‘See,’ Zalak says, as the visions fade and the taste of blood with it. ‘Perfect, just as I said.’
Donato manages to shake his head. Everything he was shown felt real. It felt true. He has seen enough to know that it is not impossible, too.
But still, he refuses to give in.
‘Release me,’ he says to the psyker. ‘Do so now and I will make your death swift. It will be a mercy.’
The psyker retreats behind Zalak, her bony, thin hands pressed against his vambrace. She hisses at Donato and the pressure on his limbs increases.
‘A mercy,’ Zalak says, unconcerned. ‘That is what you said to me on Perdicia, when you thought yourself victorious.’ He tilts his head. ‘You said that death was a mercy that I did not deserve.’
Zalak draws a dagger from his belt. It is jagged and crooked as if it was grown and not made. The blade is black, but it glitters like the void when he starts tapping it against the palm of his gauntlet. It is coldly familiar – the same dagger that Zalak buried in Donato’s heart. Donato tries to shout defiance at the sight of it, but he finds he cannot even do that, now. The psyker has silenced him.
She giggles again, as if she can hear his thoughts.
‘But death is not a mercy,’ Zalak says. ‘Death is a means to an end. It is payment.’ Zalak stops tapping the blade. ‘You think me indiscriminate,’ he says. ‘A monster.’ He smiles. ‘Perhaps that is true. I have done monstrous things, certainly. But I have done them gladly, knowing what I will gain in return. I have dedicated my monstrous acts to gods who love me for them. But you, Larracus Donato. You and your brothers. You hide what you are. You fight it. You call yourselves Blood Angels and clad yourselves in gold and red until the moment that you can no longer pretend to be something that you are not. That is why you think that death is a mercy. Because you would rather be dead than accept the truth.’
Zalak’s smile widens.
‘That you are the true monsters.’
He steps back and the psyker makes a shape in the air with her spindly hands. Donato sees his Archangels this time, in violent, swift glimpses, just like before. He sees Ebellius turn on Maeklus and shatter his helm and the face underneath. The two of them burn as they kill one another. He sees Darrago struck down by Victorno, before Phaello fires on him and kills him in turn. Lurani and Ivaro tear each other apart like animals. He sees Sanyctus by the flash of his claws as he cuts Phaello’s throat, before falling to his knees. Sanyctus looks right at Donato then and speaks.
‘He calls for us,’ Sanyctus says.
Zalak walks over to Sanyctus. He doesn’t react. Donato cannot even cry out to him.
‘I thought it was your blood I needed, Larracus. That you would be the one to stand on the knife’s edge of control under the Angel’s eyes. That you would be the perfect sacrifice. It would have had such symmetry. Blood for blood, after Perdicia and how you wounded me. But it was never you.’
He pulls Sanyctus’ head back to expose his throat.
‘It was always Sanyctus,’ he says, and he opens Sanyctus’ throat with the dagger.
Donato roars then, despite the psyker’s control. He moves, though he can barely breathe for the pressure. Donato gets to his feet as drool strings his teeth and blood bursts from his nose. A tear paints its way down his face at the sight of his brothers, lost, and he lunges for Zalak. Donato means to break him. To utterly destroy him. The blow never lands, because Zalak discorporates and blows away like smoke.
But the psyker does not.
Visia hisses again. She raises her hands and lashes out at Donato with panicked, invisible force, but he will not be stopped again. He will not be silenced. With the psyker weighing his limbs and cracking his battleplate open with telekinetic force, he manages to raise his combi-melta and fire.
The beam catches her full in the chest and obliterates her. In the micro-seconds before she realises that she is dead, the psyker whispers for a final time.
It was always Sanyctus, she says, as the darkness steals away and Donato finds himself standing once more in the ossuary amongst the dead. Amongst his Archangels, who are just as still.
‘Brothers,’ he says, and his voice echoes from the old bones.
For an instant, not one of them moves or speaks, and Donato’s heart aches just as keenly as it did in the dream, but then they stir and move and stand again and Donato realises that the dream was a lie. Maeklus’ faceplate is intact. Ebellius is not burned. Darrago is not broken, and Phaello did not have to fire on Victorno. Lurani and Ivaro did not tear one another apart, and Sanyctus did not turn his claws on his brothers. His throat is not cut. They are not lost.
Not yet.
THE SANGUINE TEAR, NOW…
‘Why do you think that Zalak considered Sanyctus the perfect sacrifice?’
‘Attempting to understand Zalak is madness,’ Donato says. ‘There is nothing that can be learned from the minds of heretics.’
‘I am not asking you to understand him. I am asking you to speculate, brother-captain. To draw a conclusion from observation.’ His brother tilts his head. ‘I know that you pride yourself on seeing every eventuality. Every outcome and the path that leads to it. So tell me what you saw. Speculate.’
Donato feels as
though he is training, then. As if his brother has just disarmed him. He can almost hear the clatter a blade makes when it drops. He exhales a slow breath.
‘I believe that Zalak thought Sanyctus the closest to breaking,’ he says. ‘The most affected by the shrine, and by the rite. The closest to succumbing to the Flaw.’
‘And was he?’
If Donato felt disarmed before, now he feels as though he is being held at sword-point.
‘I told you before, if he had been, I would have dealt with it.’
‘Then why do you suppose Zalak showed you those things. Why did he tell you his intent?’
The question puts Donato on the back foot. He is being outmanoeuvred.
‘In an attempt to break me,’ Donato says. ‘To make me weak. An easy kill.’
‘To make you afraid.’
Donato looks at his brother flatly. ‘Fear is lost to us. You know that. I will not say that it does not trouble me, but I feel no fear.’
His brother shrugs. It is a slight, spare movement. Everything he does is economical, until the moment his wrath is required and he stops being caged.
‘Semantics, brother-captain,’ he says. ‘The idea of succumbing to the Flaw unsettles you.’
‘It unsettles all of us,’ Donato says. ‘That, I can be sure of.’
His brother blinks. Donato thinks it might be the first time he has done so since the questioning began.
‘But you did not see yourself succumb to it,’ he says. ‘You saw your Archangels fail, one after another. You saw them murder each other, and then be murdered in turn.’
Blood Rite - Rachel Harrison Page 7