Lords of Blood, page 70
His boy might still become the man he always hoped for. He might still.
‘What is your son’s name?’ asked the angel.
Uigui screwed up his eyes. ‘I am sorry.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Teus,’ said Uigui. ‘His name is Teus.’
A dam of sorrow broke in him. Tears welled at the corner of his eyes.
‘And what is your name, father of Teus?’
‘It is Uigui. I am Uigui, the water seller.’
‘Then, Uigui the water seller, do you accept the Emperor’s mercy?’ the angel asked in tones of infinite kindness.
Uigui closed his eyes. The grip of the angel’s hand on his head was cold and firm without being painful.
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I accept. Teus, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I–’
‘Da!’
The angel twisted. The crunch of bone was sudden and final. Uigui’s head lolled on a broken neck.
The angel stood and spoke to men the boy could not see. ‘Cleansing team to the Galilean Walk. I have a contaminated body.’
‘You killed my da!’ said the boy.
The angel looked down at the boy. ‘This was mercy, not murder. He would have died in pain, and would have wished for a swifter end before the poison killed him. He was brave and wise, at the end, at least. He took kindness when it was offered over agony.’
The angel reached out his hand.
‘It is misfortune you witnessed his death, but there are many things we never think to see,’ said the angel. ‘What was sundered can again be made whole. Be thankful. We live in an age of wonders. Come with me, be healed, and become my brother.’
Hesitantly, the boy stood. With a backward glance at his father’s corpse, he allowed the angel’s thralls to lead him away.
Gabriel Seth returned Amit’s Reliquary in the same manner in which it had been given, in secret and in darkness.
He waited for Dante in the catacombs far under the Arx Angelicum. Lit by a single red candle, the dusty sarcophagi of forgotten warriors lined shelves carved into the rock. There were thousands of them, in niches that went higher up the wall than he could see, curving away into the absolute darkness of Baal’s underworld. So much artistry was there – every niche carved, every sarcophagus a perfect representation of the unique warrior they contained, all of it hidden forever.
Pointless, thought Seth, though as he did so he hefted the tube containing the reliquary and doubted his own opinion. There was a permanence in art not found in life.
The tyranids had not found their way in so deep. The dead slept undisturbed. Perhaps they would have remained there until the sun burned itself out had the xenos won, a relic to be uncovered by the next species arrogant enough to proclaim itself master of the galaxy.
Such stillness was there, such peace. It only accentuated Seth’s simmering rage. His double pulse roared in his ears in the marmoreal silence. His muscles creaked with tension. He stopped his fists clenching on the reliquary’s container only by a direct act of will.
Poised between the silence of the dead and explosive, uncontrollable fury, Seth waited with the patience of a well-balanced sword in its sheath: still, but deadly nonetheless.
In the darkness the nearly silent purr of Dante’s master-crafted armour growled as loudly as an enraged wolf.
Seth’s luminator snapped on, striking scintillating reflections from Dante’s golden plate that moved over the faces of the sarcophagi. Such was the effect of Sanguinius’ death mask bathed in light that Seth almost knelt reflexively. He remembered Appollus’ chiding, and grunted in anger, forcing himself to remain standing.
‘Gabriel,’ said Dante. ‘It is good to see you living.’ His pure voice echoed off in the distance, revealing the vastness of the catacombs.
‘Commander,’ said the Master of the Flesh Tearers. He held out the tube. ‘I am returning this to you.’
Dante looked at the relic. ‘I gave it freely,’ he said.
‘It was not yours to give,’ said Seth gruffly. ‘Besides, a thing of this worth and beauty has no place with us. Better it stays here with you. I have seen the fate of my Chapter in the face of Sentor Jool. If Sanguinius’ feather remains with us, it will be lost.’
‘Very well.’ Dante grasped the tube. ‘If you insist.’ Seth released it to his care. ‘My brother. You survived. Your Chapter faced rage incarnate, and it did not fall. The Knights of Blood could not tear themselves from the fight. They were in thrall to the flaw. You are not they, you have proved that. Your fate is not theirs.’
‘No,’ Seth shook his head; his frown grew deeper. ‘No. It was not like that. The Knights of Blood thought themselves too monstrous to return to Baal. They sacrificed themselves. They chose where to die, they fought the embodiment of rage, and they did not fall. It was a clean end for a corrupted bloodline. There will be no such blessing for my warriors. Without the relic, it may have been different. I pray to whoever is listening that we can find similar peace.’
‘It will not happen to you,’ said Dante in surprise. ‘Guilliman brings enough new warriors to rebuild all the Chapters of the Blood.’
‘Not the Knights of Blood.’
‘Not they,’ admitted Dante. ‘That name is too cursed to resurrect. Let them be remembered for their final heroic act. But the Flesh Tearers will be reborn. Guilliman is a living primarch. He will save the Imperium. He brings more than reinforcement. The new warriors will save our bloodline. Where we are flawed, they are not. There is little, if any, sign of the flaw among the Primaris Space Marines. Corbulo tells me that where he failed, Belisarius Cawl has succeeded, eliminating the instability at source. Not one of them in the long, hard years of the Indomitus Crusade has fallen to the Black Rage. When queried on the thirst, the majority are perplexed. They simply do not know of it. Corbulo is amazed.’
‘That is salvation, is it?’ said Seth. ‘I say otherwise. I say it is a deliberate action against our lord’s heritage, and the work of the Emperor himself.’
‘How can you say that?’ said Dante, appalled.
‘You are too noble to understand.’ Seth rounded on Dante. ‘That is not salvation, that is replacement. These new warriors will bear the colours of Flesh Tearers, but without Sanguinius’ fury they will be Flesh Tearers in name only. All my time as Chapter Master I have waged war on our rage, to wrestle it into submission and use its strength to slay our foes. We are fury! From the time of Amit, the savage lord, to this day, we have carried the white heat of Sanguinius’ anger in us. That was our gift and our burden. The flaw is what makes us what we are.’ He clenched his fist in front of Dante’s face. His voice dropped. ‘We are nothing without the struggle against it. He would make us all Ultramarines in red armour.’ He turned away, his gaze straying down the dead legions of Blood Angels. ‘There are few of my warriors left, few true Flesh Tearers. Once we are dead, the Flesh Tearers will be no more, no matter that these abominations carry our name. It is a betrayal, not a boon. Guilliman will want us gone quickly, and his own warriors in our stead.’
‘Gabriel!’
Seth waved his hand. ‘Open your eyes, Dante. These Primaris Space Marines, they are Legions in all but name. I have spoken with the newcomers. They are only too glad to tell me of the Avenging Son’s plans. Wherever Guilliman goes, he leaves his men in place. Through the codex, he gave the Adeptus Astartes their independence. He is more than willing to remove it from us. Soon, the Chapters will be free in name only. And these new Space Marines, he has the gall to interfere with the work of the Emperor. If he is willing to do that…’ Seth fell silent suddenly.
‘What are you suggesting?’ said Dante quietly.
Seth mulled his words over, even as his anger tried to force them out of his mouth. He would not speak at rage’s behest, but decided to say them in calmness. They needed to be said. ‘If he is regent, why not Emperor?’
‘What you suggest is treasonous!’
‘My words, or his actions?’ snarled Seth. He drew himself up to the fullness of his considerable height. ‘Be careful of him, Lord of Baal. Be very careful.’
Without waiting for a reply, Seth walked away into the darkness.
Once again, Dante stood upon the Arx Murus. With him were the remaining officers of his Chapter. Captains Borgio, Karlaen, Aphael, Phaeton, Machivai and Sendini, Sanguinary High Priest Corbulo and Brother Adanicio. Astorath had returned with the primarch, and Mephiston had dug himself out of the Cruor Mountains, returning from death once more with a larger part of the librarius. That was something, at least, thought Dante. Most of his other specialist officers were gone.
‘This is all of us, then,’ said Dante. He took in the battered remnants of his high command. They looked back at him grim-faced. Their armour had been repaired and repainted, but war had marked their flesh, and several of them had lived years more than Dante thanks to the temporal flux induced by the storm.
‘The Chapter will be rebuilt, my lord,’ said Adanicio. ‘The primarch assures me.’
‘It will not be the same,’ said Karlaen sadly.
‘Today is a historic moment,’ said Mephiston. ‘The next time the lords of our Chapter gather so, our numbers will be swollen with new blood. We are the last conclave of Blood Angels Space Marines ever to be. From henceforth, the Primaris will begin to replace us until we are no more.’
‘Everything is changing,’ said Dante. He welcomed it. Let Seth rage.
The view they looked upon was unimaginably different to what had been before. The dunes were flattened by the passage of millions of hooves and claws. Where it was not smooth, the desert was marred by thousands of craters. Although these were already filling in with wind-blown sand, the outlines of the largest would be visible for centuries to come.
So much xenos blood had been spilled it crusted the desert over, preventing the sand from moving as it would. There was no rain to wash it away. Curls of sand hissed over these hard pans of baked vitae, unable to find purchase. Dunes would be long in rising there. When they did, the ichor of tyranids would leave a permanent mark in the geology of Baal beneath them.
Much of the Arx Angelicum was in ruins. The outer tiers were the most battered, having taken the brunt of the tyranid attack. The underlying stone of the Arx was durable, and once the ravages of bio-acid were polished over, it would gleam again, but the turrets and bastions were wrecked, their weapons cast down, and all would need rebuilding. Many of the statues that had adorned the exterior had fallen and were smashed beyond repair. Even upon the redoubt the tyranids had left their mark. The Basilica Sanguinarum was heavily damaged. The Citadel Reclusiam was a windowless shell; only the attached Tower of Amareo was untouched, and that was silent for the first time in thousands of years. A shattered stump was all that remained of the slender spire of the Archangelian. The Sanguis Corpusculum, as the repository of the Blood Angels stocks of vitae, slave vats and other biotech, had been ransacked.
Corbulo regarded the soot-stained remains of his domain, and pronounced himself glad. ‘We survived,’ he said. ‘We won. We will rebuild, better than before.’
‘Not all change is for ill,’ said Astorath.
Plasteel walkways bridged the breaches in the wall-walk of the upper Arx Murus. Most of the parapet had been swept away. Though it had been made safe, the remains of the Dome of Angels were yet to be cleared, and its jagged shards still clustered at the volcano’s rim. The void shield genatorum was a hollow in Baal’s crust. The Hall of Sarcophagi was irredeemably profaned. Inside the Well of Angels the situation was similarly dire. Bolt craters pocked every surface. The Verdis Elysia was a stripped wasteland. Thousands of windows set into the throat wall were broken. No corner of the Arx was untouched. Not one statue was unmarked. Millennia of art and history had been destroyed in three weeks of violence, what was left dirtied forever by xenos contact.
A single Sanguinary Guard stood watch over the gathering of his masters. Daeanatos, he was called. He was the last of his kind, and therefore would soon be made Exalted Herald of Sanguinius. New guard would be selected. Dante had a plethora of heroes to choose from now, but for the moment, Daeanatos completed his duty alone. So it was throughout the Chapter.
‘Already steps are being taken to set things to rights,’ said Adanicio. ‘The primarch has brought with him vast resources for peace as well as war.’ He gestured down at the scaffolding covering the lower levels, which was creeping closer to the twin summits by the minute. Adanicio was more enthusiastic than his peers. In Guilliman, the diligent master of the logisticiam had found a kindred spirit.
‘The Arx Angelicum will be a very different place,’ said Dante. ‘It has never endured such a devastating attack. It will never be the same again.’
‘Our bonds with our primarch are frayed a little further by the loss of so much history,’ said Karlaen.
‘Aye,’ said Sendini, ‘but his brother walks among us. That is a fair trade.’
‘He is not the Great Angel,’ said Corbulo.
‘He is with us, nevertheless,’ said Karlaen.
Dante listened to the quiet talk of his brothers. So many had died. Castigon, Raxietal, Zedrenael, and Sendroth had all fallen in the defence. Behelmor and Asante slain as the Blade of Vengeance came down. As yet firm casualty numbers were unavailable, but Dante did not expect the total survivors of the Blood Angels to exceed three hundred.
Others of the Blood had fared far worse. Eight Chapters had been entirely wiped out, half a dozen nearly so, to the point where they would never recover. Most of the others could boast no more than a company or two of warriors, and none remained at above half strength. Hundreds of war machines, dozens of ships, thousands of warriors, all gone.
‘If the hive mind had truly intended to wipe out Sanguinius’ line, it failed by the narrowest of margins,’ said Dante.
‘But we have won,’ repeated Corbulo. He of all of them was the most optimistic for the future.
The fortress monastery played host to the new breed of Space Marine. There were thousands of them wearing Sanguinius’ colours alone. Formations of them moved in the desert, replacing the warriors Dante had lost in his defence of Baal. Their strange ships soared through the skies, their tanks growled over the sands on anti-grav fields. As novel as they were, these machines would remain unfamiliar for only a short time.
‘Perhaps this scouring clean of the Arx Angelicum is for the best,’ said Borgio. ‘A new fortress monastery for a new Chapter. The old days are over, the days of the Space Marines are done. The Primaris hold the key to man’s survival in this terrible age. A new era is dawning, one our primarch father would not recognise.’
‘The galaxy is in great peril,’ said Dante. He looked heavenward. During the day the Cicatrix Maledictum painted a writhing band across the sky. At night it dominated everything. The warp storms were over, but the northern half of the galaxy was denied the light of the Astronomican. ‘Half of the Imperium is at risk of destruction, and on the other side of the rift is in little better shape.’
‘Imperium Nihilus,’ said Astorath. ‘What horrors await us out there? The Indomitus Crusade has fought all manner of foes. Many of our worlds have fallen.’
Karlaen and the rest had done their best to bring Dante up to date on all that had happened in the wider Imperium. Since Cryptus fell less than six months had passed from Dante’s subjective point of view. Beyond Baal, several years had gone by. Time had been bent out of shape by the opening of the Great Rift.
Dante folded his arms. The artisans had done a good job restoring his armour. Burnished gold gleamed again. The damage to Sanguinius’ mask was repaired. More than ever he felt like a fraud, a pretender to the primarch’s glory. Now he had met one…
Now he had met one. The thought was still wondrous.
He was a relic, like Seth. A golden statue from a doomed age. Maybe the Imperium was finished, primarch or not. If it survived it would have to change. Everything was in flux. For one thousand five hundred years Dante had seen the Imperium locked in a stasis of its own making. In a handful of days the certainty of millennia had been swept aside. Guilliman promised reform.
Old as he was, weary as he was, Dante was glad he had lived to see this day. He would serve. Sanguinius himself had commanded it, and so it would be done.
Dante vowed never to share that vision with anyone, not even Roboute Guilliman. Whether it were real in any objective sense was not important; in every sense it was true.
The certainty of service calmed his troubled thoughts, but one thing nagged at him. Sanguinius’ prophecy had not been disproved after all. The golden warrior would still be needed to stand at the Emperor’s side in the final days. Perhaps he had a vital part yet to play.
Peace had come to Baal for a time. War racked the heavens. He hoped the prophesied days would not come to pass. He prayed that Sanguinius was wrong.
If that time when he stood at the Emperor’s side were to come, it was not yet. Clatters of industry sounded across the desert again. The fleets of the Imperium crowded Baal’s orbits. Hundreds of thousands of warriors walked its sands. His place was there, for the foreseeable future.
A heavy yet measured tread had Dante turn away from the view. Roboute Guilliman approached the group unarmoured, an apologetic look on his face, a data-slate in his hand. Dante had seen the tools of administration in the primarch’s hand more often than he had weapons. The officers of the Blood Angels ceased their conversation instantly and knelt respectfully.
‘My lord Commander Dante, Blood Angels, may I join you?’
‘Of course, my lord. We are your servants to command,’ said Dante. He did not kneel, as the primarch had commanded him not to, but he wanted to.
