Blood Rite - Rachel Harrison

by Warhammer 40K

  Closer, the chalice says.

  And Sanyctus pushes forwards. He breaks the line, leaving Darrago behind.

  ‘Adiccio!’ he keeps shouting. ‘No! Stop!’

  Sanyctus sees Darrago try to follow, to stop him, but the Company Ancient is halted by shadowed, horned daemons that resolve from the marble and the storm. They claw at Darrago’s armour and sing twisted joy. Sanyctus wants to help his brother, but he can’t. He cannot stop. He must reach the chalice. He turns away, cutting down the possessed Word Bearers with strength that comes from pain and rage and grief. He cuts through the Devoted cultists who remain. Spills their blood. It hangs in the air before being drawn into the growing rift and swallowed, with a sound like laughter. The rift screams and yawns and opens wide. Tectonic fractures run through the shrine, splitting the floor underfoot and sending cracks up the walls. What glassaic is left blows inwards in glittering clouds, cutting Sanyctus’ face and clattering against his armour.

  And the chalice’s pleading word becomes a song-like scream.

  Sanyctus’ limbs tremor inside his armour as he climbs the stairs to the dais. Mortar dust coats him like a shroud, and chunks of stone clatter down on either side of him. The rift grows and grows, and his vision tunnels to a needle’s eye. All that he can see is the chalice. The dark, pulsing striae twisting through what is left of the gold. Flaws, made by darkness.

  Adiccio, the chalice says.

  Sanyctus puts out his hand. The rite and the rift splinter the claws and the gauntlet. Shatter his armour clean away. He feels the agony the chalice feels, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through the pain and the darkness, dimly aware that Tur Zalak is with him on the dais. The Dark Apostle is laughing. Saying something Sanyctus cannot quite catch.

  Something about sacrifices.

  Sanyctus feels a blade press against his throat, but he will not stop now. Not even if it means death. So he reaches out with the last of his strength, and he takes hold of the chalice.

  And loses the shrine to darkness.

  When Sanyctus’ sight returns to him, he finds himself walking up a steep desert dune, holding the chalice of Sanguis Gloria in one hand. The gold is blackened and twisted, and the gemstones have splintered like poorly made glass. He is unarmed. Unarmoured. Clad in a simple tunic and trousers made of roughweave fabric. The sun hangs ahead, a bright white disc that heats the dunes around him. The sand burns the soles of his bare feet with every step. It is treacherous. Sliding and shifting as he climbs. He puts out his free hand to keep from falling, and that burns too.

  Sanyctus looks back over his shoulder. The bottom of the dune is lost to darkness. The wind howls down there. It sounds almost animal. It would be easier to stop. To give up. To turn around and let the sand take him back to the valley below, into the cold darkness.

  Sanyctus blinks and curls his burned-raw hand into a fist, then he struggles back to his feet and continues upwards.

  He has to reach the top of the dune.

  He has to follow the other footprints.

  They are larger than his own. Evenly spaced and unbroken, as if the sand did not have the heart to break beneath the climber. On either side of the set of footprints there are shallow furrows from something trailing and catching the sand.

  Adiccio.

  Sanyctus looks up to the top of the dune, where the sun sits. It is too bright to look upon for long. Dazzling. It prompts a tear from his good eye that falls and hits the sand where it is swallowed up straight away.

  Closer.

  Sanyctus starts to run as best he can up the face of the dune. The sand slides and pulls and tries to trip him, but he puts his feet into those other prints and finds the safe path. The only path that leads to the summit. He reaches the top with his hearts beating loud in his chest and his skin burned from the sand, and he falls to his knees. It is not because of the pain, or the exertion. It is because of the figure waiting for him. Tall and glorious and rendered in light.

  ‘Father,’ Sanyctus manages to say.

  The figure takes a step closer, and the bright light dims just enough for Sanyctus to glimpse feathered wings, and soulful eyes. A patient, proud smile.

  My son.

  Sanyctus cannot bear those words, or that smile. He glances down at the chalice of Sanguis Gloria, blackened and broken.

  ‘I have failed you,’ Sanyctus says, and those words hurt more than any injury he has ever received. ‘I could not stop them. The chalice is damaged. Too far gone to be saved.’

  Adiccio.

  Sanyctus looks up at the sound of his name.

  The chalice is merely an object. A beautiful one, surely, but just an object nonetheless. It is not my legacy. Neither is Sanguis Gloria. Legacies are not made of gold, nor stone. Not thread nor script. Shrines may fall, and icons may be lost, but my legacy remains in you, Adiccio. You and every one of your brothers. My Blood Angels.

  Sanyctus thinks of everything he is. Everything that he has done. He smells blood and tastes it, and his limbs start to shake.

  ‘Your legacy,’ he says, and he feels hollow. ‘I want that to be true, but I think that it cannot be. I think that I am damaged too. Just like the chalice. Too far gone to be saved.’

  His father looks down at him. A tear paints its way from the primarch’s eye. It falls and hits the dune, where it becomes another grain of sand. This close, they glitter like precious stones.

  No, he says. You are not. You chose to fight the pull of the sand. The call of the darkness. You chose to tread the steeper, more difficult path towards the light. The Flaw might tempt you and test you, but in those moments of being tested you will find strength. The will to deny it. You are made to fight, my son. To endure. You are strong.

  And with his father’s words washing over him, Sanyctus feels strong. Nothing hurts anymore. Not his burned skin, nor his injuries. Not his head, nor his hearts.

  ‘I will not fail you, father,’ he says.

  Sanguinius puts out his hand.

  I know, he says.

  Sanyctus glances once more at the chalice in his hand. The twisted form of it. Then he reaches up and takes hold of his father’s hand, and the world goes white.

  Sanyctus takes a breath as though breaking the surface of water. He tastes blood, smoke and spoiling.

  Molten gold.

  The chalice is in his hand. The gold flows like water, coating his arm and searing the skin. Lightning arcs from the chalice to his battleplate. To the dais around him. Above him, the gateway to all the hells of man’s imagination screams. That blade is still at his throat, as if no time has passed at all, but it must have, because Sanyctus doesn’t feel pain. He feels strong, just as he did at the summit of that dune.

  ‘The last and greatest sacrifice,’ Tur Zalak hisses.

  Sanyctus blinks. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not a sacrifice. I am my father’s legacy.’

  And with that, he tears the chalice free from the storm and crushes it in his hand. The storm screams and lightning arcs wildly. Golden fire travels up Sanyctus’ arms and across his body, despite his armour. It scorches his face. It burns Zalak, too, shattering the black dagger in his hand. Zalak screams like the storm does, his skin afire. Sanyctus endures it, because that is what he is made to do.

  Because he is strong.

  He turns and lights the claws he has left and cuts the Dark Apostle deeply. Deep enough to damage both of the traitor’s hearts. Zalak staggers backwards down the steps. He coughs up black blood and smoke.

  ‘A perfect thing,’ Zalak slurs, with his eyes fixed and dilated. ‘A perfect, violent thing.’

  And then there is the boom of a bolt-shell detonation, and Zalak’s grin disappears in a burst of blood. He falls, dead. Donato is standing, despite the terrible wound in his chest. Smoke spirals from the muzzle of his storm bolter.

  ‘I said that I would do it,’ he manages to say, to the still form of Zalak. ‘I told you I would kill you.’

  With Zalak’s death, the storm completely destabilises. That ya
wning rift screams and roars and sings and starts to draw back in. The Dark Apostle’s body is drawn up into it. Taken gladly by clawed hands and remora-mouths. Daemons are stretched and pulled and torn apart as they too are taken back by the rift. Another tectonic rumble shakes the shrine, and the floor underfoot splits further. Columns of stone collapse around Sanyctus as he staggers down from the dais towards his brothers.

  ‘Adiccio.’

  For a moment, Sanyctus thinks himself back on the dune under the bright white sun, but of course the voice is Darrago’s. His old friend still lives, though his armour is shattered and burned and broken. Phaello and Victorno are standing, too. Ebellius and Maeklus.

  ‘It is done,’ Sanyctus says.

  He takes a step forward and falls to one knee. Puts out his burned, unarmoured hand to catch himself. It doesn’t hurt. None of it hurts. His brothers pull him back to his feet and help take his weight. He dimly hears Donato contacting the Sanguine Tear over the ringing in his ears.

  ‘The chalice,’ Sanyctus says, finding he has to reach for words. For coherent thought.

  ‘It is gone, Adiccio,’ Darrago says. ‘And it is for the better. It could not be saved.’

  Sanyctus shakes his head, because that isn’t what he was trying to say.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But it is not his legacy. We are. He told me so.’

  Darrago puts his hand on his shoulder. ‘Who, brother?’ he asks.

  Sanyctus feels the unmistakable chill of the teleport building around them. Hoarfrost crawls over his armour.

  ‘Our father,’ he says. ‘He told me so.’

  The last thing he sees is the concern in Darrago’s dark eyes, and then the world lights white again.

  THE SANGUINE TEAR, NOW…

  When Sanyctus finishes his retelling, there is a long moment of silence that is filled by the snarl of Astorath’s armour. The High Chaplain’s dark eyes are unreadable, as always. He has not removed his hand from the pommel of his executioner’s axe.

  ‘I spoke with your brothers before coming here,’ Astorath says.

  Those words are not the ones that Sanyctus expects, so he cannot help his reply.

  ‘Why?’ he asks.

  ‘Because I am never asked for by those who are in need of judgement,’ Astorath says. ‘It is the dirge that calls me. The song of death. I hear it always.’ He puts his free hand to his chest, over his hearts. ‘No matter how far distant my brothers may be, I hear it and I answer. I do what must be done.’

  Sanyctus knows what that means. He has known souls who have been granted redemption by Astorath’s blade. Every Blood Angel has. It is what makes the High Chaplain both revered, and loathed. Sanyctus wonders for a moment at what a burden that is for Astorath to bear. To be so alone amongst brothers. He is a part of their father’s legacy, too. The darkest part.

  ‘But not this time,’ Astorath continues. ‘This time I was called upon not by the dirge, but by you. That is not the way of things, which is why I spoke with your brothers. They spoke highly of you, Adiccio Sanyctus,’ he says. ‘They named you as friend. A hero, and a brother. But they spoke honestly too of what they saw in the shrine. Of moments of fury and violence. You yourself have told me of the pull of the chalice. Of what you saw when you laid a hand upon it.’

  Astorath narrows his dark eyes. An expression crosses his face that Sanyctus cannot name.

  ‘You saw our father.’

  Sanyctus glances down. He opens his hand again and looks upon the icon of the chalice that he holds. The burns on his hand have made patterns in his skin. They almost look as though they could be pressure marks, from the grip of another hand.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That is what I saw.’

  He looks back up at Astorath. The High Chaplain is still watching him in that same way, with his eyes narrowed.

  ‘When the dirge brings me to a brother in need of judgement, they roar and scream in their delirium. They speak of our father, too. Of his death, and the arch-traitor who slew him. They see it. Experience it for themselves. They become trapped within it. It is agony, endless and tormenting. But you do not roar, or scream. You speak not of our father’s death. You are not in agony.’

  Sanyctus shakes his head. He feels no pain at all, though he should. Just that same distant calm.

  ‘What you saw was something else,’ Astorath says. ‘This is neither the Rage, nor the Thirst.’

  ‘Then what, High Chaplain?’

  There is another heavy pause, in which Sanyctus recognises Astorath’s expression, and understands why he found it so difficult to discern.

  It is uncertainty.

  ‘I do not know,’ the High Chaplain says. ‘A dream, perhaps. A vision. Something conjured by trauma. That I cannot say.’ Astorath shakes his head. ‘But I do not hear the dirge in you.’

  Sanyctus becomes still. He feels as though his hearts have ceased.

  ‘Then, the Flaw?’ he asks.

  ‘It lives in you still,’ Astorath says. ‘It is a part of you, and that cannot be changed. It is merely quieted, for now. Your descent arrested.’

  Sanyctus thinks of his father’s words.

  The Flaw might tempt you and test you, but in those moments of being tested you will find strength.

  ‘I understand,’ Sanyctus says, and the words are only half meant for Astorath. ‘Then what is your judgement, High Chaplain?’

  Astorath finally moves his hand from the pommel of his axe.

  ‘I have none to offer,’ he says. ‘I do not judge angels. Only the lost.’

  Sanyctus blinks. Astorath deactivates and removes the manacles, setting him free.

  ‘My thanks, brother,’ Sanyctus says.

  There is a subtle change in Astorath’s face at the word ‘brother’. He is quiet for a moment. Unlike the other pauses, it is not patient, or deliberate. It is a natural hesitation.

  ‘I would ask you one final question,’ the High Chaplain says.

  ‘Of course,’ Sanyctus replies.

  That pause again.

  ‘What was it like, to hear his voice?’ Astorath asks.

  Of all the questions, Sanyctus would never have expected this one. Not from Astorath. He thinks carefully about it, searching for words that can encompass the feeling of standing before his father, who was so very bright, like a noon sun. Words to capture seeing the glittering dunes of cast tears and hearing words spoken in a voice like molten gold.

  My legacy remains in you, Adiccio.

  You and every one of your brothers.

  My Blood Angels.

  ‘Perfect,’ Sanyctus says, softly. ‘It was perfect.’

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rachel Harrison is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novel Honourbound, and the short stories ‘Execution’, ‘Trials’, ‘Fire and Thunder’, ‘A Company of Shadows’ and ‘The Darkling Hours’, featuring the character Commissar Severina Raine. She has also written the short story ‘Dirty Dealings’ for Necromunda, as well as a number of other Warhammer 40,000 short stories including ‘The Third War’ and ‘Dishonoured’.

  An extract from Deathwatch: Shadowbreaker.

  ‘Wrong side of the line this time, Lyndon. She made a mistake. Dragged you into it. Don’t make it worse. We can help her, but only if you talk to me. The longer you wait, the greater the chance she dies out there.’

  The speaker moved in closer. Lyndon could feel hot breath on his face, noted the sharp scent of recaff on it.

  ‘We already know about the shipments, the fringe-world smugglers, the charters into t’au space. I admire your loyalty, but think, man – no transmissions, no word of her for months. If she weren’t in trouble, why the silence? The ordo can’t just sit on this.’

  The pitch-perfect tones of the confidant, all understanding and sympathy and reason. Every sound, every look, every gesture was calculated to convey that this was a fellow on your side, a man with your best interests at heart. All he wanted was a little information. Just a few words, so easy to speak, so unbeara
bly painful to keep to oneself.

  Bastogne, he called himself. Not his real name.

  He was good, but Lyndon knew the dance. He’d been on the other side of it often enough. Didn’t make it easier. Too much was at stake. Her ladyship had asked for trust. She needed time. Lyndon expected to die here in order to buy her that. It was the best he could realistically hope for now.

  Had the abduction team consisted only of this interrogator and his muscled goons, Lyndon’s confidence in his ability to stay silent would have been supreme. But there was a fly in the balm – a man-shaped fly sitting on a wooden stool in the far corner, robed and hooded, tattooed with the marks of both the ordo and the Adeptus Astra Telepathica.

  An ordo psyker.

  Sartutius, the others had called him. He sat in silence, pensive after his earlier failed attempt to pry information from Lyndon’s mind with his fell sorcery.

  The pentagrammic wards tattooed on Lyndon’s flesh and laser-etched into his bones were holding off the psyker’s invasive mind-assaults, but for how long? Sartutius never seemed to blink those useless all-white eyes. He never looked away, no doubt intent on Lyndon’s aura, probing for gaps, eager to exploit any cracks that would let him inside.

  Yes, Lyndon’s wards were strong, but given enough time and the right kinds of pressure, an ordo psyker almost always got the answers he or she was looking for.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Lyndon’s neck. No respite from the heat in here.

  The interior of the crude structure was baking hot. A single room, twelve metres by seven, the walls thick, the floor rockcrete. Solid. Probably soundproofed and scan-shielded, too. The interrogator and his team weren’t sloppy. They’d have prepped the place well.

  Oil stains on the rockcrete floor, heavy-duty pulleys attached to the rafters – the place had likely been used for vehicle repair or storage in the past. Metal slats high in the walls were tilted inwards a few degrees. Through them, spears of hot midday sun sliced into the room, muted by the grime on the windows but still bright enough to leave trails when Lyndon closed his eyes.