Soul Drinkers 06 - Phalanx Read online

  fall upon them a punishment that not only removes them from this

  universe, but proclaims the horror of their deaths as the consequence

  for railing against the order the Emperor Himself put in place.’

  Kolgo punctuated his final words by banging his armoured fist on the

  backs of the seats in front of him. He turned, faced the Justice Lord,

  and inclined his head in as much of a bow as an Inquisitor Lord would

  give.

  ‘Are you finished?’ asked Vladimir.

  ‘This statement is concluded,’ said Kolgo.

  ‘Pah,’ came a voice from the galleries. ‘One of a thousand he would

  give if he had leave. The Lord Inquisitor’s desire to hear his own voice

  borders on the scandalous!’ The speaker was Siege-Captain Daviks of

  the Silver Skulls. The Silver Skulls beside him nodded and murmured

  their assent.

  ‘You wish to make a counter-statement, siege-captain?’ said

  Vladimir.

  ‘I wish for the statements to end!’ snapped Daviks. ‘This creature in

  the dock before us is not deserving of a trial. This thing is a mutant! In

  what Imperium of Man is a mutant afforded the right to be bedded

  down in this nest of pointless words? Reinez was right. I have never

  known a trial granted to such a thing. I have known only execution!’

  Several Astartes shouted agreements. Vladimir held up a hand for

  silence but the din only grew.

  ‘Kill this thing, kill all the creatures you hold in your brigs, and let

  this be done with!’ shouted Daviks.

  ‘I will have order!’ bellowed Vladimir. He was not a man who raised

  his voice often, and as he rose to his feet the calls for violence died.

  ‘Apothecary Asclephin has borne witness that Sarpedon is to be tried

  as an Astartes. There the matter ends. You will get your execution,

  Captain Daviks, but in return you must have patience. I will see justice

  done here.’

  ‘A better illustration of power I could not have created myself,’ added

  Kolgo.

  ‘Your statement is concluded,’ said Vladimir. ‘Who will speak?’

  ‘We have not yet heard from the accused in the dock,’ replied

  Captain N’Kalo of the Iron Knights. ‘If we are to have a trial, the

  accused must speak in his defence.’

  Vladimir’s recent interjections kept the retorts to N’Kalo’s words to a

  minimum.

  ‘I would speak in my defence,’ said Sarpedon. ‘I would have you all

  hear me. I did not turn from the authority of the Imperium at some

  perverse whim. For everything I have done, I have had a reason. Lord

  Kolgo’s words have done nothing but to convince me further that my

  every action was justified.’

  ‘You will speak,’ said Vladimir, ‘whether those observing like it or

  not. But you cannot speak as yet, for further charges are to be levelled

  against you.’

  ‘Name them,’ said Sarpedon.

  ‘That by the machinations of your authority,’ said Reinez, ‘four

  Imperial Fists died on the planet of Selaaca, three Scouts and one

  sergeant of the Tenth Company. To the Emperor’s protection have their

  souls been commended, and to the example of Dorn have they

  measured themselves with honour. Their deaths have been added to

  the list of crimes of which you are accused.’ Reinez spoke as if

  reading from a statement, and the real anger behind his words was far

  more eloquent. He enjoyed pouring further accusations on Sarpedon,

  especially one that hit so home to the Imperial Fists on whose forced

  neutrality Sarpedon depended.

  The Imperial Fists around Vladimir made gestures of prayer. The

  other Space Marines gathered had evidently not heard of these

  charges, and a few quiet questions passed between them.

  ‘I know nothing of this!’ retorted Sarpedon. ‘No Imperial Fist died by

  a Soul Drinker’s hand on Selaaca. My battle-brothers surrendered to

  Lysander without a fight. The captain himself can attest to this!’

  ‘These crimes were not committed during your capture,’ said

  Vladimir. ‘Scout Orfos?’

  The Imperial Fists parted to allow a Scout through their ranks. In

  most Chapters, the Imperial Fists among them, a recruit served a term

  as a Scout before his training and augmentation was completed. Since

  he could not yet wear the full power armour of a Space Marine, and

  since a full Astartes’s armour was ill-suited to anything requiring

  stealth, these recruits served as infiltrators and reconnaissance

  troops. Scout Orfos still wore the carapace armour, light by the

  standards of Astartes, and cameleoline cloak of a Scout. He was

  relatively youthful and unscarred compared to the Imperial Fists around

  him, but he had a sharp face with observant eyes and he moved with

  the assurance of a confident soldier.

  ‘Scout,’ said Vladimir, ‘describe to the court what you witnessed on

  Selaaca.’

  ‘My squad under Sergeant Borakis was deployed to investigate a

  location that the Castellan’s command had provided to us,’ began

  Orfos. ‘In a tomb beneath the ground we found a place that the Soul

  Drinkers had built there.’

  Sarpedon listened, but his mind wanted to rebel. He had never heard

  of any Soul Drinker travelling to Selaaca before he had gone there to

  face the necrons. The planet was not mentioned in the Chapter

  archives. It could not be a coincidence that of all the millions of planets

  in the Imperium, he should stumble upon one where some forgotten

  brothers had built a tomb thousands of years ago. A tomb which, as

  Orfos’s evidence continued, had been built to keep all but the most

  determined Astartes out.

  Sarpedon felt a wrenching inside him as Orfos described the deaths

  of the other scouts. Orfos was well-disciplined and little emotion

  showed in his words, but his face and intonation suggested the effort

  he was making in bottling it up. Orfos had been trained to hate, hypnodoctrination

  and battlefield experience teaching him the value of

  despising his enemy. That hate was turned on Sarpedon now.

  Sarpedon felt, for the first time in that courtroom, truly accused. He felt

  guilt at the Imperial Fists’ deaths, though this, of all his supposed

  crimes, was the only one that he had not committed.

  ‘It was a Dreadnought,’ Orfos was saying. ‘The tomb had been built

  to house it. It had been kept frozen to preserve its occupant...’

  ‘Justice Lord,’ said Sarpedon. ‘My Chapter has no Dreadnoughts.

  The last was lost with the destruction of the Scintillating Death six

  thousand years ago. It is made clear in the archives of–’

  ‘The accused will be silent!’ snapped Vladimir. ‘Or he will be made

  silent.’ A glance from Vladimir towards Lysander suggested how

  Vladimir would go about shutting Sarpedon up. ‘Scout Orfos.

  Continue.’

  ‘The Dreadnought awoke,’ said Orfos, ‘and I voxed for

  reinforcements. A team of servitors and Techmarines made the tomb

  safe and disarmed the Dreadnought.’

  ‘Did it speak to you?’ asked Vladimir.

  ‘It did,’ said Orfos. ‘It placed itself in my custody, an
d told me its

  name.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Daenyathos.’

  Sarpedon slumped against the pulpit.

  Daenyathos was dead. The heretic Croivas Ascenian had killed him

  six thousand years ago.

  His mind raced. The impossibility of it stunned him.

  Of all the names he might have heard listed as a traitor, Daenyathos

  was the last he would have expected. Daenyathos had written down

  the Soul Drinkers’ way of war, and even after casting aside the ways of

  the old Chapter Sarpedon had still found infinite wisdom in

  Daenyathos’s works. Every Soul Drinker had read the Catechisms

  Martial. Sarpedon had fought his wars by its words. It had given him

  strength. Daenyathos was a symbol of what the Imperium could be –

  wise and strong, tempered with discipline but beloved of knowledge.

  Now the philosopher-soldier’s name had been dragged into this sordid

  business.

  And if he was alive... if Daenyathos truly lived still, as only a Space

  Marine in a Dreadnought could...

  ‘I swear...’ said Sarpedon. ‘If he lives... I swear I did not know...’

  ‘And by what do you swear?’ snarled Captain Borganor from the

  gallery. ‘On your traitor’s honour? On the tombs of my brothers you

  have slain? I say this proves the Soul Drinkers are not mere

  renegades! I say they have been corrupt for millennia, under the

  guidance of Daenyathos, sworn to the powers of the Enemy and

  primed to bring about some plot of the warp’s foul making!’

  Voices rose in agreement. Sarpedon’s mind whirled too quickly for

  him to pay attention to them. If Daenyathos was alive, then what did

  that mean? The Soul Drinkers had gone to Selaaca to stave off the

  necron invasion of an innocent world, and yet Daenyathos had been

  there all along. Sarpedon traced back the events of the last weeks, his

  capture, the assault on the necron overlord’s tomb, the battles on

  Raevenia and the clash with the Mechanicus fleet, and before that...

  Iktinos. It had been Iktinos who had suggested the Brokenback flee

  into the Veiled Region. The Chaplain’s arguments had made sense –

  the Veiled Region was a good place to hide. And yet he had led the

  Soul Drinkers straight to the tomb of Daenyathos. Iktinos must have

  known Daenyathos was there. And yet Iktinos had been one of

  Sarpedon’s most trusted friends, the spiritual heart of the Chapter...

  ‘Is he here?’ said Sarpedon, hoping to be heard over the shouting.

  ‘Daenyathos. Is he here, on the Phalanx?’

  ‘He shall be brought to the dock in time,’ replied Vladimir.

  ‘I must speak with him!’

  ‘You shall do no such thing.’ retorted Vladmir. ‘There will be no

  provision made for you to plot further! When your trial is complete,

  Daenyathos’s shall begin. That is all you shall know!’ Vladimir banged

  a gauntlet. ‘I will have order under the eyes of Dorn! Lysander, bring

  me order!’

  ‘Silence!’ yelled Lysander, striding across the courtroom. ‘The

  Justice Lord will have silence! There is no Space Marine here too lofty

  of station to be spared the face of my shield! Silence!’

  ‘This farce must end!’ shouted Borganor. ‘So deep the corruption

  lies! So foul a thing the Soul Drinkers are, and now we see, they have

  always been! Burn them, crush them, hurl them into space, and

  excise this infection!’

  Lysander vaulted the gallery rail and powered his way up to

  Borganor. The Howling Griffons were not quick enough to hold him

  back, and it was by no means certain they could have done so at all.

  Lysander bore down on Borganor, face to face, storm shield pressing

  against Borganor’s chest and pinning him in place. Lysander had his

  hammer in his other hand, held out as a signal for the other Howling

  Griffons to stay back.

  ‘I said silence,’ growled Lysander.

  ‘My thanks, captain,’ said Vladimir. ‘You may stand down.’

  Lysander backed away from Borganor. The two Space Marines held

  each other’s gaze as Lysander returned to the courtroom floor.

  ‘There will be no further need for calls to order,’ said Vladimir. ‘You

  are here at my sufferance. When my patience runs out with you, you

  return to your ships and leave. Captain Lysander is authorised to

  escort you. Scout Orfos, you are dismissed.’

  Orfos saluted and left the gallery, the Imperial Fists bowing their

  heads in respect to him and his lost brothers as he went.

  Reinez had watched the tumult with a smile on his face. Nothing

  could have pleased him more than seeing Sarpedon’s distress, except

  perhaps Sarpedon’s severed head.

  ‘Who will speak next?’ said Vladimir. ‘Who can bring further

  illumination to the crimes of the accused?’

  Varnica of the Doom Eagles stood. ‘I would speak,’ he said. ‘The

  court must hear what I have to say, for it bears directly on the nature of

  the Soul Drinkers’ crimes. I bring not rhetoric or bile. I bring the truth,

  as witnessed by my own eyes.’

  ‘Then speak, Librarian,’ said Vladimir.

  The courtroom hushed, and Varnica began.

  Chapter 4

  The beauty of Berenika Altis was a strange thing, like a work of art not

  understood. It had been built in the shape of an enormous star, two of

  its five points extending out to sea on spurs of artificial land. Each

  point of the star was devoted to a different trade, the five legendary

  guilds that had built and financed this city. The shape was a reminder

  of its original purpose as an exclusive retreat for those who deserved

  better than the other bleak, stagnant cities of the planet Tethlan’s Holt.

  At the centre of the star was the Sanctum Nova Pecuniae, once a

  palace existing purely for the beautification of Berenika Altis, and one

  that now served as the seat of government of Tethlan’s Holt.

  Fifteen days ago all communication had ceased with Berenika Altis.

  Eight million people had vanished. The planetary authorities, those

  who had not disappeared with the rest of the government, reacted as

  any good Imperial citizen did when confronted with the unknown. They

  sealed off the city, quarantined it, and resolved to pretend that it had

  never existed.

  The Doom Eagles were not satisfied with such solutions.

  ‘A brittle beauty,’ said Librarian Varnica as the Thunderhawk droned in

  low over the north seaward spur of Berenika Altis. The rear ramp was

  down and Varnica had disengaged his grav-couch restraints, holding

  onto the rail overhead to lean forward and get a better look at his target

  from the air.

  ‘I see only stupidity,’ replied Sergeant Novas. His voice did not

  sound over the gunship’s engines, but the vox-link carried it straight

  into Varnica’s inner ear. ‘A shift in the sea floor and two-fifths of that

  city would sink into the ocean.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Varnica, ‘that’s the point. Nothing speaks of wealth

  like spending a great deal of it on something that might be gone any

  moment.’

  ‘Looks like they got their wish,’ said Novas. ‘Eventually.
It wasn’t the

  sea that got them, but something did,’

  ‘Quite the conundrum,’ said Varnica. ‘What a puzzle box they built

  for us.’

  As the Thunderhawk swooped lower, the streets were revealed.

  Each spur of the city had been dedicated to a different guild and

  though centuries of rebuilding and repurposing had followed, the

  original imprint remained. The Embalmers’ Quarter was arranged in

  neat rows, the buildings resembling elegant tombs. The Jewelcutters’

  neat rows, the buildings resembling elegant tombs. The Jewelcutters’

  Quarter was all angular patterns, triangular sections of streets and

  many-sided intersections echoing the complex facings of a cut

  diamond. The Victuallers’ District was a gloomy, sheer-sided area of

  warehouses and long, low halls. The industrial feel of the Steelwrights’

  Cordon was entirely an affectation, with rust-streaked metal chimneys

  and crumbling brickwork concealing the salons and feasting halls

  where the great and good of Berenika Altis had celebrated their

  superiority. The Flagellants’ Quarter, founded with the money taken

  from those who paid to have their sins scourged from them, echoed

  the flagellants’ frenzy with twisted, winding streets and asymmetrical

  buildings that seemed poised to topple over or slide into rubble. The

  Sanctum Nova Pecuniae held the disparate regions together, as if it

  pinned them to the surface of Tethlan’s Holt to keep them from

  crawling off to their own devices.

  The streets were visible now, the buildings separating into distinct

  blocks. The streets seemed paved with a haphazard mosaic of blacks

  and reds, the same pattern covering every avenue and alley.

  It was a mosaic of corpses.

  The smell of it confirmed the few reports that had reached the Doom

  Eagles. The smell of rotting bodies. It was familiar to every Space

  Marine, to every Emperor’s servant whose business was death.

  Varnica looked on, fascinated. He had seen many disasters. When

  not called upon to attend some critical battlezone, it was disasters

  that attracted the Doom Eagles. Some Chapters sought out ancient

  secrets, others lost comrades, others the most dangerous sectors of

  the galaxy to test their martial prowess. The Doom Eagles sought out

  catastrophe. It was less a policy of the Chapter’s command, and more