to us all. But my crippling was Sarpedon's doing, and I
would repay him for it as a personal debt.'
'We are not here to execute your petty vengeance,
captain,' replied Vladimir. 'A far greater vengeance must be
satisfied. If it is decided that the traitor Sarpedon is to
suffer greatly before death, perhaps you can have a part in
deciding the exact manner in which that suffering is to be
inflicted. Until that decision is made, make justice your
only goal.'
Borganor bowed before Vladimir. 'Forgive me,' he said.
'Such hatred burns in my heart for all those that would
befoul the name of Rogal Dorn.'
'That such hatred should have its voice,' said Vladimir,
'is the reason you have your place at this trial.'
Borganor led the seventy Space Marines of the
Howling Griffons Ninth Company onto the Phalanx's
docking bay. Three companies of the Imperial Fists,
numbering more that three hundred Space Marines, were
already stationed on the Phalanx - the Howling Griffons
would be the next biggest contingent on board. But they
would not be the only visitors to the Phalanx for the trial.
Sarpedon and the Soul Drinkers had tangled with many
Imperial servants, and every one wanted his voice to be
heard.
IN A GOLDEN orbital yacht launched from the Inquisitorial
escort ship Traitorsgrave, Lord Inquisitor Kolgo made his
entrance into the Phalanx. Ahead of him danced a troupe
of acrobats and musicians, enacting in elaborate mimes
and song the greatest achievements of their master's long
career hunting the enemies of the Emperor. Kolgo himself,
in jet-black Terminator armour bearing the 'I' of the
Inquisition proudly on his chest, was flanked by several
battle-sisters of the Adepta Sororitas. They were led by
Sister Superior Aescarion, who had requested the duty of
accompanying Kolgo so that she, too, could witness at
first hand the trial of the renegades whose deeds she had
personally witnessed. She had previously been assigned
to Inquisitor Thaddeus, and she had no doubt that the Soul
Drinkers were responsible for his death since he had
disappeared hunting down evidence of their activities.
The Adeptus Mechanicus, who had more cause than
most to despise the Soul Drinkers, were present in the
form of Archmagos Voar. Voar had been instrumental in
the capture of the Soul Drinkers, in doing so helping to set
right an age-old debt owed to the Mechanicus by Sarpedon
and his renegades. Alongside Voar was a ceremonial
guard of gun-servitors, marching precisely in time. Voar's
legs had been lost on Selaaca and so he moved towards
the engine sections of the Phalanx, where he had been
given quarters, on a set of simple tracks he had fashioned
to use until more suitable replacements could be found.
There was none of the hatred in him that the other
attendees flaunted, for Voar was an analytical creature for
whom emotion was an inconvenience.
The word had spread beyond those who had
personally encountered the Soul Drinkers after they had
turned renegade. The Killing Shadow of the Doom Eagles
Chapter and the Judgement Upon Garadan of the Iron
Knights dropped out of warp near Kravamesh and
demanded that they, as loyal Space Marine Chapters, also
take part in the trial. Shortly after this they were joined by
contingents of Angels Sanguine and Silver Skulls, both
Chapters who had heard of the Soul Drinkers' capture and
found they had officers stationed close enough to
Kravamesh to have a presence at the trial.
Chapter Master Vladimir listened to their petitions. It
was down to his judgement whether or not these Space
Marines would be welcome. He accepted that the
existence of renegade Space Marines was an affront to the
whole Adeptus Astartes, and that the crime of any one
renegade Chapter was a crime against them all for it
blackened the name of Space Marines, their primarchs
and even the Emperor Himself. So Vladimir gave the order
for the Chapter representatives to be welcomed on board
the Phalanx, and quartered among the monastic cells
elsewhere in the galaxy.
Amid the pageantry of so many Chapters all
announcing their presence and bringing their own officers
and honour guards on board, the existence of a band of
ragged pilgrims in the forward cargo sections was all but
forgotten.
IN THE DUSTY, long-empty cargo hall, Father
Gyranar knelt and prayed. Decades before this place had
been crammed with supplies of ammunition, food and
spare parts long since used up, and it remained only in the
memories of a few crewmen who recalled it when asked if
there was somewhere the pilgrims of the Blind Retribution
could be quartered. Those pilgrims now knelt on bedrolls or
attended to their holy books, preparing their souls for the
solemn duty of overseeing the great trial to come. No one
had thought to tell them when the trial was expected to
begin, but the pilgrims did not care. They would always be
ready.
Father Gyranar, who had spoken with Castellan
Leucrontas, was the oldest among them, and few of them
were young. His own prayers were so familiar to him that
he had to stop and think about the words, to stop them
slipping through the well-worn channels of his mind. When
he murmured that the Emperor's will was his will, he forced
himself to pause and consider what that actually meant.
That he had no will of his own, that he was the vessel for a
higher power, that his own wishes and desires had long
since withered away to be replaced with what the Emperor
wanted for this particular instrument.
Gyranar carried a prayer book, but he had not opened
it in thirty-seven years. He knew it by heart.
His evening prayers complete, Gyranar stood.
'Advance the standards,' he said.
The other pilgrims did not expect this. It was not a
part of their normal routine. After a few moments of
confusion the standards of the Blind Retribution were
unfurled and held aloft.
'This place is now holy ground,' said Gyranar. His
voice was brittle and frail, but the other pilgrims listened so
attentively that he could have been no clearer with a voxcaster.
'The time for confession has come.'
'Confession, father?' said Brother Akulsan. He was the
Blind Retribution's deacon, who oversaw the few
permanent places of worship they had established on the
worlds where they had settled for a while. On a pilgrimage
such as this he became a second leader, a check to
Gyranar's authority.
'Indeed,' said Gyranar. 'A confession most vital. There
is in us all a sin. The task we undertake here is of such
import that I would have it spoken aloud by all of us.'
'Many times have I made confession,' said Akul
san.
'Indeed, the very pride of confessing has itself become as a
sin, and required yet more confession. I feel there is little
in me that is still dangerous and unspoken, prideful though
that thought may be.'
'Sister Solace?' said Gyranar.
'Every night I beg forgiveness for my failures,' replied
Sister Solace, in a voice hoarse with endless prayers.
Those not familiar with the Blind Retribution sometimes
expressed surprise that Solace was a woman, for she had
the dusty voice of an old man and beneath her robes it was
impossible to tell gender. Most people never suspected
there were women in the Blind Retribution at all. 'I yearn to
be free of them. What confession can I make now that I
have not in every moment before?'
'You know,' said Gyranar, 'of what I speak.' He had
been kneeling but he now stood. He had never been a big
man and now he was bent and drained, but still the
pilgrims looked down or shied away a little as if he had the
presence of an Astartes. 'Though the greater part of your
soul may deny it. Though you beg the Emperor that it not
be true. Though you have forced yourselves to forget all but
its shadow, yet all of you know of what I speak.'
The pilgrims were silent. The only sound was the
distant hum of the Phalanx's engines and the pulsing of the
air recyclers overhead.
'Then I shall begin,' said Gyranar. 'O Emperor, I speak
unto you the darkness of my deeds, and the poverty of this
spirit so unworthy to serve you. My confession is of a time
long ago, when first I wore the habit of the Blind. In the
night as I lay in cloisters, a shadow came to me, clad in
darkness. I am sure he was another brother of this order,
though I know not his name. Perhaps it was that same
father who counselled me in your ways. He said nothing,
and did no more than place a chalice beside the slab on
which I slept. Tell me, brethren, is there some confession
in you that begs to be released, that has some of the
same character as mine? Is there some echo of
recognition that tugs at you, though from your memory it
be gone?'
The pilgrims said nothing. So rapt were they by
Gyranar's words that the Imperial saints could have
descended in that moment and not broken their
concentration on what the old man had to say.
'Then I shall continue,' he said. 'In this chalice was a
liquid dark and cold. The shadow bid me drink with a
gesture, and I did so, for I was afraid. And then into my
mind there flooded a terrible waterfall of knowledge. I saw
destruction and suffering! But I saw also the good that
would come of it, the sinners that would be purged and the
dead flesh of this bloated Imperium burned away. And I
saw this time, when the Angels of Death, the Emperor's
own warriors, shall be brought to trial before their peers,
and I saw the part we were to play therein. The sin I
confess is that I have known since that night that this time
would come, and that the Blind Retribution must be there
not only to observe that justice be done, but to enact a
most crucial and terrible act that is the Emperor's will. I
have kept it secret, locked up in my soul. Knowing that the
day would come everything I saw will come true. That is
my confession. Who will follow mine with the excision of
their own sin? Who?'
For a few moments, there was silence. Then one of
the pilgrims raised a hand - Brother Sennon, one of the
younger brethren who had been with the Blind Retribution
only a few years. 'I drank of the chalice,' he said, his voice
wavering. 'I saw… I saw the Phalanx. I thought it was a
gilded eagle, a symbol of the Emperor's presence but…
but when I looked upon this ship, I understood that
whatever is to befall us must happen here. And it will be
most dreadful. I saw flame, and blood, and torn bodies.
Astartes battling one another. There was a terrible
injustice, I am sure, which by this violence might be
averted. And… Father Gyranar, I am sure that I must die.'
'Brother Sennon,' said Gyranar, 'your courage is that
of one far beyond your years and wisdom. To have made
this confession here, before your brothers, is an act of
great bravery. Who here can show such valour? For he is
not the only one with something to confess.'
'I, too,' said Sister Solace, 'have seen what I must do.
It is indeed a terrible thing. But it was brought to me while
at prayer. There was a searing pain about my temples and
when my senses returned my mind was full of visions. I
saw the Phalanx, and all that you have spoken of. I have
hidden this for so long because I was afraid. I thought I
was the only one. I thought that if I spoke of it I would be
accused of corruption, and so I pushed it down to the
depths of my soul. Only now am I able to acknowledge it
within myself.'
More voices spoke out. Many had drunk of the chalice
offered to them. Others had been struck by sudden visions
while ill with a fever or at prayer. Some had been granted
prophetic dreams. All of them had hidden what they had
seen, and all of them had seen the same thing. The
Phalanx. Fire and warfare. Destruction. And all had the
same absolute certainty that what they saw was the
Emperor's will. Every pilgrim cried out his own confession,
finally unburdening himself of the dark thoughts that had
been inside him since the days of his novicehood in the
Blind Retribution.
Gyranar held up a hand to silence them. 'Now our
confession is finished,' he said, 'is any of you in doubt as
to what he must do? Does any fail to understand his own
task in this, our final act of devotion?'
This time, there was silence again.
'Good,' said Gyranar. 'Then the Emperor's will must be
done, dreadful though it is. And true, many of you will die,
though the fear of death has no hold on you, I see.'
'Rather death,' said Brother Akulsan, 'than to live on
with this task undone.'
'Good,' said Gyranar. 'Then we are all of the same
mind. And now, let us pray.'
IF ARCHMAGOS VOAR could have truly admired
anything, he would have admired the Crucible of Ages. The
complex angles of its construction, wrought in iron and
bronze to form a great segmented dome, were lit from
beneath by the molten metal running in channels between
the four great forges in which blades and armour segments
were being heated by crewmen in heavy protective suits.
The sound of steel on steel rang like the falling of a
metallic rain. The work was overseen by the Techmarines
of the Fourth, Seventh and Eighth Companies of the
Imperial Fists, those companies present on the Phalanx for
the trial. The Techmarines checked each piece for flaws
after its cooling in the huge vat of water in the centre of the
dome, throwing those pieces that failed back in
to the
streams of molten metal.
Voar did not really like anything in the traditional
human sense, since he had lost much of his emotional
centre over the course of his various augmentations. But
as much as he could, he liked this place. It was a place of
both industry and wisdom. The exacting standards of the
Techmarines were something to admire, as was the
devotion the crewmen had to the orders of their Imperial
Fists masters. The Crucible of Ages could have been lifted
straight out of an Adeptus Mechanicus forge world, which
was as high a compliment as a magos of the Mechanicus
could pay.
Archmagos Voar had been summoned here. Ordinarily
one did not summon an archmagos, but he was a guest
here on the Phalanx and his datamedia still contained
enough matters of etiquette to suggest he should accept
the request to come to the Crucible.
In the centre of the Crucible stood an Astartes who
was not a Techmarine. He wore Terminator armour, its
yellow ceramite panels lit red and orange by the molten
streams. He was testing the weight and balance of several
hammers recently forged and left by the cooling pool. Each
hammer was as long as a man was tall but the Imperial
Fist swung them as if they weighed nothing. He swung
each in turn a few times, running through a simple
weapons drill, then scowled and placed each one back in
the pile. None of them seemed to please him very much.
None of them, presumably, was the equal of the thunder
hammer he carried strapped to the back of his armour.
'Demenos!' shouted the Imperial Fist over the din.
One of the Techmarines turned to him. 'Captain
Lysander?'
'What grade of material are you using for your hammer
heads? These things feel like they would splinter against a
child's hand! And the shafts are about as sturdy as straw!'
Techmarine Demenos bowed his head. 'Many of my
forgemen are new, captain,' he said. 'They have yet to
understand the artificer's art. These weapons are
exemplars of their competence thus far. They shall be
used as training weapons, I would imagine.'
'If you wish to train our novices to fear the failing of
their wargear, then they will do perfectly,' retorted
Lysander. He picked up a sword this time and made a few
thrusts and chops with it. 'This is better,' he said. 'This
would go through a few skulls.'