Lords of Blood, page 13
‘I have slept?’ Dante said. The water had dropped a fraction of a degree in temperature. He had been idle longer than he intended.
‘Only for two hours, my lord. Captain Aphael is en route to the fleet. We have word from Captain Phaeton also. He has engaged a fragment of the splinter, but does not anticipate much delay. He should be with us presently.’
‘Why was I not woken?’ said Dante.
Arafeo looked his lord in the eye, an action that had taken him half a century to dare to attempt. He was one of the few Dante allowed to see his unshielded face. They were both old men, in their way.
‘Because I would not allow them to,’ said Arafeo. ‘You exhaust yourself, my lord. You must rest.’
‘I thank you for your concern, but I am needed more than I need rest,’ said Dante. He pushed himself up out of the bath with his powerful arms, and got out of the water. The hairs on his arms were a pale white gold, still fine. His muscles rippled under skin only now losing the tautness of youth.
‘My lord commander, if I might be so bold as to say, if you destroy yourself for want of rest, those needs will go unfulfilled.’
Arafeo’s hands were twisted with arthritis, like roots, and shook as he held out Dante’s towel. Dante’s eyes rested on them. Arafeo looked away, ashamed at his feebleness. If only he knew we share the same worries, thought Dante.
‘I should rest, and you should rest,’ said Dante.
The man kept his trembling arms outstretched.
‘How can I rest when you will not?’
‘You are not I. Different fates are ours,’ said Dante.
‘Your responsibility is by far the graver, my lord. If I had passed my tests at the Place of Choosing, then perhaps my burden would be similar, but I did not. I am a thrall, not an angel. But we all must serve the Emperor in our own way, and I shall help you carry your burden in whatever small way I can.’
‘I promise, after the meeting of the Red Council, I shall rest.’
Mollified, Arafeo nodded.
Dante took the towel. Arafeo bowed and went to fetch Dante’s goblet from a side table. He was getting slow. The tremble in his limbs grew more pronounced when he was tired, and Arafeo was tiring more readily with every day.
One thousand five hundred years of grinding war versus eighty years of humble service, but they were both servants. If given the choice, Dante wondered, would I exchange places with my equerry? Not willingly, he answered himself. But if forced to, I would not rue the change. Service is service. All have a part to play, he told himself. Arafeo is right in that.
His servant’s humility humbled him. ‘Arafeo,’ he said gently. ‘You have done enough for me today. Thank you for shielding me from my own labours awhile. It is appreciated. Rest now, I command it. I can pour my own wine.’
The wine salver rattled as Arafeo set it down. He bowed his head unhappily. He did not want to be dismissed, nor did he want to be seen as old.
Save the man’s pains or save his pride. Every decision Dante had to make in these black times, from the most inconsequential to those that could topple the Imperium, was a choice between two evils. Good had leached from the galaxy. He was weary of decision. Not a flicker of this was displayed on his face, still inhumanly beautiful despite his age.
‘As you wish, lord commander,’ said Arafeo quietly. He departed reluctantly.
Dante went to the table and drank the wine. He felt bad for Arafeo, and annoyed that he had to order him away for his own good. He had to be careful that that irritation did not transfer itself to Arafeo himself. It was not his servant’s fault he had aged.
The food Arafeo had laid out for him had grown cold, and though finely prepared, had the taste and consistency of ashes in his mouth. He ate it anyway, relishing his first solid sustenance in days.
He chewed slowly, washing his meal down with frequent gulps of wine. His digestion took longer to reaccustom itself to eating with the close of every campaign. While he ate, he told himself that the food satisfied him, that it was enough. He ignored the other appetite gnawing at his stomach and his soul, the hunger that filled his dreams with the bright lustre of blood. The lure of the Red Thirst was potent. It was a yearning best resisted, for though the thirst was quenched for a while, it was an addiction that grew stronger for being fed.
The desire to drink living vitae tormented all those of Sanguinius’ line, and he was so old. He denied that he needed it. He refused to acknowledge his cravings. He would not listen to his body, which told him in its aches and fatigue that if he were to drain just one mortal, his strength would return and his spirits rise.
Dante would not. He had not consumed living blood since the war on Ereus. Since then he had refused to put his own comfort before the lives of others. There was a way out of this weakness that had come to wear him down, but he refused to take it.
He was an angel, not a monster.
Half an hour later he left the bath and went into the armourium. His armour had been meticulously cleaned and replaced. It looked like a museum piece behind the glass.
He stared through the glass, his lined face superimposed over Sanguinius’ ageless mask of gold. The two were a near match, for Dante had taken after his sire closely during the Blood Change. He blinked as Sanguinius’ golden mask never could. The primarch’s mouth remained open in a howl of righteous fury. It was such a shame, Dante thought, that this most thoughtful and dutiful of the Emperor’s sons should be remembered by this image of wrath. There were thousands of representations of Sanguinius throughout the Blood Angels fleet and their fortress-monastery on Baal, but this was the one most knew, a roaring fury descending from the heavens to mete out death and spill blood.
If only there were space for his gene-father’s gentler nature to be celebrated. If only there were not such an endless need for battle.
If Dante could have any wish granted, he would have chosen to be made obsolete by peace, to become a museum piece himself. He wished this not only for the sake of others, but also for himself. With peace would come rest from his labours.
Peace would never come. War was without end. The only rest he would ever know would be death. That was how Araezon had said it, all those years ago. That was what the Sanguinary Priests still said at the Time of Choosing. How bitter it was that he should come to know this better than any other.
His finger caressed the touch pad. The case opened and his servants emerged from the shadows.
He must become his lord Sanguinius once again.
CHAPTER NINE
THE PLACE OF CHOOSING
456.M40
Angel’s Fall
Planetary Capital
Baal Secundus
Baal System
Nine days of games followed the First Winnowing. Under the shadow of Sanguinius the aspirants competed in simple athletic contests, as were practised among the clans of the Blood at tribal moots – running, leaping, the hurling of shot-stones and rope disc, and wrestling bouts to the point of submission. Malafael and Araezon spoke to individuals among the aspirants, dismissing some out of hand, giving others the choice to return home or become blood thralls. Victory in the games was not the signifier for selection the boys thought it at first, and they came to see that everything they did was observed closely, even how they accepted defeat or celebrated wins. For those who were consulted and not dismissed, Araezon’s servants took copious notes. Whether for good or ill was concealed from the boys.
Large crowds came to watch the games. A carnival atmosphere took over Angel’s Fall. The aspirants could only watch the food stalls and performers with envious eyes. They were kept separate from the people of Baal by a fenced stockade.
Although the aspirants thought these gentle contests the whole of the challenge, they were but the beginning of the selection process. The ninth day came to an end. The tribes whose sons had triumphed were honoured by the Blood Angels, to the delight of the crowds, and presented with totem-trophies of rare wood. There were none of the Salt Clans there, not that it mattered. Luis, smaller and less physically able than many of the other hopefuls, won nothing. Lorenz took several plaudits. Even Florian won a carved victory stave for his people.
When the Second Winnowing came, Luis braced himself for rejection, but Malafael passed him by without a word.
There were two hundred and forty-seven aspirants remaining from the five hundred first chosen.
On the tenth morning their belongings were taken away. They were taken into a well-made building by the blood thralls. It was plain of decoration, save a single iteration of the winged blood drop of the Chapter over its solitary door. What was remarkable was the smoothness of its construction. There were no seams in its walls, the whole thing seemingly cast in a single piece from liquid stone. There were no air bubbles to pock the surface. It was perfect and flawless in a way nothing on Baal Secundus was.
Their hair was shaved. They were stripped, made to wash and provided with loose trousers and tunics of smooth material that felt obscenely comfortable. After they were uniformed, small packs with water and rations were handed out. Their questions went unanswered. Through silent crowds they were led through the city. The gates shut behind them with a boom. Angel’s Fall was quiet. Pennants snapped in the hot breeze. Sanguinius stared upwards, searching for a heaven that could not be found on Baal Secundus.
For nine more days they were led through merciless heat and freezing night without rest. Malafael and Araezon were nowhere to be seen. They were guided by quiet men who, although they wore the flowing garb of Baalforian nomads, wore badges that marked them as servants of the Blood Angels.
The march was the first part of their real trials. The water they were given was insufficient for the trek. Several boys, weakened by their journey and the exertions of the games, died of exhaustion or dehydration. The corpses were abandoned without comment by the adults, and the aspirants taken deeper into the desert. Luis hoarded his water carefully.
Many days later a curved scarp of rock a mile across broke the monotony of red dunes. Through the shimmer of heat, Luis spied walls of close-fitted stone growing from shock-riven cliffs, turrets every hundred yards. Barracks, eating halls and the like, he assumed.
‘This is your destination,’ said one of the sombre thralls. ‘Now your true test begins.’
They arrived at an entrance at the base of the cliffs, tired and desperately thirsty. More blood thralls opened gates to admit the aspirants to a tunnel running under the scarp. After the merciless sun, the square-cut tunnel was blessedly cool, but too soon it opened into an interior shielded from the wind where the sun glared from a floor of sharp white sand. A furnace heat welcomed them. From the wavering of the air, Araezon and Malafael emerged, the vents on their armour sending out their own oily curls of rippling air.
‘This is the Place of Challenge,’ Malafael explained. ‘In the wars before the foundation of the Imperium, this crater was blasted from the ground by a weapon of unimaginable power. Though potent, that long-forgotten weapon is nothing compared to the might of a single Imperial Space Marine. Here we shall begin forging you into the greatest warriors in this galaxy. Most of you will fail. These men who guard this place,’ he swept up his staff to encompass the sentries standing on the walls of the crater, ‘did so. Those who are deemed unsuitable at this stage can never leave. They guard this fortress against those who would learn its secrets. Live or die, for nearly all of you, this will be the last place you see.’ Malafael regarded them all, his red eye-lenses sinister in the death’s head helm. ‘We shall meet your fellow aspirants.’
A murmur went through the youths.
‘I thought we were it,’ said Florian tensely.
‘More youths, more competition,’ said Lorenz.
They looked around for others, but saw no one. Malafael pointed to the sky.
‘They come from above!’ he said.
The aspirants looked skywards, squinting into the light of the sun, shading their eyes with their hands. From out of the sun six chariots of the angels descended on pillars of fire, blasting up curls of dust from the ground. The youths feared the machines, and had one broken his ground and run, more would have followed. But no one moved.
The craft touched down on broad metal feet, landing in a perfect line. They were bigger than most buildings in Angel’s Fall, bristling with weapons. Their colours were brighter than any Luis had seen. Their fronts resembled a jutting chin and they had about them an air of predatory menace, as if alive.
Ramps lowered. From the first another Chaplain appeared, leading a group of youths. From the second came a second Sanguinary Priest and more youths. Then others, led by Space Marines in the red armour of line troopers, came out from the remainder of the sky chariots.
‘These aspirants accompanying Chaplain Laestides and Sanguinary Priest Rugon are of Baal Primus, which you know as Baalind,’ said Malafael. ‘They are different to you, but as worthy of the honour of selection as you are. It would be easy for us to pit one set against the other, but the Blood Angels do not do things the easy way, only the best way. Brothers, bring them forward!’
The foreigners were brought from the line of voidships by Laestides and Rugon, and arrayed in ranks facing the youths from Baal Secundus. Though they wore the same uniforms as the aspirants of Baal Secundus, they were alien-looking, physically different: taller, paler and their clan marks outrageous in colour and form.
‘These aspirants were winnowed as you were, through gene-scan and contest. Before you continue your trial, the groups will be mingled,’ said Araezon. ‘You will work with these aspirants and come to love them. As a Blood Angel, you will love your brothers above all others. These bonds will last for centuries. A Chapter of Space Marines is not an army. It is a brotherhood. Without these ties, we would fall. With them, we are strong enough to defeat enemies that outnumber us many thousands of times over.’
Luis feared his small band of Lorenz and Florian would be broken up, but the mingling was not undertaken randomly. The little tangles of friendship that had formed among the aspirants were respected, and were joined with similar groups from the other moon to form small cohorts.
Joining Luis, Lorenz and Florian were three aspirants from Baal Primus – Ereos, Duvallai and Ristan. Despite their odd appearance and thick dialect, the newcomers too had the custom of angels’ names, given to honour the primarch who had ruled the planetary system in the distant past. They greeted each other cautiously, struggling with the pronunciation and cadence of each other’s speech. Of the Baal Secundus three, Luis made the greatest efforts at friendship.
‘If we don’t work together,’ he explained to a surly Lorenz later that night in the barracks, ‘we will fail. The angels told us themselves – they are a brotherhood. We have to accept them, and they us, or we will be rejected.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Lorenz petulantly. ‘I am the strongest fighter. I will succeed.’
‘Listen to him!’ said Florian. ‘Go on, make friends with them.’ He nodded to the other side of the barracks room where the other three of their group sat on their beds.
Rolling his eyes and throwing aside his blanket, Lorenz got up and crossed the room.
‘He’s worse than a child,’ muttered Florian.
‘He’ll learn,’ said Luis. ‘We’ll make him, or we’ll die.’
Luis’ ordeal began in earnest. He and the others were tested in every conceivable way. They were deprived of sleep, made to run in blistering heat and in the near-total dark of nights when Baal and Baalind did not shine. Their endurance, intelligence and strength were subjected to all manner of tests. They would wake after limited sleep to find the arena of the crater filled by a maze, or an assault course, or a variety of puzzles they must solve in groups, many deadly. Tests of stamina followed combat drill, and battles that began as mock combats often turned deadly.
From time to time the Chaplains Malafael and Laestides would walk among them. The aspirants grew to fear the touch of the Chaplains’ winged staffs on their shoulders, for those indicated so were taken away and not seen again. There were deaths. All of them were retested over and over by Rugon, Araezon and their mysterious machines, and others also removed as a result. The numbers dwindled from five hundred boys to four hundred, then three hundred.
As the days marched on, Luis became stronger and fitter. He was taught to wield a staff, then a wooden sword and shield. He was given a powerful spring gun like those used by the tribes of the Blood, but far better made. They were tested endlessly on all forms of combat. Those who did not learn quickly did not get the chance to learn any more. Judgement came without warning, and was final. ‘The tap of my crozius cannot be withdrawn!’ said Malafael. ‘He who feels its touch will not ascend to Baal. Fight for your place, or you will fail!’
As the final hurdle approached, their dread of failure grew, until it towered over them as surely as a mountain. Failure became everything, greater than death. The trials became harder. They were sent out to survive in the desert, taken far away and told to find their way back. They were pitted against captive fire scorpions, asked to make leaps across deep ravines, forced to run miles through the hottest part of the day. Their lessons in melee became deadlier. The wooden weapons became steel. In their desperation for success they took risks. They fought without mercy. More of them died.
Nine long Baal Secundus weeks went by. As Baal waxed to his fullest for the ninth time, the surviving combatants – Luis could no longer consider them competitors – were called into the training ground at the centre of the Place of Challenge.
Araezon, Malafael, Laestides and Rugon stood upon the stone podium that watched over the main ground. With them was a fifth Blood Angel of high rank. His blood-red armour was heavy with ornamentation. Inset skulls stared out from his greaves. The plates of his suit were edged with gold, and his helmet too was golden and circled with a laurel wreath. Upon his helmet’s brow a ruby skull glinted. A white cloak covered his left pauldron. His right hand gripped the hilt of his sword, whose scabbard was encrusted with skulls. Everywhere Luis looked on the figures were skulls and other iconography of death.
