Lords of Blood, page 29
The Council of Bone and Blood met to choose Avernis’ replacement. A convocation of the Chaplains and the Sanguinary Priests, only they had the right to select the captains of the Chapter.
Dante waited on their judgement. He stood upon the high parapets of the Arx Angelicum, looking out over the desert. Both moons were in the sky; Baal Primus waxed full, Baal Secundus at half. A chain of black craters marred the surface of Baal Primus. Every time Dante saw that, he was reminded of his father and the stories he used to tell of the taking of Baalind’s necklace. His recollections of life before were fading, three hundred years on, but those that remained were precious to him.
The dunes of Baal receded to the limit of his vision, timeless in their ever-changing movements. They were always different, but forever the same. He learned early in his life as a Blood Angel that Baal had always been a world of deserts, with precious little life. The moons, though… They were a different story. Lush, paradises – before the Dark Age of Technology had ended and night descended across mankind’s first empire. War between them had reduced their landscapes to ashen desert and toxic waste.
Home, he thought. What is home? As a boy it was Baal Secundus; as a man it is the Arx Angelicum; as a human being it is Terra. He wondered if all men felt the shiftless sense of dislocation he felt, and if men were ever meant to travel the stars at all.
His encounter with the Pirate King made him thoughtful. The eldar had ruled a large part of the galaxy for millions of years; their technology was strange but advanced. They had a highly developed sense of the aesthetic, and yet there was one living in comparative squalor for amusement, surrounded by creatures most of its kind despised. He had seen the eldar’s worlds. He could appreciate the beauty of the things they made.
He drew strength from mankind’s superiority. The eldar had not recovered from their fall. The Emperor had lifted men high again. They were the true masters of the galaxy.
Unbidden, his eyes rose to the moons. If mankind is so wise, a treacherous voice whispered, why did Sanguinius leave the moons as wastelands, when he could have restored them? Leaving one’s own people to suffer so that their strife-hardened children might be recruited. Is that the action of an angel?
Dante shook the thought away. It was the way it was, because it had to be that way.
A cool wind blew over the dunes. Streamers of sand undulated from the crests of each, the banners to the desert’s imperceptible march. Four hundred miles to the north was the remains of the greatest city on Baal, buried in the sand. A colony of the moons in the era of mankind’s supremacy, it had died when Secundus and Primus had turned on each other. On buried streets preserved under impacted sands were the bones of millions of people. He had seen them, where the indecisive movements of the dunes covered and recovered them.
He bowed his head.
Sanguinius, he thought. Guide me. Through the link I share with you. Help me be the best that I can be.
Thoughts blank, head bowed, he let the wind tug at his robes and carry his sense of time away, until he felt a presence beside him.
He looked up with a start. Staring at him, his golden mask carved with sorrow, was the Sanguinor. Dante blinked furiously, but the golden figure remained. It reached out a golden hand and rested it upon Dante’s shoulder. Wellbeing flowed from the Herald of Sanguinius into Dante. Heavy with melancholy though it was, it steadied him.
‘Sergeant.’
Reality blinked. The Sanguinor was gone. Another figure in gold stood behind him, Brother Demetrean of the Sanguinary Guard.
‘The council has gone into recess, brother.’
‘Have they reached a decision?’ said Dante.
Demetrean shook his head. ‘I have not come to deliver their verdict to you. Chaplain Malafael wishes to see you.’
As Malafael received Dante in his private chapel, Dante tried to guess, not for the first time, what he looked like. The brothers of the Chaplaincy never removed their helms in front of any but the captains, Chapter Master and Sanguinary Priests. To the brothers-of-the-line, they were aloof, mysterious figures. And yet Malafael had taken it on himself to mentor Dante, and Dante had come to regard him as a friend.
‘Brother Dante,’ said Malafael. He occupied the skull throne before the chapel altar.
‘Lord Malafael.’ Dante bowed.
Malafael gestured to a ewer of wine and silver goblets, beautifully engraved by the Chaplain’s own hand. Surprisingly, the images on them were all of life, not of death.
‘Take wine. You probably need it. Waiting is taxing on the nerves.’
Dante gratefully poured the wine and drank it down. ‘It would be good to share this with you,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you will soon. The Council of Bone and Blood will make their decision tomorrow,’ said Malafael. ‘I am permitted to reveal my face to a captain. But we shall see. I have voted for you, Dante. You are a good commander. Your men find you inspirational. Your strategies are sound, and you exhibit the Five Graces and Five Virtues in much of what you do. I believe you to be suitable.’
‘Thank you.’ Dante sipped the bitter wine. The grapes of Baal seemed to draw on the tragedy of the system. Little sweetness was found there.
‘Do not thank me. My judgement is founded on fact, not affection.’
‘I saw the Sanguinor again,’ Dante said.
Malafael sat forwards.
‘When?’
‘Bare minutes before I came here.’
‘Where?’
‘Upon the Sanguis Wall.’
‘And what were you doing there?’
‘Taking the air. Thinking,’ said Dante.
‘Did anyone else see him?’
Dante shook his head.
‘Then how can you be sure it was there? The Sanguinor is a material being. If it was not seen, it was not there.’
‘I saw it,’ said Dante. ‘I have seen the Sanguinor four times now, my lord Chaplain. Each time it has appeared at some important point in my life. It saved my life on Baal Secundus. Sergeant Gallileon, I am sure, more closely paid attention to my leadership training after Rora. It pulled me from the depths of the Red Thirst on Tobias Halt. And now, today, it came to me on the wall.’
Malafael dipped his skull helm and took hold of his throne’s armrests.
‘Dante, do not speak of this before the judgement is delivered.’
‘But why? Should not this manifestation be recorded in the Days of the Herald?’
‘It should, but you must be careful. We are noble servants of the Emperor, but our blessed status does not make us immune to envy. There will be those among the higher ranks who see your claims of these visions…’
‘But they are real!’ protested Dante.
‘All solo experiences are claims, Dante, because subjective experience cannot be verified by anyone other than the observer,’ said Malafael patiently. ‘Our Chapter above others must be especially circumspect. Every brother has his visions. We cannot make decisions based on every one – we would tear ourselves apart.’
‘This is different.’
‘I believe you, but not everyone will. I advise caution, that is all. If you are to speak of your visitations, then in all other areas of your life you must be above suspicion.’
‘Suspicion of what?’ demanded Dante angrily.
‘We are an order of warriors, Dante. Do not be so naive as to think that others do not covet the position of captain, or would not resent you for taking it.’
‘But the choice of the Council of Bone and Blood is final,’ said Dante.
‘Yes, and men’s minds will be bound by that, but their hearts are another matter. We Blood Angels are creatures of great and terrible choler. Anger is too easily sparked from our souls. If you look like you are setting yourself above others–’
‘I am not!’
‘Do not interrupt me again,’ said Malafael firmly. Dante clenched his fists and breathed through his teeth. ‘I am not impugning your honour,’ continued the Chaplain. ‘Others will not see this relationship you appear to have with the Sanguinor the same way I do. They will see an ambitious brother who is desirous of high office.’
Dante began to speak, but Malafael spoke over his objection.
‘There have been many examples throughout man’s long history of people claiming divine intervention in order to grow their own power, often for what seemed like noble reasons. The Sanguinor is not divine, but it is mysterious, and it is dangerous. Be wary, that is all.’
Dante breathed, fighting his anger. He let his mind go blank, reaching for elusive restraint.
‘I understand,’ he said eventually.
‘You show great control. That is good. I advise you to rest, Dante. If you are chosen, the Blessing of the Host will tax you. You will need your strength.’ He stood from his throne and rested his armoured hand on Dante’s shoulder.
‘Who knows, after tomorrow we may be able to share a drink, after all.’
All lights were extinguished within the Arx Angelicum. The strength of the Chapter present on Baal gathered in the Basilica Sanguinarum, mortal and Space Marine both. A thousand blood thralls, two hundred brothers, all the Chapter’s unassigned neophytes. They were helmless but armed for battle. Dante felt naked among them, standing by the sealed door in naught but a pair of three-quarter-length breeches. Bowls of glowing coals gave off pillars of red smoke. Red glass screened the windows of the basilica, so that the cathedral appeared drenched in blood. Serf choirs sang low, repetitive hymns that quickened and shushed like the thrum of blood in veins, while others chanted a wordless heartbeat. Blood scent was thick and coppery. The sound of blood, the scent of blood. Dante’s mouth watered, and he became lightheaded.
A semicircle of thrones were arrayed in front of Sanguinius’ statue. In them sat those Chaplains and Sanguinary Priests currently on the home world. Their armour gleamed redly. Their helm lenses glowed in the low, ruddy light.
High Chaplain Bephael stood. Of all his brethren only he went unhelmeted, as was his right as their leader.
‘Brother-Sergeant Dante!’ he called down the length of the basilica’s aisle. His pale skin glistened. His teeth flashed, eerily bright. ‘The Council of Blood and Bone has sat these long hours in deliberation. You have been judged worthy to lead your brothers in battle. Do you accept our judgement?’
‘I do!’ Dante shouted down the length of the basilica.
‘Will you undertake the pains of the Blessing of the Host?’
Dante spoke clearly. ‘I will!’
‘If you falter, you will return to your squad. If you pass, you shall be made captain. Is this simple term acceptable to you, o brother of the blood?’
‘It is!’ shouted Dante.
‘Then come forward, and face the kiss of steel.’
One member of every squad turned on the spot to face the aisle. With a single movement, all of them drew their combat knives. The oiled rasp was as delicate as a breath.
Dante walked forwards. He passed through the ranks of servitors, then by the hooded blood thralls singing their heartbeat song. A pair of cyber-cherubim swept down from their eyrie in the vaulting, trailing his banner between them on chains. A herald seraph flew before them, chanting his name. ‘Dante, Dante, Dante.’
As he passed the first of his battle-brothers, the one chosen for the honour of the blessing stepped out.
‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ he said. His knife flashed brightly in the red light, as if it were covered already in wet blood. The edge slashed across Dante’s chest, opening up a long cut. Blood welled from it, and ran down his body. The Space Marine stepped back and licked his knife clean.
Another stepped out. ‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ he said. His cut was shallower, slicing into Dante’s upper arm.
Dante continued, his footsteps falling in time to the heartbeat chant.
‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ said another, and slashed at him. This blow bit deep, and Dante gritted his teeth at the pain.
Despite the rapid clotting of his wounds, dripping blood left a trail behind him. It ran from his fingers and gathered between his toes, making the stone floor slick. Still he measured his pace. Cut after cut came. The feeling of light-headedness intensified. His thirst was aroused by the scent of his own fluids.
He approached the Council of Bone and Blood.
‘Kneel!’ commanded Bephael.
Dante knelt in a puddle of his own blood. Already the last of the cuts were closing, and the blood ceasing its flow. His banner cherubim fluttered overhead. The herald seraph flew down to head height.
‘Lord High Chaplain Bephael,’ it said in a piping voice. ‘We present Brother-Supplicant Dante, of Squad Dante, of the Fifth Battle Company, the Daemonbanes, for your judgement.’ It bowed its head and flew back to its roost.
Bephael raised both his hands like wings. Sanguinary High Priest Tazael stood and unveiled the Red Grail, the most holy relic of the Blood Angels. The other Sanguinary Priests rose and undid their gauntlets. Tazael handed the grail to an acolyte and cut his wrist, allowing nine drops of blood to fall into the chalice. He went to each of the Priests in turn, and they did the same, opening their veins with a small, curved knife the shape of a claw. As the grail was filled, Bephael put both hands atop Dante’s head and spoke.
‘Brother-Sergeant Dante!’ he intoned. ‘As you have not faltered today, do you swear never to falter in battle?’
‘I do so swear,’ said Dante.
‘As you have bled today, do you swear to bleed for our Chapter, in the name of the Emperor of Mankind, and His Imperium?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘As you have suffered the blessing of our brothers, do you suffer the blessing of command?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘Do you swear to protect the weak and smite down their oppressors, to resist the thirst and the rage so long as you are able?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘And do you accept the judgement of the Council of Bone and Blood?’
‘I do.’ Dante’s words echoed over the pulse-hymn.
The grail was brought forwards. Dante tilted his head to the side. A nick was made in his throat. Nine drops of blood were added to the mingled vitae inside. The cup was full.
‘Then drink!’
The grail was held to Dante’s lips. He sipped at first, then gulped as the blood touched his tongue. His thirst swelled and his fangs slid from his gums, scraping on the metal of the grail. He grabbed the cup and upended it, draining it dry. He blinked. The blood filled him with borrowed life; his senses sang. Never did he feel so alive as after sharing the sacrament.
Quickly as it came, it ebbed. The blood began dying as soon as it left the veins of its hosts, and its refreshment was fleeting. Tazael took the grail away, wiped it clean with fresh white cloth, and covered it over again.
‘My Brother-Chaplains.’ Bephael turned to the grim, skull-faced figures still sitting to his left. ‘Do you uphold the judgement of the Council of Bone and Blood, and the Chapter Council, of which it is part and ruler of? Do you deem Brother Dante worthy of the direction of the Red Council in war?’
‘I, Chaplain Fernibus, so uphold the judgement,’ said the first, and stood.
‘I, Chaplain Verimus, so uphold the judgement,’ said the second, and stood.
So it went on.
‘I, Chaplain Malafael, so uphold the judgement,’ said Dante’s mentor. Then the last, until seven Chaplains and nine Sanguinary Priests stood in a semi-circle in front of their chairs.
‘It is done,’ said Bephael. ‘Stand, Dante, Lord of the Fifth Host, captain of the Daemonbanes!’
Dante stood and turned. The heartbeat chant ceased.
‘Hail Dante, Fifth Captain of the Blood Angels!’ his brothers shouted, and went to their knees.
Dante’s hearts filled with pride. The council came to him one by one and took his hand, and offered their congratulations.
The ritual was over, and the feasting began.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE PROMISE OF HOPE
998.M41
Mandeville point
Outside the Aegis Diamondo
Cryptus System
From one of the Blade of Vengeance’s observation domes, Commander Dante watched the ships of the First, Second and Fifth Companies peel away from the fleet. They accelerated hard, their engine stacks blazing brighter than suns. He watched for an hour, Sanguinius’ death mask under his arm, wishing to see the sight of his men with his own senses, not those of his suit. The stack shine of the vessels dwindled into the wider starscape of the Red Scar and was lost in the slow undulations of the cosmic landscape.
A flash came from their position. A purple globe enveloped them. The light hurt Dante’s eyes, bored through his optic nerves and scratched his brain. Still he watched as the warp enfolded his warriors.
The globe blinked out. The ships were gone.
The dome’s angel of address swivelled on its podium. Its mechanical mouth opened. ‘The task force has departed, my lord,’ said Asante. ‘We are making preparations to enter the warp ourselves. I note you are in observation dome upsilon. I will be ordering the external shutters closed soon, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Asante. I am done here.’
Dante felt better. The crushing sense of futility had been alleviated by Arafeo’s sacrifice. He thanked his equerry in his heart. He could not grow used to this state of mind. His weariness would return, and he dare not take more blood for fear of where the red road led. But for now, at this crucial juncture, he could think clearly, and a plan was forming in his mind.
He turned away from the giant armourglass panels. The segments of their shutters rose up point first from their housings outside. The dome shook as they crawled up their tracks to meet at the apex.
Dante waited on their judgement. He stood upon the high parapets of the Arx Angelicum, looking out over the desert. Both moons were in the sky; Baal Primus waxed full, Baal Secundus at half. A chain of black craters marred the surface of Baal Primus. Every time Dante saw that, he was reminded of his father and the stories he used to tell of the taking of Baalind’s necklace. His recollections of life before were fading, three hundred years on, but those that remained were precious to him.
The dunes of Baal receded to the limit of his vision, timeless in their ever-changing movements. They were always different, but forever the same. He learned early in his life as a Blood Angel that Baal had always been a world of deserts, with precious little life. The moons, though… They were a different story. Lush, paradises – before the Dark Age of Technology had ended and night descended across mankind’s first empire. War between them had reduced their landscapes to ashen desert and toxic waste.
Home, he thought. What is home? As a boy it was Baal Secundus; as a man it is the Arx Angelicum; as a human being it is Terra. He wondered if all men felt the shiftless sense of dislocation he felt, and if men were ever meant to travel the stars at all.
His encounter with the Pirate King made him thoughtful. The eldar had ruled a large part of the galaxy for millions of years; their technology was strange but advanced. They had a highly developed sense of the aesthetic, and yet there was one living in comparative squalor for amusement, surrounded by creatures most of its kind despised. He had seen the eldar’s worlds. He could appreciate the beauty of the things they made.
He drew strength from mankind’s superiority. The eldar had not recovered from their fall. The Emperor had lifted men high again. They were the true masters of the galaxy.
Unbidden, his eyes rose to the moons. If mankind is so wise, a treacherous voice whispered, why did Sanguinius leave the moons as wastelands, when he could have restored them? Leaving one’s own people to suffer so that their strife-hardened children might be recruited. Is that the action of an angel?
Dante shook the thought away. It was the way it was, because it had to be that way.
A cool wind blew over the dunes. Streamers of sand undulated from the crests of each, the banners to the desert’s imperceptible march. Four hundred miles to the north was the remains of the greatest city on Baal, buried in the sand. A colony of the moons in the era of mankind’s supremacy, it had died when Secundus and Primus had turned on each other. On buried streets preserved under impacted sands were the bones of millions of people. He had seen them, where the indecisive movements of the dunes covered and recovered them.
He bowed his head.
Sanguinius, he thought. Guide me. Through the link I share with you. Help me be the best that I can be.
Thoughts blank, head bowed, he let the wind tug at his robes and carry his sense of time away, until he felt a presence beside him.
He looked up with a start. Staring at him, his golden mask carved with sorrow, was the Sanguinor. Dante blinked furiously, but the golden figure remained. It reached out a golden hand and rested it upon Dante’s shoulder. Wellbeing flowed from the Herald of Sanguinius into Dante. Heavy with melancholy though it was, it steadied him.
‘Sergeant.’
Reality blinked. The Sanguinor was gone. Another figure in gold stood behind him, Brother Demetrean of the Sanguinary Guard.
‘The council has gone into recess, brother.’
‘Have they reached a decision?’ said Dante.
Demetrean shook his head. ‘I have not come to deliver their verdict to you. Chaplain Malafael wishes to see you.’
As Malafael received Dante in his private chapel, Dante tried to guess, not for the first time, what he looked like. The brothers of the Chaplaincy never removed their helms in front of any but the captains, Chapter Master and Sanguinary Priests. To the brothers-of-the-line, they were aloof, mysterious figures. And yet Malafael had taken it on himself to mentor Dante, and Dante had come to regard him as a friend.
‘Brother Dante,’ said Malafael. He occupied the skull throne before the chapel altar.
‘Lord Malafael.’ Dante bowed.
Malafael gestured to a ewer of wine and silver goblets, beautifully engraved by the Chaplain’s own hand. Surprisingly, the images on them were all of life, not of death.
‘Take wine. You probably need it. Waiting is taxing on the nerves.’
Dante gratefully poured the wine and drank it down. ‘It would be good to share this with you,’ he said.
‘Perhaps you will soon. The Council of Bone and Blood will make their decision tomorrow,’ said Malafael. ‘I am permitted to reveal my face to a captain. But we shall see. I have voted for you, Dante. You are a good commander. Your men find you inspirational. Your strategies are sound, and you exhibit the Five Graces and Five Virtues in much of what you do. I believe you to be suitable.’
‘Thank you.’ Dante sipped the bitter wine. The grapes of Baal seemed to draw on the tragedy of the system. Little sweetness was found there.
‘Do not thank me. My judgement is founded on fact, not affection.’
‘I saw the Sanguinor again,’ Dante said.
Malafael sat forwards.
‘When?’
‘Bare minutes before I came here.’
‘Where?’
‘Upon the Sanguis Wall.’
‘And what were you doing there?’
‘Taking the air. Thinking,’ said Dante.
‘Did anyone else see him?’
Dante shook his head.
‘Then how can you be sure it was there? The Sanguinor is a material being. If it was not seen, it was not there.’
‘I saw it,’ said Dante. ‘I have seen the Sanguinor four times now, my lord Chaplain. Each time it has appeared at some important point in my life. It saved my life on Baal Secundus. Sergeant Gallileon, I am sure, more closely paid attention to my leadership training after Rora. It pulled me from the depths of the Red Thirst on Tobias Halt. And now, today, it came to me on the wall.’
Malafael dipped his skull helm and took hold of his throne’s armrests.
‘Dante, do not speak of this before the judgement is delivered.’
‘But why? Should not this manifestation be recorded in the Days of the Herald?’
‘It should, but you must be careful. We are noble servants of the Emperor, but our blessed status does not make us immune to envy. There will be those among the higher ranks who see your claims of these visions…’
‘But they are real!’ protested Dante.
‘All solo experiences are claims, Dante, because subjective experience cannot be verified by anyone other than the observer,’ said Malafael patiently. ‘Our Chapter above others must be especially circumspect. Every brother has his visions. We cannot make decisions based on every one – we would tear ourselves apart.’
‘This is different.’
‘I believe you, but not everyone will. I advise caution, that is all. If you are to speak of your visitations, then in all other areas of your life you must be above suspicion.’
‘Suspicion of what?’ demanded Dante angrily.
‘We are an order of warriors, Dante. Do not be so naive as to think that others do not covet the position of captain, or would not resent you for taking it.’
‘But the choice of the Council of Bone and Blood is final,’ said Dante.
‘Yes, and men’s minds will be bound by that, but their hearts are another matter. We Blood Angels are creatures of great and terrible choler. Anger is too easily sparked from our souls. If you look like you are setting yourself above others–’
‘I am not!’
‘Do not interrupt me again,’ said Malafael firmly. Dante clenched his fists and breathed through his teeth. ‘I am not impugning your honour,’ continued the Chaplain. ‘Others will not see this relationship you appear to have with the Sanguinor the same way I do. They will see an ambitious brother who is desirous of high office.’
Dante began to speak, but Malafael spoke over his objection.
‘There have been many examples throughout man’s long history of people claiming divine intervention in order to grow their own power, often for what seemed like noble reasons. The Sanguinor is not divine, but it is mysterious, and it is dangerous. Be wary, that is all.’
Dante breathed, fighting his anger. He let his mind go blank, reaching for elusive restraint.
‘I understand,’ he said eventually.
‘You show great control. That is good. I advise you to rest, Dante. If you are chosen, the Blessing of the Host will tax you. You will need your strength.’ He stood from his throne and rested his armoured hand on Dante’s shoulder.
‘Who knows, after tomorrow we may be able to share a drink, after all.’
All lights were extinguished within the Arx Angelicum. The strength of the Chapter present on Baal gathered in the Basilica Sanguinarum, mortal and Space Marine both. A thousand blood thralls, two hundred brothers, all the Chapter’s unassigned neophytes. They were helmless but armed for battle. Dante felt naked among them, standing by the sealed door in naught but a pair of three-quarter-length breeches. Bowls of glowing coals gave off pillars of red smoke. Red glass screened the windows of the basilica, so that the cathedral appeared drenched in blood. Serf choirs sang low, repetitive hymns that quickened and shushed like the thrum of blood in veins, while others chanted a wordless heartbeat. Blood scent was thick and coppery. The sound of blood, the scent of blood. Dante’s mouth watered, and he became lightheaded.
A semicircle of thrones were arrayed in front of Sanguinius’ statue. In them sat those Chaplains and Sanguinary Priests currently on the home world. Their armour gleamed redly. Their helm lenses glowed in the low, ruddy light.
High Chaplain Bephael stood. Of all his brethren only he went unhelmeted, as was his right as their leader.
‘Brother-Sergeant Dante!’ he called down the length of the basilica’s aisle. His pale skin glistened. His teeth flashed, eerily bright. ‘The Council of Blood and Bone has sat these long hours in deliberation. You have been judged worthy to lead your brothers in battle. Do you accept our judgement?’
‘I do!’ Dante shouted down the length of the basilica.
‘Will you undertake the pains of the Blessing of the Host?’
Dante spoke clearly. ‘I will!’
‘If you falter, you will return to your squad. If you pass, you shall be made captain. Is this simple term acceptable to you, o brother of the blood?’
‘It is!’ shouted Dante.
‘Then come forward, and face the kiss of steel.’
One member of every squad turned on the spot to face the aisle. With a single movement, all of them drew their combat knives. The oiled rasp was as delicate as a breath.
Dante walked forwards. He passed through the ranks of servitors, then by the hooded blood thralls singing their heartbeat song. A pair of cyber-cherubim swept down from their eyrie in the vaulting, trailing his banner between them on chains. A herald seraph flew before them, chanting his name. ‘Dante, Dante, Dante.’
As he passed the first of his battle-brothers, the one chosen for the honour of the blessing stepped out.
‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ he said. His knife flashed brightly in the red light, as if it were covered already in wet blood. The edge slashed across Dante’s chest, opening up a long cut. Blood welled from it, and ran down his body. The Space Marine stepped back and licked his knife clean.
Another stepped out. ‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ he said. His cut was shallower, slicing into Dante’s upper arm.
Dante continued, his footsteps falling in time to the heartbeat chant.
‘Accept this blessing of steel, in the name of the host,’ said another, and slashed at him. This blow bit deep, and Dante gritted his teeth at the pain.
Despite the rapid clotting of his wounds, dripping blood left a trail behind him. It ran from his fingers and gathered between his toes, making the stone floor slick. Still he measured his pace. Cut after cut came. The feeling of light-headedness intensified. His thirst was aroused by the scent of his own fluids.
He approached the Council of Bone and Blood.
‘Kneel!’ commanded Bephael.
Dante knelt in a puddle of his own blood. Already the last of the cuts were closing, and the blood ceasing its flow. His banner cherubim fluttered overhead. The herald seraph flew down to head height.
‘Lord High Chaplain Bephael,’ it said in a piping voice. ‘We present Brother-Supplicant Dante, of Squad Dante, of the Fifth Battle Company, the Daemonbanes, for your judgement.’ It bowed its head and flew back to its roost.
Bephael raised both his hands like wings. Sanguinary High Priest Tazael stood and unveiled the Red Grail, the most holy relic of the Blood Angels. The other Sanguinary Priests rose and undid their gauntlets. Tazael handed the grail to an acolyte and cut his wrist, allowing nine drops of blood to fall into the chalice. He went to each of the Priests in turn, and they did the same, opening their veins with a small, curved knife the shape of a claw. As the grail was filled, Bephael put both hands atop Dante’s head and spoke.
‘Brother-Sergeant Dante!’ he intoned. ‘As you have not faltered today, do you swear never to falter in battle?’
‘I do so swear,’ said Dante.
‘As you have bled today, do you swear to bleed for our Chapter, in the name of the Emperor of Mankind, and His Imperium?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘As you have suffered the blessing of our brothers, do you suffer the blessing of command?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘Do you swear to protect the weak and smite down their oppressors, to resist the thirst and the rage so long as you are able?’
‘I do so swear.’
‘And do you accept the judgement of the Council of Bone and Blood?’
‘I do.’ Dante’s words echoed over the pulse-hymn.
The grail was brought forwards. Dante tilted his head to the side. A nick was made in his throat. Nine drops of blood were added to the mingled vitae inside. The cup was full.
‘Then drink!’
The grail was held to Dante’s lips. He sipped at first, then gulped as the blood touched his tongue. His thirst swelled and his fangs slid from his gums, scraping on the metal of the grail. He grabbed the cup and upended it, draining it dry. He blinked. The blood filled him with borrowed life; his senses sang. Never did he feel so alive as after sharing the sacrament.
Quickly as it came, it ebbed. The blood began dying as soon as it left the veins of its hosts, and its refreshment was fleeting. Tazael took the grail away, wiped it clean with fresh white cloth, and covered it over again.
‘My Brother-Chaplains.’ Bephael turned to the grim, skull-faced figures still sitting to his left. ‘Do you uphold the judgement of the Council of Bone and Blood, and the Chapter Council, of which it is part and ruler of? Do you deem Brother Dante worthy of the direction of the Red Council in war?’
‘I, Chaplain Fernibus, so uphold the judgement,’ said the first, and stood.
‘I, Chaplain Verimus, so uphold the judgement,’ said the second, and stood.
So it went on.
‘I, Chaplain Malafael, so uphold the judgement,’ said Dante’s mentor. Then the last, until seven Chaplains and nine Sanguinary Priests stood in a semi-circle in front of their chairs.
‘It is done,’ said Bephael. ‘Stand, Dante, Lord of the Fifth Host, captain of the Daemonbanes!’
Dante stood and turned. The heartbeat chant ceased.
‘Hail Dante, Fifth Captain of the Blood Angels!’ his brothers shouted, and went to their knees.
Dante’s hearts filled with pride. The council came to him one by one and took his hand, and offered their congratulations.
The ritual was over, and the feasting began.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE PROMISE OF HOPE
998.M41
Mandeville point
Outside the Aegis Diamondo
Cryptus System
From one of the Blade of Vengeance’s observation domes, Commander Dante watched the ships of the First, Second and Fifth Companies peel away from the fleet. They accelerated hard, their engine stacks blazing brighter than suns. He watched for an hour, Sanguinius’ death mask under his arm, wishing to see the sight of his men with his own senses, not those of his suit. The stack shine of the vessels dwindled into the wider starscape of the Red Scar and was lost in the slow undulations of the cosmic landscape.
A flash came from their position. A purple globe enveloped them. The light hurt Dante’s eyes, bored through his optic nerves and scratched his brain. Still he watched as the warp enfolded his warriors.
The globe blinked out. The ships were gone.
The dome’s angel of address swivelled on its podium. Its mechanical mouth opened. ‘The task force has departed, my lord,’ said Asante. ‘We are making preparations to enter the warp ourselves. I note you are in observation dome upsilon. I will be ordering the external shutters closed soon, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Asante. I am done here.’
Dante felt better. The crushing sense of futility had been alleviated by Arafeo’s sacrifice. He thanked his equerry in his heart. He could not grow used to this state of mind. His weariness would return, and he dare not take more blood for fear of where the red road led. But for now, at this crucial juncture, he could think clearly, and a plan was forming in his mind.
He turned away from the giant armourglass panels. The segments of their shutters rose up point first from their housings outside. The dome shook as they crawled up their tracks to meet at the apex.
