Prologue
- Powers That Were
Kurt
stood on the rocky shore, waves crashing all about him, and looked up into the
night sky. On a clear night like this he could see the sparkling points in the
blackness that was the Sea of Stars, but that wasn’t what the old soothsayer
was looking for. He was looking for the silver point, much bigger than the
distant stars. He caught sight of it, surrounded by lesser points, drifting
slowly across the sky, and smiled as he leant on his steel-shod staff. The light
was the fortress of the Emperor, the castle in the sky wherein dwelt the agents
of the God Incarnate. He felt glad whenever he saw the bright silver star,
because it reminded him that the Emperor had not forgotten his little worlds.
Briefly he wondered what the other stars were… the chariots of angels, maybe?
He wasn’t sure what that meant. But still, the great fortress was clearly
visible, and they were safe as long as it was. In
orbit above the small planet Diem, the great silver-grey shape spun through the
void. Up close, it was impossibly ugly, composed entirely of towers and gun
turrets and one huge landing platform, which held the stubby shape of an
Astartes shuttle, held down by a mess of lift shafts and docking claws that
extended all around it. And emblazoned on the underside of the star-fortress was
one huge symbol, a black crucifix on a white background – the ancient emblem
of the Black Templars Chapter of Space Marines. One
solitary marine, dressed in the black and white off-duty fatigues, occupied the
space station’s chapel. The blazon on his shoulder marked him out as a senior
initiate, but he looked only about twenty. There was a good reason for that –
he was. Darius had been promoted following the apocalyptic events of the Moldion
Crusade, but he had also been recalled behind the lines for a period of R&R
that had lasted for two years. Several mind-scourging operations had removed the
greater portion of the horrors he had suffered – he remembered the events, but
not the details, not the sensations. Save one. Despite all the efforts of the
apothecaries, the last battle with the daemon prince Khastarax and his aide
Diabolus remained forever rooted in Darius’ mind. After three attempts to
remove it, Darius had requested that the operatives give up – he would avenge
his mentor’s memory himself. Only then would he be able to forget. Darius’
devotion to the Emperor, shaken by recent events, had returned threefold after
his rescue from Daizann. Confined to the station, unable to leave for any of the
war zones the Black Templars were fighting in, he had little else to do but
think. And think he had. Darius was certain that he was fit for duty again, and
had clamoured to be allowed back into the front lines. But on each of the four
occasions he’d appealed against Marshal Crassus’ demands, he had been
refused. The knowledge that he was still a Templar, still one of the Emperor’s
chosen, was little comfort when he realized that the fire had gone out of him.
He didn’t want to fight for fighting’s sake – he only wanted it for the
change. He thought of change, and inevitably thought of Crassus. Crassus…
Crassus had gone from strength to strength after the victory on Daizann, and
when the news of High Marshal Helbrecht’s death in the Golgotha sector had
been received there had only been one choice for his replacement. So, High
Marshal Crassus had relocated to Golgotha, carrying on his predecessor’s war. Darius’
reflection was disrupted by the sound of boots on stone behind him. A second
marine joined him at the altar, his braid indicating officer status. Recognizing
him, Darius was hard pressed not to strike his superior. Instead, he all but
spat the man’s name into his face. “Voss.
I wasn’t expecting to see you again.” Voss’ proud, battle-scarred features
were a great part of his past. Without Voss, he’d never have been posted to
Moldion and never met Khastarax, never been through the hell of Daizann – and
Gideon would still be alive. “Brother
Darius.” Voss’ reply was almost as cold. “I hear you acquitted yourself marvelously.” “Acquitted?
Voss, there was no crime. You sent me to Moldion out of spite. Thanks to you my
master died.” “Gideon
was a father figure to you, I know, but the end justified the means. The two of
you defeated the greatest menace our Chapter has faced since the Age of
Apostasy. And I would remind you to address me as Marshal Voss in future.” “I
don’t care much for rank, and I don’t care at all for history. I care about
when I’m going to get out of here and back into battle where I belong, Voss,
and I care about my master’s death and I care most of all about my right for
vengeance. And I suppose you’re here to tell me that I’ve been refused that
right again?” “I
shall be honest with you, Darius – I don’t like you. I don’t like your
attitude and I don’t like this go-it-alone spirit you have displayed since
that embarrassment on Korros. But, for reasons not even I dare question, the
lamented High Marshal Helbrecht ordered that you be sent to Babel as soon as we
could spare the forces, and Chaplain Thectus has ordered that… oh, he’ll
tell you after service tonight. I suggest, however, that you hand in your armour.
You’ll not be needing it.” ‘You’ll
not be needing it.’ Those
words echoed through Darius’ head for the rest of that day as he prepared for
the evening mass. What had Voss meant? The words were a constant distraction as
he spoke the rote-remembered prayers among nearly a hundred of his brother
Marines, and they pounded through his mind as he stepped down to the altar after
the service. Thectus
was an ominous figure even by Darius’ standards, looming tall for a marine,
bald and bionic-eyed, his hands resting on the hilt of a crozius arcanum nearly
five feet in length. His other eye was coral brown, staring straight ahead until
Darius plucked up the courage to address him. “Brother-chaplain
Thectus?” “Aye,
brother?” said Thectus, gesturing with one large hand for Darius to continue. “Senior
initiate Darius, chaplain. Marshal Voss said you wanted to see me.” “Ah,
yes, Darius. I wished to speak with you about the late Lord Helbrecht’s
bequest.” Ushered
into a small antechamber, Darius sat down opposite the suddenly much
smaller-looking Thectus, who now sat slumped in his chair, his single eye tired
and half-closed. “I
don’t claim to know how he knew, Darius, but Lord Helbrecht issued orders that
you were to be deployed to Babel as soon as a Crusade was to be launched. He
dies – the first order we get is to send troops to Babel to quell a series of
gang wars – and raids by ork pirates. Now I don’t approve of a marine of
your lacking years being promoted to senior status, but I don’t doubt your
heroism. Put bluntly, Darius, I don’t think you have it in you to officer a
squad.” “With
respect, brother-chaplain, neither do I.” Darius was speaking the truth –
he’d never enjoyed having to give orders except in the direst need, and he was
too inexperienced to make a good officer. He wanted to be one, obviously, but
just not yet. “That
is why I have found you a post that suits your talents. Brother Voss was not
best pleased, but he thinks this is the best place for you, and if he has to
suffer your company he wishes for you to do something useful.” Thectus rose
and took something out of a reliquary that hung on the wall. It was a sword,
easily the size of Thectus’ huge crozius and black-bladed with a glittering
diamond edge and the distinctive wires of a power weapon. Darius wheezed in
shock. “The
Black Sword?” He was going to be the Emperor’s Champion? Darius’ heart
pounded. A twenty-year-old had been chosen to represent the God-Emperor on the
battlefield… “Champion
Darius, do you swear to uphold the honour of the Emperor in all things? To
suffer not the life of the unclean? To remain forever pure in mind, body and
soul? To accept any challenge, no matter the odds?” “I
swear to sustain these vows, now and forever, for the glory of the Emperor.”
This came straight from his memory - it paraphrased the oath of loyalty he’d
taken on his homeworld, Mira. The second part of the ritual… he’d learned
it, but never thought he’d need it. “What
is your life?” “My
honour is my life,” said Darius, stuttering with pride. “What
is your fate?” “My
duty is my fate.” “What
is your fear?” “My
fear is to fail.” “What
is your reward?” “My salvation is my reward.” ‘That’s why!’ he thought. ‘He thinks I’m touched by Daizann… so he sets me to the Championship to prove I’m not.’ “What
is your craft?” “My
craft is death.” “What
is your pledge?” Darius
signed the Eagle over his chest before replying haltingly, “My
pledge is eternal service.” “Then
go, Champion of the Emperor – bring death to His enemies and valour to His
allies. Report to the armoury to collect your artificer armour. Then you will
leave with Marshal Voss aboard the Lightbringer.” “Aye,
brother-chaplain. Thank you.” “Don’t
thank me. Thank the bequest of Helbrecht and the Immortal Emperor.” His
heart sang as he strode across the landing bay, armoured in the ancient garb of
the Emperor’s Champion, a suit of armour dating back to the Horus Heresy and
the Battle for Terra when the first Black Templar, Sigismund, had defeated a
score of Chaos champions. He was part of a line that stretched back unbroken for
ten thousand years – pride, loyalty and battle-lust forged anew in his heart
at this. He would not fail. And now he was going back to war, and in his new
role there was one thing he could guarantee. ‘Gideon,’
he thought to himself, ‘I will avenge your memory.’ Waiting
for him at the base of the shuttle’s boarding ramp was Voss, clad likewise in
his black armour, his right hand bearing a mighty power axe, the other a hefty
storm bolter. His eyes held no love for Darius, but a kind of angry respect. He
scowled as Darius approached, and then saluted. “Ready
to go, brother-champion?” “Ready
as I’ll ever be, Marshal.” The
two Black Templars strode into the shuttle, the ramp retracting behind them.
Then it took off, arcing gently through the station’s shields and headed
towards the battle barge Lightbringer. “So, Marshal, what vagary of the Emperor brings us to Babel?” asked Darius, his dislike of the superior marine evident in every aspect of his being except his voice. The other seven senior initiates in the conference room nodded their approval and interest. “Well,
brothers, the situation is a complex one. Babel happens to be the only mining
world in this sub-sector, so it’s vital that it is protected – without it
the sector’s economy would dry up. Now they’ve always had trouble with armed
gangs in the urbanized areas, but in the last two years things have intensified,
and convoys are being attacked as they come into the city. At the beginning of
this year, the gangs launched a mass attack on the palace and drove the governor
into exile. Since then they’ve been running amok, though a trickle of metal
ore is still making it off world from loyal citizens, who still make up most of
the civilian population, around two-thirds. The remainder are gang supporters.
Adding insult to injury, ork raiders have started terrorizing the outer reaches
of the mining plateau.” Voss paused for effect, then leant forwards in his
command throne. “I don’t need to tell you, seniors, how serious this is.
Without Babel the sub-sector is defenseless should the Waaagh Ghazghkull turn on
it – we need to quell the fighting in the city and destroy the orks at the
same time.” Again Voss paused, this time to take a question from one of the
seniors. “Marshal,
what exactly is the status of the gangs? Are they active rebels or merely
squabbling locals?” “I
fear the worst – they are almost certainly rebels. Although there is some
squabbling within the ranks, the gangs are working together in platoon-sized
groups, and they’ve begun construction of a new building, some kind of
fortress, on the ruined palace site and most of the ground around it.” “What
about these orks? How do they fit into it all?” “Most
likely freebooters, but they seem to be working toward the same purpose as the
gangs – stopping any ore leaving Babel. Whether they’re working together is
debatable, but whatever the cause we have to finish them off. Now, here is my
plan. I want to airdrop a small holding force led by Champion Darius and myself
into the spaceport. Once that is held, we’ll land faster troops – bikes and
land speeders – and set them to roving patrols to keep the orks in check until
we’ve cleaned out the city. “The
terrain makes it difficult to use heavy vehicles, but we’ll be taking two
Vindicators into the city and the armoury informs us they can spare a Predator
for the patrols. Any further questions?” No. “Dismissed, brothers. Honour
the Chapter.” “So,”
said Darius, wandering down the access corridor with one of the seniors, a
veteran by the name of Carracus. “Rebel gangers and freebooter orks, not what
I was hoping for in reassignment.” “It’s
a fight, isn’t it?” asked Carracus. “I hear you were bothering Lord
Crassus for a transfer for months before you got here.” “That
wasn’t my fault. Crassus knows what I’ve been through – R&R was
driving me mad. I enjoyed it for the first few months, but you know what it’s
like. You go through years of training and surgery to become a marine and the
first thing they do is stick you behind the lines for twenty months. I don’t
call that fair.” “It’s
not, but the Emperor moves in mysterious ways.” Carracus halted outside his
quarters. “I’ll see you on the surface, brother-champion.” “Don’t you start.” Darius stalked off down the corridors. Already the post of Champion with its attendant responsibilities and daily practice in using the massive Black Sword was getting on his nerves. But like most things, it would be more fun once he got to use it. Thanking the memory of Helbrecht, he set off for the drop pod. |
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