Lords of Blood, page 112
Dulcis teemed with life, for old worlds are rich from epochs of decay, and the multiplicity of life forms that spring from rot. But as the world’s pulse had slowed, evolution was arrested. The creatures of Dulcis had existed for millions of years in their current forms. Any competent biologian would argue that they would change little more.
Astorath and the others gleaned these insights solely from the true-colour image. No technology greater than a tri-d pict was required to reveal the nature of Dulcis. The least acute of human eyes could see it for what it was: a dismal, drear place of reeking brakes and filthy water. It was an old man comfortable in his skin, nesting in the detritus of his life, best left alone to his odd habits by right-thinking beings.
Humanity rarely thought ahead clearly. The species expanded willy-nilly in all directions. There were far worse places than Dulcis to call home, but other races had passed it by.
‘Dulcis,’ said Dolomen. ‘Sweet.’ He translated the High Gothic name into the common vernacular. ‘Is that some kind of joke?’
Bedevoir grunted in amusement. ‘I thought so too,’ he said. ‘The punchline is all the more obvious when you get to the surface. Rarely have I seen such a profusion of browns. Dulcis truly is a jewel among the Emperor’s possessions.’
‘Sarcasm is the least honourable of weapons,’ said Astorath. He went helmetless, as was his habit unless it was absolutely necessary to don it. His black eyes were fixed on the approaching world. The mottled patterns of the surface gave fractally to the same pattern, again and again. Meres were broken up by reed beds. Islands were broken up by ponds. Thickets were broken up by creeks broken up by mudbanks broken up by puddles.
‘My lord is grim of mood, as his name suggests,’ said Dolomen. ‘I would not disrespect him by telling you to ignore him, but…’ He let his sentence hang.
‘I understand,’ said Bedevoir. ‘Do not push it.’ He looked sidelong at the Redeemer.
‘He probably likes you,’ said Dolomen. ‘You seem to be of similar temperament to me. He pretends not to like me, but he does. Most people spend their time grovelling at his feet, or hating him, or feeling fear in their fearless Adeptus Astartes hearts. Usually all of the above. I don’t. He likes me.’
‘You are a necessary adjunct to my office,’ said Astorath. A feral grin flashed at Bedevoir. It vanished so fast it might not have happened, unnerving the Red Wings Space Marine.
‘Ignore that too,’ said Dolomen. ‘He pretends not to, but he does have a sense of humour.’
‘You are a veteran-sergeant,’ said Bedevoir, ‘yet you have no squad.’
‘I am, and I do, but I am on permanent secondment to the Reclusiam,’ said Dolomen. ‘Lord Astorath has many titles and offices, and attendants to go with them. Artemos and I are his Court Extraordinary. Artemos attends to any medical peculiarities of the lost we may encounter, and retrieves their gene-seed. Ordinarily, we have a Librarian among our number, but the post is unoccupied of late, since the war for Diamor.’
‘None have been worthy to succeed Brother Azirael,’ said Astorath. ‘He fell in battle against the sorcerers of the Warmaster.’
‘Then there’s Astorath’s Erelim,’ Dolomen continued, ‘who guard his sanctum on Baal. They are unamusing fellows, so it is best they remain where they are. Besides them, and us, are the sundry mortals we encumber ourselves with, supposedly to aid us in our tasks, when they are not getting under our feet.’
‘You are accompanied by no other brothers?’ said Bedevoir.
Astorath answered. ‘The role of the Blood Angels is to protect and expand the domains of the Emperor of Mankind. It is not to endlessly deal with issues of the curse. That is my lot. The three brothers that ordinarily accompany me are three brothers who cannot help us perform our primary function as a Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. I deem that too many, but the custom was set three thousand years ago, during the tenure of the High Chaplain Barachiel, and so I must abide by it.’
The ship bounced as it passed into the atmosphere of Dulcis. It was a feeble shake. The atmosphere was as enervated as the rest of the planet.
‘Cheery, isn’t he?’ said Dolomen.
Bedevoir looked at Astorath. ‘I am surprised a hero as venerated as the Lord Astorath would tolerate such levels of insolence. What is your role?’
‘Ah, you see, that is my role,’ said Dolomen, wagging his finger. ‘I am his naysayer, if you will. I am here to whisper in his ear and remind him he is mortal, and that the worlds he visits are the home of people, not obstacles to his duty.’ He gestured expansively in the air. ‘To puncture the darkness of his role with barbs of light. To be the balance to his grimness. The ineffable spirit of hope against the certainty of the curse. That sort of thing.’
‘So, you’re a kind of… court jester?’ said Bedevoir.
‘What? Ouch,’ said Dolomen. He let his hand drop. ‘What form of manners did they teach you in Guilliman’s pseudo-Legions? I don’t think you’ve had much experience with the actual Chapters of the Blood yet, my friend. But yes, if you wish. I make light. And I provide a little extra muscle, where required.’
‘Artemos and Dolomen both are good warriors, and insightful counsellors,’ said Astorath with surprising warmth. ‘I overlook Dolomen’s irritating tendencies because of that.’
‘A shame Lord Dante did not overlook the same, or I would not have been assigned this role within our blessed Chapter.’
Bedevoir stared at him in disbelief.
‘What?’ said Dolomen. ‘Our creed is to attain beauty in all things. We have great singers, playwrights, writers and artists of all kinds. Is insolent wit also not a talent to be honed? There is an art in mockery. Are we not the heroes of mankind? We are hope, and there is no hope without laughter.’
Bedevoir shook his head. ‘I am amazed. Lamorak says that I do not take my duties seriously. I bait him for it, but I see I have been outmatched.’
‘You mistake Sergeant Dolomen,’ said Astorath. ‘He is unduly light, but it is a valuable trait.’
‘Yes,’ Dolomen said. ‘Because when I become serious, you know the situation is dire indeed.’
Lord Tyndall awaited Astorath’s party on the same landing pad Captain Ares had used some weeks before. A band struck up a martial air of throbbing brass to welcome him. The notes went awry as the Redeemer strode out ahead of his escort and the music came to a blundering stop.
To mortal eyes, Astorath was immense and terrible, clad in armour cast and painted to resemble flayed muscle. Nestling in this gory panoply was a face of grey and blue flesh, pallid as a corpse, framed by raven-black hair. His eyes appeared black but otherwise normal, until they caught the light a certain way, and then they flashed a retinal red, as a predator’s eyes will when reflecting bright light at night. He seemed too big to be real, too wicked to belong to so beloved a brotherhood as the Blood Angels. The smell of blood hung around him. His backpack bore wings of black metal feathers that clattered in the backwash of the engines like the death rattles of dying men. Moulded skulls adorned his right pauldron. Skulls of gold decorated the joints of his armour. Bones suspended by twines of hair clicked on his ceramite. Parchment proclaiming his grim duties rustled around him.
What held the eyes of the mortals most was his axe. A huge powered head was mounted on a curved shaft as tall as a standard human. Inactive, its blade was black, the edge so sharp it glinted like frost in the morning. The haft had been made to look like a spinal column. For all the mortals knew, it might have been one. It looked to weigh as much as a refrigeration unit, but Astorath carried it in one hand, a quarter way down the haft at its balance point, as easily as if it were one of Dulcis’ reeds.
Tyndall’s haughty little heart shrivelled in his chest. Despite the heat of the morning, Astorath radiated an intense chill that prickled the skin.
The governor blanched. ‘M-my lord,’ he managed to stutter. ‘I welcome you to–’
With a motion of his free hand, Astorath swept aside his attempts at formality. Tyndall’s guts clenched. The adepts of the Imperium arrayed behind him became fearful in anticipation of Astorath’s words.
‘Lords of Dulcis,’ Astorath pronounced. ‘Heed me well. Your planet is infested and must be abandoned. I, Astorath the Grim, make this judgement.’
‘But, my lord…’ spluttered Tyndall. His fleshy lips flapped wetly, but he could find no words to feed out of them.
‘I make this decree by the authority of Commander Dante, Regent and Warden of Imperium Nihilus. You, Tyndall, lord of this world, will gather your population to the cities of your domains, and await evacuation to places of refuge, where you shall remain until it is decided that you should return.’
‘I must protest!’ Tyndall said. He looked to his advisors. They stared at the deck of the landing pad, shivering under the regard of the High Chaplain. Finding no support among his countrymen, he instead searched the faces of the adepts. Lord Kovas lifted his crystal-headed rod of office to his chest and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. He then addressed Astorath.
‘I will ready our officials and archives for departure. The Adeptus Terra is at your disposal to ensure the evacuation proceeds to plan, my lord.’
Astorath stared into Tyndall’s terrified face.
‘You have seven days. Ensure compliance, or suffer the fate of all who defy the will of the Emperor.’
Astorath turned about. Bedevoir and Dolomen parted to allow him to pass between them.
‘Any queries may be directed to Sanguinary Priest Artemos aboard the void-castle Joyous Garde,’ said Dolomen.
‘But, where are you going?’ said Tyndall helplessly. ‘We have food, entertainments… We would welcome the High Chaplain.’
‘No welcome required,’ said Dolomen. ‘Thank you. Just do as he says. I’d get back off the platform. We’re leaving.’
The three Space Marines followed Astorath back into the Thunderhawk. Idling engines cycled up, sending the ceremonial capes of the band fluttering and blasting sheets of music out over the drop surrounding the landing pad. The band leaned into the wash of air as the Thunderhawk took off, tumbling one of the band members off his feet and leaving the rest of them dishevelled.
Aboard the ship, Bedevoir watched the mortals dwindle through the still-open access ramp.
‘Our lord knows how to make an entrance,’ said Dolomen. ‘He finds fear and awe can accomplish a great deal. Now, to our real business.’ Dolomen grinned at Bedevoir. ‘We’re going to the docks.’
‘Then allow me to help,’ said Bedevoir.
Dolomen wrinkled his nose at the smell coming off the meat barges.
‘Why do you think I left my helmet on?’ said Bedevoir.
‘You could have warned me.’
‘I did warn you.’
A rusty crane lowered a rectangular clamp over a barge’s load of containers. Chain rattled out too quickly, and the rig connected with a clumsy bang. Mechanical fingers crawled it into the correct position, locking in place. The chain went taut, and the crane hoisted the container up. Reeking fluids poured from its joins, spattering the dockside as the crane swung the container around and deposited it on a flatbed rail truck.
‘People eat this?’ said Dolomen.
‘Apparently so,’ said Bedevoir. ‘If you think this place smells awful, then avoid the processing plants. Having said that, the fresh meat is palatable.’
There were a great number of people at work on the docks watched over by local defence forces, most of whom were wearing sealed air supplies. The area was under the command of Gaheris, one of Bedevoir’s battle-brothers, but though the locals had grown used to the sight of the Red Wings, the Lord Astorath was another matter, and they all, no matter how lowly or whatever their role, watched in open-mouthed fear as he strode along the quaysides.
Dolomen picked his way around piles of offal and rubbish with obvious distaste. Astorath appeared impassive. Bedevoir walked quicker than the Blood Angels, searching the crowd for his Chapter brother. The dockside was crowded with machinery, barrels, suspended nets and all manner of other nautical paraphernalia, most of it in poor repair, and finding someone even as striking as a Space Marine amid the clutter was not easy.
Bedevoir tracked him down by vox first, and the group was directed to a crane with a broken arm. Halfway up, a ramshackle steel room served as a command point.
They went up one at a time, so as not to stress the corroded metal stairs. Wisely so, for when they entered the box office at the top it creaked and shifted under their weight.
Gaheris was waiting for them by a desk sized for a human. He bowed his head respectfully when Astorath entered, then saluted them all, fist to chest. There were two mortals behind him. The first was a grubby-looking fellow in a patched uniform, cradling a lasgun in his arms and pushing a length of reed around his mouth with his tongue. The second was a female trooper with the wiry build of someone who’d spent all her life performing hard physical labour. She was as terrified as the man was insouciant.
‘You’re looking for guides, I hear,’ said Gaheris. ‘I recommend these two.’
The man stepped forward without being asked. Astorath turned his predatory gaze upon him. The man stared back unflinchingly. He gave a shrug that suggested regret at a declined bar fight.
‘My, he’s a bold one,’ said Dolomen.
‘I’m Idrin. I’m a patrol boat captain, though if you want to get technical about it, I rank as sergeant.’
‘Then we have an embarrassment of sergeants,’ said Dolomen. ‘You are brave, my friend, to behave this way before Lord Astorath.’
‘Am I?’ Idrin switched his open, appraising gaze to Dolomen. ‘My rank is only nominal, in case I need to boss any grunts about. I don’t have a squad or anything – apparently I don’t play nice with others. Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I know the terrain around Mainrig better than anyone alive – marsh, swamp, islet and creek. I’m a half-decent sailor too. I’m your man. I’m volunteering.’
‘He didn’t volunteer,’ said Gaheris. ‘I chose him. There are certain… anomalies in his mentality. His record is a bad one – violence, insolence and dishonesty – but he has one large advantage over the other patrol boat leaders.’
‘That is?’ asked Dolomen.
‘He is unafraid.’
Idrin smiled. ‘It’s true. Not much scares me.’
‘I have provided the appropriate papers to your commanding officer,’ said Gaheris. ‘This secondment is now official.’
‘Doesn’t make any difference to me. What’s he going to do? Shoot me?’ said Idrin. He sat down on the desk. It creaked. Undaunted, he pulled one grubby boot up under himself and rested his chin on his knee. ‘I don’t care to work for that bastard Tyndall any more, anyway.’
‘He is your rightful ruler,’ said Dolomen.
‘Word is you’re evacuating the planet. So, if he is, he’s not for much longer.’ The reed bobbed up and down in his mouth. He grinned. ‘Word travels fast round here.’
‘Who is this other one?’ asked Dolomen. In marked contrast to Idrin’s total lack of concern, the woman was completely cowed by the Space Marines. Her eyes kept moving towards the door as if she were considering making a break for it.
Idrin scratched the back of his neck before he answered. ‘Cellew. She’s not quite so good as me at finding her way about, but she’s the best shallow-water woman in port. I’m going to guess that you need that. She’s my pilot.’
‘You have served with him long?’ Dolomen asked her.
She nodded mutely.
‘Speak,’ said Dolomen.
‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Three years. He’s all right,’ she added, unprompted, making Dolomen think Idrin was not all right at all.
Idrin gave them all a cocky look. ‘The thing is, this request, it’s got me wondering. Why do a lot of high lords like yourselves need my little boat? A clever man might say you were hiding something.’
‘A sensible man would not say he had thought so,’ said Dolomen. ‘Our business is our own.’
‘We are looking for missing brethren,’ said Astorath. ‘We must make sure they have not been taken under the control of the xenos. To find them, we must perform a surface search. A gunship will attract the xenos’ attention. Storms and old wrecks cheat our auspexes. We shall search quietly, and by necessity thoroughly. Eyes and ears are our best methods of detection.’
‘Missing warriors?’
‘Yes,’ said Astorath. He put plenty of menace into that one syllable. Idrin pretended not to notice.
‘Oh well, so long as you’re not trying to hide anything from Lord Tyndall,’ Idrin said sarcastically. ‘I’m your man. I’m a good tracker too. Of course, I’ll expect hazard pay for this.’ He let his boot thump down to the floor.
‘Guardsmen do not receive hazard pay,’ said Dolomen.
‘They do if they are in the position to ask for it,’ said Idrin. ‘I think I might be, if there are any secrets involved. Besides, it’s the end of this world. I’ll not get another opportunity.’
‘You will get what you deserve,’ said Astorath. He stared at Idrin for a long time. Astorath’s face was so inexpressive it was hard to gauge what he was thinking, but Dolomen knew him well, and recognised the expression as fascination.
Idrin held Astorath’s gaze without blinking. There was something dead in his eyes, Dolomen thought. He’d seen that look before. Men like that felt no fear, but not in the pure way of a Space Marine. They felt precious else either, no mercy, no kindness, only self-regard.
