enemy.
Sarpedon was led in, restraints binding his mutant legs, by a gang
of crewmen marshalled by Apothecary Asclephin. Asclephin had
conducted the investigations into Sarpedon’s mutations – indeed, his
findings were part of the evidence that would be presented to the court.
Sarpedon was herded into the dock, and his restraints fixed to the
mountings inside the pulpit. Sarpedon still had the physical presence
to demand a hush from the court in the first moments they saw him.
He was bent by his restraints and he lacked the armour which was the
badge of a Space Marine, but even without his mutations he would
have demanded a form of respect with the scars and bearing of a
veteran and the defiance that refused to leave his face. The inhibitor
hood clamped to his skull just made him look more dangerous. One of
Lysander’s primary duties was to watch Sarpedon carefully and
subdue or even execute him at the first suggestion that the Soul
Drinkers Chapter Master was using his psychic powers.
Sarpedon’s eyes passed across the faces of the assembled Space
Marines. He recognised Borganor and Lysander, and Vladimir he knew
by reputation. Kolgo he had never met, but the trappings of an
inquisitor sparked their own kind of recognition. Several times the Soul
Drinkers had crossed paths, and swords, with the Inquisition. The Holy
Ordos had sent their representative here to take their pound of flesh.
Then Sarpedon’s eyes met Reinez’s.
Brother Reinez of the Crimson Fists was alone. He had no retinue
with him. His armour was pitted and stained, the dark blue of the
Crimson Fists and their red hand symbol tarnished with ill
maintenance. Reinez wore a hood of sackcloth and his face was filthy,
smeared with ash. Strips of parchment covered in prayers fluttered
from every piece of his armour.
There was silence for a moment. Their eyes had all been on
Sarpedon, and none had seen Reinez enter.
‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. His voice was a ruined
growl. ‘You took my standard.’
Reinez had been the captain of the Crimson Fists 2nd Company
during the battles with the xenos eldar on Entymion IV. The Soul
Drinkers had taken the company standard in combat. Reinez was not
a captain any more, and his trappings were those of a penitent, one
who wandered seeking redemption outside his Chapter.
‘The court,’ said Vladimir, ‘recognises the presence of the Crimson
Fists. Let the scribes enter it in the archives that–’
‘You,’ said Reinez, pointing at Sarpedon. ‘You took my standard.
You allied with the xenos. You left my brothers dead in the streets of
Gravenhold.’
‘I fought the xenos,’ replied Sarpedon levelly. ‘My conflict with you
was sparked by your own hatred, not my brothers’ wish to kill yours.’
‘You lie!’ bellowed Reinez. ‘The life of the xenos leader was taken by
my hand! But it was not enough. None of it was enough. The standard
of the Second was taken by heretics. I travelled the galaxy looking for
an enemy worthy of killing me, so I could die for my failings on
Entymion IV. I could not find it. I turned my back on my Chapter and
sought death for my sins, but the galaxy would not give it to me. And
then I heard that the Soul Drinkers had been captured, and were to be
tried on the Phalanx. And I realised that I did not have to die. I could
have revenge.’
‘Brother Reinez,’ said Vladimir, ‘has been appointed the prosecuting
counsel for the trial of the Soul Drinkers. The role of the Imperial Fists
is to observe and administer justice, not to condemn. That task
belongs to Brother Reinez.’
Sarpedon could only look at Reinez. He could scarcely imagine that
any human being in the Imperium had ever hated another as much as
Reinez obviously hated Sarpedon in that moment. Reinez had been
shattered by the events on Entymion IV, Sarpedon could see that. He
had been defeated and humiliated by Astartes the Crimson Fists
believed to be heretics. But now this broken man had been given a
anything that could bring a Space Marine back from the brink, it was
the promise of revenge.
‘The charges I bring,’ said Reinez, ‘are the treacherous slaying of
the servants of the Emperor, rebellion from the Emperor’s light, and
heresy by aiding the enemies of the Imperium of Man.’ The Crimson
Fist was forcing down harsher words to conform to the mores of the
court. ‘The punishment I demand is death, and for the accused to
know that they are dying. By the Emperor and Dorn, I swear that the
charges I bring are true and deserving of vengeance.’
‘This court,’ replied Vladimir formally, ‘accepts the validity of these
charges and this court’s right to try the accused upon them.’
‘Chapter Master,’ said Sarpedon. ‘This man is motivated by hate and
revenge. There can be no justice when–’
‘You will be silent!’ yelled Reinez. ‘Your heretic’s words will not
pollute this place!’ He drew the power hammer he wore on his back
and every Space Marine in the court tensed as the power field
crackled around it.
‘The accused will have his turn to speak,’ said Vladimir sternly.
‘I see no accused!’ retorted Reinez. He jumped over the row of
seating in front of him, heading towards the courtroom floor and
Sarpedon’s pulpit. ‘I see vermin! I see a foul stain on the honour of
every Astartes! I would take the head of this subhuman thing! I would
spill its blood and let the Emperor not wait upon His justice!’
Lysander stepped between Reinez and the courtroom floor, his own
hammer in his hands. ‘Will you spill this one’s blood too, brother?’
said Lysander.
Reinez and Lysander were face to face, Reinez’s breath heavy
between his teeth. ‘The day I saw a son of Dorn stand between a
Crimson Fist and the enemy,’ he growled, ‘is a day I am ashamed to
have seen.’
‘Brother Reinez!’ shouted Vladimir, rising to his feet. ‘Your role is to
accuse, not to execute. It is to prosecute alone that you have been
permitted to board the Phalanx, in spite of the deep shame with which
your own Chapter beholds you. Petitions will be heard and a verdict
will be reached. This shall be the form your vengeance shall take.
Blood will not be shed in my court save by my own order. Captain
Lysander is the instrument of my will. Defy it and you defy him, and
few will mourn your loss if that is the manner of death you choose.’
The moment for which Reinez was eye to eye with Lysander was far
too long for the liking of anyone in the court. Reinez took the first step
back and holstered his hammer.
‘The Emperor’s word shall be the last,’ he said. ‘He will speak for my
dead brothers.’
‘Then now the court will hear petitioners from those present,’ said
Vladimir. ‘In the Emperor’s name, let justice be done.’
The archivists of the Phalanx were a curious
breed even by the
standards of the voidborn. Most had been born on the ship – the few
who had not had been purchased in childhood to serve as apprentices
to the aged Chapter functionaries. An archivist’s purpose was to
maintain the enormous parchment rolls on which the deeds and
histories of the Imperial Fists were recorded. Those massive rolls,
three times the height of a man and twice as broad, hung on their
rollers from the walls of the cylindrical archive shaft, giving it the
appearance of the inside of an insect hive bulging with pale cells.
An archivist therefore lived to record the deeds of those greater than
him. An archivist was not really a person at all, but a human-shaped
shadow tolerated to exist only as far as his duties required. They did
not have names, being referred to by function. They were essentially
interchangeable. They schooled their apprentices in the art of
abandoning one’s own personality.
Several of these archivists were writing on the fresh surfaces of
recently installed parchment rolls, their nimble fingers noting down the
transmissions from the courtroom in delicate longhand. Others were
illuminating the borders and capital letters. Gyranar cast his eye over
these strange, dusty, dried-out people, their eyes preserved by
goggles and their fingers thin bony spindles. Every breath he took in
there hurt, but to a pilgrim of the Blinded Eye pain was just more proof
that the Emperor still had tests for them to endure.
‘Follow,’ said the archivist who had been detailed to lead Gyranar
through the cavernous rooms. This creature represented the dried husk
of a human. It creaked when it walked and its goggles, the lenses filled
with fluid, magnified its eyes to fat whitish blobs. Gyranar could not tell
if the archivist was male or female, and doubted the difference meant
anything to the archivist itself.
The archivist led Gyranar through an archway into another section of
the archives. Here, on armour stands, were displayed a hundred suits
of power armour, each lit by a spotlight lancing from high overhead.
The armour was painted purple and bone, with a few suits trimmed
with an officer’s gold. Each was displayed with its other wargear:
boltguns and chainswords, a pair of lightning claws, a magnificent
force axe with a blade inlaid with the delicate patterns of its psychic
circuitry. The armour was still stained and scored from battle, and the
smell of oil and gunsmoke mixed with the atmosphere of decaying
parchment.
‘This is the evidence chamber,’ said the archivist. ‘Here are kept the
items to be presented to the court.’
‘The arms of the Soul Drinkers,’ said Gyranar. He pulled his hood
back, and the electoo on his face reflected the pale light. The scales
tipped a little, as if they represented the processes of Gyranar’s mind,
first weighing down on one side then the other.
‘Quite so. Those who wish to inspect them can claim leave to do so
from the Justice Lord. Our task is to make them available for scrutiny.’
‘And afterwards?’
The archivist tilted its head, a faint curiosity coming over its sunken
features. ‘They will be disposed of,’ it said. ‘Ejected into space or used
as raw material for the forges. The decision has yet to be made.’
‘If the Soul Drinkers are found innocent,’ said Gyranar, ‘presumably
these arms and armour will be returned to them.’
‘Innocent?’ replied the archivist. The faint mixture of mystification
and baffled amusement was perhaps the most extreme emotion it had
ever displayed. ‘What do you mean, innocent?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Gyranar, bowing his head. ‘A wayward thought.
Might I be given leave to inspect this evidence for myself?’
‘Leave is granted,’ said the archivist. It turned away and left to take
up its regular duties again.
Father Gyranar ran a finger along the blade of the force axe. This
was the Axe of Mercaeno, the weapon of the Howling Griffons Librarian
killed by Sarpedon. Sarpedon had taken the axe to replace his own
force weapon lost in the battle. Such had been the information given by
the Howling Griffons’ deposition to the court. Its use suggested a
certain admiration held by Sarpedon for Mercaeno. It was probable that
a replacement weapon could have been found in the Soul Drinkers’
own armouries on the Brokenback, but Sarpedon had chosen to bear
the weapon so closely associated with the Space Marine he had
killed.
It was a good weapon. It had killed the daemon prince Periclitor.
Gyranar withdrew his thumb and regarded the thin red line on its tip.
The Axe of Mercaeno was also very sharp.
Across the hall from the axe was a pair of oversized weapons, too
big to be wielded by an Astartes, and with mountings to fix them onto
the side of a vehicle. Gyranar knew they were the weapons of a Space
Marine Dreadnought – a missile launcher and a power fist. They, too,
were in the livery of the Soul Drinkers. Their presence told Gyranar that
everything the Blinded Eye had foretold was coming to pass. He was a
cog in a machine that had been in motion for thousands of years, and
that its function was about to be completed was an honour beyond any
deserving.
Gyranar knelt in prayer. His words, well-worn in his mind, called for
the fiery and bloodstained justice of the Emperor to be visited on
sinners and traitors. But his thoughts as they raced were very different.
The archives. The dome being used as the courtroom. The Halls of
Atonement. The map being drawn in the pilgrim’s mind was beginning
to join up. Soon, he would hold his final sermon, and the contents of
that pronouncement were finally taking shape.
‘Everything,’ said Lord Inquisitor Kolgo, ‘is about power.’
The inquisitor lord paced as he spoke, making a half-circuit around
the gallery seating, watched by the Battle Sisters who accompanied
him. His Terminator armour was bulky but it was ancient, the secrets
of its construction giving him enough freedom of movement to point
and slam one fist into the other palm, stride and gesticulate as well as
any orator. And he was good. He had done this before.
‘Think upon it,’ he said. ‘In this room are several hundred Astartes.
Though I am a capable fighter for an unaugmented human, yet still the
majority of you would have a very good chance of besting me. And I
am unarmed. My weapons lie back on my shuttle, while many of you
here carry the bolters or chainswords that you use so well in battle. I
see you, the brothers of the Angels Sanguine, carrying the power
glaives that mark you out as your Chapter’s elite. And you, Librarian
Varnica, that force claw about your fist is more than a mere
ornamentation. It is an implement of killing. So if you wished to kill me,
there would be little I could do to stop it.’
Kolgo paused. The Space Marines he had mentioned looked like
they did not appreciate being singled out. Kolgo spread out his arms
to take in the whole courtroom. ‘And h
ow many would like to kill me?
Many of you have experienced unpleasant episodes at the hands of
the Holy Ordos. I am a symbol of the Inquisition, and casting me down
would be to strike a blow against every Inquisitor who ever claimed his
jurisdiction included the Adeptus Astartes. I have, personally, gained
something of a reputation for meddling in your affairs, and am no doubt
the subject of more than a few blood oaths. Perhaps one of you here
has knelt before the image of your primarch and sworn to see me
dead. You would not be the first.’ Kolgo held up a finger, as if to
silence anyone who might think to interrupt. ‘And yet, I live.’
Kolgo looked around the courtroom. The expression of Chapter
Master Vladimir was impossible to read. Other Space Marines looked
angry or uncomfortable, not knowing what Kolgo was trying to say but
certain that they would not like it.
‘And why?’ said Kolgo. ‘Why am I not dead? I am satisfied that it is
not through fear that you refrain from killing me. A Space Marine
knows no fear, and in any case, the fulfilling of a blood oath takes far
higher priority than the possibility of being lynched or prosecuted by
your fellow Astartes. And as I have said, I myself am scarcely capable
of defending myself against any one of you. So what is it that keeps
me alive? What strange gravity stays your hands? The answer is
power. I have power, and it is a force so irresistible, so immovable, that
even Space Marines must make way for it sometimes. I say this not to
tempt you into action, I hasten to say, but to show you that it is
matters of power that determine so much of the decisions we make
whether we understand that or not.
‘This trial is about power. It is about who holds it, to which power
one bows, and the natural order of the Imperium as it is created by the
power its members wield. I say to you that the principal crime of the
Soul Drinkers is the flouting of that natural order of power. You have
refrained from violence against me because of the place I hold in that
order. Sarpedon and his brothers would not. They act outside that
order. Their actions denigrate and damage it. But it is this order that
holds the Imperium together, that maintains the existence of the
Imperium and the species of man. Without it, all is chaos. This is the
crime for which I condemn the Soul Drinkers, and thus do I demand to