He reached the towering copper doors that opened into the chapel from which Arkio had made his address. Senior battle-brothers entered one by one, under the expressionless eyes of two honour guardsmen. They carried slung power axes and hand flamers, the ignition torches dancing at the end of the funnel-shaped muzzles. One of them blocked Rafen’s path.
“You will remain outside.” It was a voice that expected no argument.
“On what authority?” Rafen demanded. “I am Brother Rafen, sibling to Arkio—”
“We know who you are,” said the other guard. “This conclave is for the veterans of our Chapter, and you are not one of them.”
Rafen pressed against the first guard’s chest, daring him to push back. “I will speak to my brother, and no man, golden-helmed or otherwise, will prevent it!”
From the corner of his eye, Rafen saw the second Marine’s gauntlet drop toward his axe and he tensed. But then a strong hand pulled him back. “We’ll have no trouble here!” said Delos, and Rafen turned to face the Chaplain’s skull-mask.
“Rafen, speak to me.” Delos led him to a quiet alcove. “What is wrong?”
He looked away. “Cleric, I cannot hold my tongue any longer. The events of recent days, the changes that have been wrought… My mind is awhirl with contradictions and I fear I may drive myself mad with them!”
Delos nodded slowly. “I understand, brother. This has been a trying time for all of us, and our faith has been challenged.”
“Yes! Yes!” Rafen retorted. “You understand, Delos. This… miasma that has swept through our ranks, it is unconscionable. I cannot explain what has happened to my brother Arkio… And what took place in the plaza, never before have I seen the like—”
The Chaplain nodded again and there was a smile in his voice, incongruous as it issued from the mouth of the steel skull. “You are confused, Rafen, and that is natural. Much has happened since Bellus arrived at Cybele and we all feel the strain of it. Too many brothers have passed, your mentor among them, and it gnaws at you.” He pressed a black-gloved hand on Rafen’s chest. “You would not be a son of Sanguinius if you did not feel each death as keenly as we do our lord progenitor’s, but he has extended a hand to us from the past, my friend, and Arkio is his vessel.”
Rafen’s expression froze. He could not see Delos’ face, but he knew that the Chaplain had been drawn into the same influence that spread wide among his battle-brothers. “Yes, of course,” he said in a neutral voice. “Thank you for your wisdom.”
Delos beckoned him. “Come, Rafen,” he said, “it is only fair that you be present to hear the words of your sibling as well. Accompany me.” The Chaplain waved away the two honour guards and Rafen followed him in, ice forming in the pit of his primary stomach.
There were dozens of Blood Angels arranged in a loose pair of semi-circles at one end of the chamber. At the opposite side of the chapel, where the glass window and the balcony lay, Rafen glimpsed more men with golden helmets, weapons slung but nonetheless watchful. Beyond them, he saw the telltale blink of white and red. Sachiel was there, conversing with someone else in regular tactical Marine gear. Arkio had his back to the group, and were it not for his posture, one might have thought him to be a simple line Marine. All soldiers of the Legion Astartes were genetically engineered for superiority in both mind and body, and the legacy of that alteration extended into the most basic of things, including stature and carriage. Every Space Marine carried himself like a stormwalker, well over two metres of pure-bred warrior striding among the lesser races of common men like some figure of legend made manifest. Yet Arkio seemed to stand even taller than the rest of them. It was undeniable. Some aura, intangible and commanding, bled into the air around his sibling from his sheer force of presence.
“What has my brother become?” Rafen whispered to himself.
“This is a proud moment for all Blood Angels,” said Delos, and Rafen could not be sure if the Chaplain had heard his comment, “I would submit that even Dante himself would sit a while to see what will transpire here.”
Rafen’s gaze swept the room, surveying the faces of the Marines who went bareheaded and the body language of those who did not. Each of them was tense with anticipation, earnest with questions for the blessed one. The cold in his chest gripped Rafen’s hearts with icy fingers. They all look upon him with reverence. By the grail, what if I am the only one who doubts? With Koris dead, could it be that I alone question this? And then a more insidious thought pushed its way to the front of his mind: what would Rafen do if he were wrong? If Arkio were truly touched by the hand of the great angel, then to voice any mistrust of his divinity would be tantamount to the highest of heresies. And yet… I cannot shake this sense that something is very, very wrong…
With this vicious cycle turning through his mind, Rafen saw Inquisitor Stele emerge from an antechamber, his lexmechanic shuffling along behind him. The ordos agent spoke quickly to Sachiel and then stepped up to the chapel’s lectern.
“Comrade brothers.” Stele’s voice was firm. “Matters have come to a point where we must chose a path forward, and so I set before you this design.” He paused, scanning the room and taking a moment to gauge the mood of the Astartes veterans. Stele’s eye lingered on Rafen where he stood at Delos’ side, and a frown threatened to form on his bald pate. The inquisitor leaned forward, his aquila electoo catching the light of the photon candles. “The archenemy on Shenlong is bloodied but not defeated, and he has exchanged his strengths for new ones. Where we were the fluid force striking at a stationary target, now the Word Bearers are scattered and mobile, and it is the Blood Angels who are pressed into defending the Ikari fortress. We all know the battle doctrine of the Word Bearers. They fight until death, and although the blessed Arkio may have broken them, they will regroup and return to plague us.”
“We shall garrison here, then?” said a seasoned sergeant from the assault company. “Seek out these scum and kill them before they can hit and fade?”
There was approval from Stele. “This forge world owes its life to the Blood Angels, and we shall not soon release it.” He glanced to where Arkio sat, as if seeking permission to continue. “Shenlong’s planetary governor was murdered on the first morning of the Chaos occupation, and none of his staff have been found alive.” The inquisitor knew this for a fact. He had made personally sure of it by quietly executing three ministorum functionaries in a cell deep below the chapel. “I am therefore assuming the duties and position of interim governor, and I choose this building as my stronghold. In this role, my first edict will be to petition the Blood Angels to eradicate the stain of Chaos from this world.”
“It will be done!” said Sachiel, his voice tight with eagerness.
“Of that I have no doubt,” the inquisitor replied smoothly. “Now I yield the floor to Brother Arkio.”
Rafen sensed the flood of scrutiny that raced through the other Blood Angels as his younger brother took the lectern. Arkio gave the assembled men a cool smile. It hung strangely on his sibling’s face. It was not an expression that Rafen could ever remember seeing on him before; it was an aspect that was at once imperious and commonplace, infinitely old and undeniably youthful. He wondered that if their father were here in the room, would the grizzled old clansman have even recognised his second born son? Almost as the days passed, Arkio’s face bore less and less resemblance to his former self and more and more the idealised, noble contours of the high angel of blood.
Delos mumbled a prayer beneath his breath and Rafen heard him speak of “Arkio the Blessed”—the same litany that Lucion had uttered on the Bellus. Arkio’s legendary exploits were already accreting their own mythology, his faithful feeding their own beliefs. Rafen found he could not meet his brother’s gaze, for fear that the youth would see the doubt in him. On some level, he wished that he could embrace Sachiel’s declaration of divinity. In a small way he envied the other men for their unquestioning devotion, but Rafen’s hearts and soul were tied irrevoc
ably to the edicts of his Chapter and the word of the God-Emperor, and there was no provision there for the coming of a new Sanguinius.
“Brothers, your support gladdens me and I am honoured to accept it.” Arkio indicated the chapel window. “We will purge the taint from Shenlong together and make this world a beacon of righteousness.” There was a scattering of agreement throughout the group. “I… We have been tested, kinsmen. Tested and found ready for the greater challenges ahead. Shenlong is but the first world we will liberate. In the years to come, we will look back and say here—” He slammed the lectern with a hand, a fierce grin on his face. “Here was where our Blood Crusade began! I have accepted the counsel of Lord Stele and his eminence Sachiel and now I put to you a plan that will begin a new era in the chronicle of the sons of Sanguinius.” He paused, and the air was thick with tension.
Rafen watched, awe-struck. With just a few simple words, Arkio was holding men with ten times his experience and age as enthralled as the newest initiates.
“We will take the Word Bearers and break them as they tried to break this world, and as we do, I will call upon the people of Shenlong to join us in our struggle. In the name of Sanguinius, we will raise a force from these blighted souls and in his glory return to Baal in triumph, with Iskavan’s head atop our standard! And there, we will rally our Chapter for a campaign the likes of which even the God-Emperor himself has never seen!”
“Assemble an army?” said the assault sergeant. “Blessed, we are Adeptus Astartes, each man an army of one. It is not our way to recruit common soldiers.”
Sachiel answered him a nod. “You are correct. Not the old way—but the path we travel now will take us beyond the unwavering creeds laid down in the Codex Astartes.” He smiled. “Our fealty to Guilliman’s ancient treatise has never been the strongest, as we all can agree. We are Blood Angels and what suits us is anathema to the stolid Ultramarines and their kindred…” Several of the seasoned troopers murmured an accord. The Space Marine warbook of sacred battle doctrines had been crafted by the authoritarian primarch of the Ultramarines Chapter, Robute Guilliman, but his suspicion of the Blood Angels had been well documented and, even ten millennia past his death, the warriors from Macragge were still antagonistic toward them. “We’ll write our own principles, a vermilion codex better suited to men who know blood and who have been blooded!” This time the ripple of agreement was more forceful and aggressive.
“And what will we do with these conscripts?” Delos dared to venture a question.
“We will take a thousand of the best that this war-beaten world can offer us and turn them into a legion of aggressors sworn to the banner of the blessed! They will be the first warriors of the reborn, for the greater glory of Sanguineus!”
Stele had been silent but now he took the priest’s words as his cue to interpose himself. “The way ahead is clear, but it is also dangerous for us.” He spread his hands. “We witnessed the power of the great angel unleashed, aboard Bellus and again in his divine fury within this very tower. We cannot question what we have seen with our own eyes, and yet… Distrust still festers among us.” The inquisitor did not look in Rafen’s direction; he did not have to. “I have learned that a person—a sceptic—saw fit to communicate with his fellow doubters on your homeworld of Baal. The contents of this communication are lost to me but I have inferred the essence of them.”
A grim silence descended on the room, and Rafen forced himself to remain unmoved by the inquisitor’s veiled probing. If there were any other men here who were not wholly convinced of Arkio’s sanctification, then their hesitancy would be withering now beneath Stele’s baleful glare.
“There are those who do not accept change,” he continued, stalking along the edge of the room. “They cannot release their adherence to ancient, decrepit dogma even when the proof of its inadequacy is put before them. These men keep our beloved Imperium locked in a state of ignorance and stagnation. They will not accept anything that challenges the status quo, and they are willing to kill whole worlds to preserve it.” He hung his head. “I have seen it, among my own fraternity in the Ordo Hereticus, and now this message concerns me that such conspiracies may touch the brotherhood of the Blood Angels as well.”
Delos shook his head. “With all due respect, Lord Stele, you must be mistaken. No Baalite son would ever embrace such duplicity!”
The inquisitor tapped his chin. “I can only hope that you are correct, Chaplain. But as Arkio accepted my counsel, I would ask you all to do the same. Be watchful, comrade brothers, for the Word Bearers may not be the only enemy we face here.”
With this dire caution hanging over them, Sachiel distributed data-slates with single use code strings so that orders could be read before self-deleting. He dismissed the veterans and watched them file from the chapel mulling over the commands they had been given. As Chaplain Delos exited, Sachiel saw a single Marine remaining. “Rafen.”
“High priest. I would speak with my brother.”
“Indeed?” Sachiel arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps your time would be better spent preparing your squad for combat. I’ll overlook your clandestine entry into a meeting that you were not cleared to join, but I strongly suggest you leave now. What little good favour you have is running thin, Rafen.”
“Are you afraid I might talk some sense into him?” He scoffed. “Stand aside, Sachiel.”
The Blood Angel’s face flushed red, matching the crimson of his wargear. “You will address me as Sanguinary High Priest!”
“What is this?” Arkio asked, detaching himself from conversation with Stele. The inquisitor gave the room a deceptively vague look and left, the chattering lexmechanic at his heels. “A disagreement?” said the young Blood Angel, the potent clarity of his voice silencing the argument before it could progress.
“There is a point of doctrine that we do not see eye to eye on,” said Rafen.
Sachiel’s colour was high but he forced his voice to remain level. “Your sibling wishes to speak to you, blessed.”
“Alone.” Rafen added.
The priest gave a rigid half-bow to Arkio. “By your leave?”
Arkio nodded, and Sachiel strode away after Stele. Rafen’s brother cocked his head. “I have asked you this before, and now I say it again. You are troubled.”
Rafen watched Sachiel’s back recede until he was sure he was out of the room, and beyond earshot. “You dismiss a high priest without a word, Arkio. You, a tactical Marine with only one service stud on his brow. How has this come to pass?”
Arkio looked away. “I did not seek this gift, brother. It came to me of its own accord.”
“A gift, is that what it is?” Rafen said with disquiet. “From where I stand I wonder if it is a curse. What else could drive men to murder the innocents they swore an oath to protect?”
“I regret those deaths, but perhaps those repudiations were necessary.”
“You have a name for these executions? So do the Shenlongi! They call them the ‘murdergift’, like it is some benediction! What insanity is this?”
“I take no pleasure in it.” Arkio fixed him with a hard gaze, and for the briefest of instants Rafen felt his resolve weaken. “But we cannot hold to the old codes, kinsman. We cannot continue to cling to the ways of the past. We must be brutal if we are to forge a path to the new future.”
Rafen’s fists balled of their own accord. “You talk but you say nothing. All I hear are empty phrases and rhetoric better suited to politicians than Space Marines! Brother, I don’t pretend to understand what has happened to you but I know this—your new path veers away from our sacred pledge to holy Terra! Can you not see, if you go on you will damn us all as heretics!”
Arkio’s mood altered in a heartbeat. His face darkened. “You dare speak of heresy? You, who look upon me with doubt as plain as day? How can I win the hearts of my battle-brothers when my very blood himself thinks I am false?”
“I have never said—”
“I t
hought I would be able to confide in you, that you would understand, but I was mistaken! Perhaps Sachiel was right when he said that you would be jealous I was chosen.”
“It is not jealousy!” Rafen growled, his voice drawing the attention of the honour guards. “I am concerned for you.”
“Ah, yes.” Arkio said, “the oath to father. Even after all this time, you still see me as the skinny boy in need of protection, yes?” He summoned the guards with a nod. “I told you before, that Arkio is gone. I am changed.”
Rafen felt defeated; his words were clumsy and harsh, and now he had done nothing more than drive his brother further away. “Arkio, I have a duty.”
His sibling’s face softened, forgiveness in his eyes. “So do I, Rafen, and I hope you will realise that they are one and the same.” Arkio looked at the gold-helmeted Space Marines. “My brother is leaving. Secure the chapel after him. I must meditate.”
Rafen saw Arkio reaching for the case that held the Spear of Telesto as the copper doors slammed shut.
Falkir’s men used chains stolen from the factory zones above to hold the nine offerings in place. They tied loops of the heavy metal rings around their ankles. The Chaos Marine examined them with the same regard he would have given the sewer effluent that fouled his boots—these humans were such fragile, mewling little things, so far removed from his monstrous form that the Castellan found it hard to accept that he had ever had even the remotest kinship to their race. He drew up ancient recollections of the Word Bearers’ birthworld of Colchis and the humans that had scurried there. These Shenlong people were the same, puny and without value. Despite Iskavan’s orders to keep them alive, Falkir toyed with the idea of gutting one, just to amuse himself.
Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow Page 22