Descent of Angels (34 page)

Instead, for twelve months, the White Scars had found they had to endure an extended period of enforced idleness.

It had not sat well with them. The fleet’s senior commanders had grown to dread the weekly strategic briefings when Shang Khan would demand to know how much longer he and his men were to be expected to sit in space doing nothing. The White Scars leader seemed to reserve special contempt for Lord Governor-Elect Harlad Furst, the man assigned to oversee the Sarosh territories in the name of the Emperor once they were compliant.

‘If these people are compliant, then certify that compliance so we can leave this place!’ Shang Khan was heard to roar at the governor-elect on more than one occasion. ‘If they are not compliant, tell me and we will go to war to show them their folly! You may choose it either way, just so long as you make a damn decision!’

In truth, Lord Furst and his functionaries had not made the decision. In a bureaucratic masterstroke, they had continually put off reaching any final judgement, utilising every excuse at their disposal in an attempt to delay the matter indefinitely, in precisely the kind of manoeuvring that often caused the Astartes to look with such disfavour on the growing non-military element accompanying the Crusade.

In such a way, twelve months had passed unproductively while the White Scars had grown ever more frustrated until at last, a signal was sent to Lion El’Jonson requesting that he and his Dark Angels be assigned to stand watch over Sarosh for an interval of two months to allow the White Scars to be moved on to other duties.

Meanwhile, a message was received by Lord Governor-Elect Furst pointedly reminding him that the 4th Imperial Expedition Fleet was needed elsewhere and could not be expected to stay in orbit around Sarosh forever.

The message instructed Furst that he had been granted a period of grace. He had two months to decide the question of the planet’s compliance one way or another. If he failed to resolve the matter in that time he would be stripped of his governorship and it would fall to Lion El’Jonson to decide the fate of Sarosh as he saw fit.

L
ATER, ONCE THE
ceremony was over, it came time for the inevitable social formalities. The Astartes and the assorted dignitaries began to mingle and talk, as attendants in fleet livery circulated amongst them bearing silver trays overburdened with wine and food.

Always uncomfortable in such gatherings, Zahariel did his best to merge with the background. Before long, he was standing beside the wide vista of a panoramic view-portal, staring out at Sarosh slowly turning in the void, much as he had been a few hours earlier when he had stood with Nemiel on the
Wrath of Caliban.

Perhaps it spoke volumes of the peculiarities of the Dark Angels mindset, but at that moment he was struck most by how much larger the observation deck on the
Invincible Reason
was compared to the one on the
Wrath of Caliban.

Influenced in part by the monastic traditions of the Order, the Dark Angels tended to a spartan austerity in their ways. Every centimetre of space on a Dark Angels vessel was at a premium. From the fire control room overseeing operation of the ship’s main batteries, to the practice cages where the Astartes honed their skills, everything served a warlike purpose.

In contrast, the interior of this ship put Zahariel more in mind of a nobleman’s palace than it did a warship. He supposed there was an argument to be made that a ship should be decorated in keeping with the scope and wondrousness of the Imperium. Yet, to his eyes, to have layers of ornamentation choking almost every inner surface of the ship seemed overly elaborate, even ostentatious on a vessel made for war.

Naturally, the Dark Angels’ ships had their own share of decoration in an understated style, but the doors, walls and ceilings of the
Invincible Reason
were cluttered with gilded excesses. If a room was a conversation between the architect who built it and the people who made use of it, this observation deck was currently shouting in a dozen competing and raucous voices.

The deck was vast, with an immense vaulted ceiling reminiscent of the great ruined cathedrals of ancient Caliban. One entire wall was dominated by the view-portal that Zahariel was standing beside. More than sixty metres tall, the portal was composed of a number of tall arched panels like stained glass windows in some pagan house of worship.

It was not so much the view-portal itself, but what it represented. The observation deck might be decorated in a manner in keeping with the Imperium’s message, with frescos depicting some of its finest victories as well as mural portraits of every captain who had commanded the ship in her two hundred year history, but equally it resembled many of the places of idolatry that the people of Caliban had brought to ruin in the planet’s earliest age.

‘It looks like a joygirl’s house of business,’ said a gruff voice behind him, offering a different perspective.

Zahariel’s enhanced sense of hearing had warned him of the approach of a brother Astartes. He turned and saw Kurgis facing him, two goblets of wine held dwarfed like thimbles in the White Scar’s hands.

‘I’m sorry? I don’t follow you, brother’

‘This place,’ Kurgis inclined his head, indicating the grand sweep of the observation deck around them. ‘I was saying I think the same of it as you do, brother. There is too much glitter about it, too much that is golden. It is like the joygirl palaces in the cities of the Palatine, not a ship for warriors.’

‘Am I so transparent?’ asked Zahariel. ‘How could you know what I was thinking? Are you one of your Legion’s Librarians?’

‘No,’ said Kurgis. ‘I’m no psyker. Some men are gifted when it comes to hiding their thoughts from others: you could watch their faces for a thousand years and you’d never know what they were thinking. Not you. I saw the sour look you gave this place as you glanced around. From that, I could guess what was in your mind.’

‘It was an accurate guess,’ conceded Zahariel.

‘It helped that I could recognise the emotion. My thoughts were identical to yours on seeing this place. But enough of this, I have brought you a drink. When brothers meet, it is good they share wine and make a drinking oath.’

Kurgis offered him one of the goblets, lifting the other up in a toast.

‘To the Dark Angels,’ said Kurgis, ‘and to the Primarch Lion El’Jonson!’

‘To the White Scars,’ answered Zahariel, holding up his own goblet, ‘and to the Primarch Jaghatai Khan!’

They drained the goblets, and once he had finished his drink, Kurgis threw the goblet against a wall. The sound of the sharp crack as the metal cup shattered was greeted with a start by some of the dignitaries standing nearby.

‘It is tradition,’ explained the White Scar. ‘For the words of a drinking oath to have value, you must break the cup so no one else can swear an oath on it.’

He nodded in approval as Zahariel followed his example, shattering his goblet against the same wall.

‘You are well-met, brother. I wanted to talk to you, because we owe you our thanks.’

‘Thanks?’ said Zahariel. ‘How so?’

Kurgis indicated some of the other White Scars around the room. ‘You have set us free, you and your brothers. I am only sorry that such noble warriors must take up our former position, keeping lonely watch over this miserable dung heap of a world.’

‘We were happy to accept the assignment with good grace,’ said Zahariel. ‘It is a matter of duty.’

‘Yes, it is duty,’ said Kurgis, lifting a questioning eyebrow, an expression that emphasised the network of thin honour scars criss-crossing his cheeks. ‘But you are being diplomatic, brother. I know it. I am sure dissenting voices were raised when you received your orders. The Dark Angels are too brave and resolute a Legion to accept such a command quietly. As Shang Khan said, it is a weighty duty and a hard one for Astartes to bear. We are warriors, all of us, the Emperor’s finest. We should be roaming the galaxy, making war on our enemies. Instead, we find ourselves forced to act as guard dogs.’

He stopped speaking abruptly, and stared at Zahariel closely.

‘What is it?’ the White Scar asked. ‘You are smiling. I have said something funny?’

Zahariel shook his head. ‘Not funny, no, it’s just that your words reminded me of something a friend said earlier. He also said we were being treated like guard dogs.’

‘He did? He is an intelligent man, this friend of yours.’

Kurgis turned to look back at the wider room around them. ‘You have brought a great many warriors with you, I understand? I only ask because I was surprised to see that your squads were led by your Chapter Master.’

‘We are led by the Lion and Luther,’ said Zahariel.

‘I know, but your line officer is Sar Hadariel is it not?’

Following the direction of the other man’s gaze, Zahariel looked towards where Chapter Master Hadariel stood talking to Shang Kahn and some officers of the fleet.

Shang and the warriors of his bodyguard were much taller than the Dark Angels Chapter Master, towering over him almost as much as Hadariel towered in his power armour over the ordinary human beings around him.

Zahariel noticed that Hadariel was gesturing with his hands as he spoke, making large movements as though in an attempt to demonstrate that he was not intimidated by the White Scars’ physical presence. It was a scene Zahariel had observed many times before, and he was not sure Hadariel was even aware he was doing it.

Not for the first time, he felt a surge of sympathy for his Chapter Master. In the time before the Emperor came to Caliban, Hadariel had been considered one of the most able battle knights in the Order. Zahariel remembered serving under him when they had made the final assault on the fortress of the Knights of Lupus.

It had been a good victory, an important one in the history of Caliban, but the coming of the Imperium had been a mixed blessing for Hadariel. He had been chosen to join the Dark Angels Legion by the Astartes, but in common with a large proportion of that initial intake, he had been too old to benefit from the implantation of gene-seed.

In its place, Hadariel and others like him, including Luther, had undergone an extensive series of surgical and chemical procedures designed to raise their strength, stamina and reflexes to superhuman levels. They were taller, stronger and quicker than normal men, but for all that they were not Astartes. They never could be.

‘It must be hard to be a man like Hadariel,’ said Kurgis.

‘Yes,’ agreed Zahariel. ‘My commander is an exemplary warrior. Despite not possessing the gifts of a true Astartes he has climbed far in the Legion.’

‘The Lion favours him from the old days?’

Zahariel shook his head. ‘The Lion does not play favourites. Hadariel became a Chapter Master purely on merit. If there is an element of sorrow to the situation it is that Hadariel has never seemed suited to the office.’

‘What do you mean?’

Zahariel wasn’t sure how much to say, for Kurgis was of a different Legion to his own and the Dark Angels valued their privacy, yet he sensed that the White Scar was a warrior he could trust. ‘In the years since his elevation, the mantle of leadership has sat poorly on Hadariel’s shoulders. He clashes repeatedly with his officers and fellow Chapter Masters, and has a tendency to take issue with every imagined slight, as if he’s convinced he is being subtly snubbed and insulted by all those around him.’

‘I suspect it boils down to the fact that Hadariel had never received gene-seed.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Zahariel. ‘Or perhaps his rise up the ranks has been fuelled as much by a desire to prove himself as by his devotion to the Imperial ideal.’

Zahariel did not add that rumour had it that the Lion had spoken with him sternly on the matter of his fractiousness. No matter his successes, it appeared that Hadariel could not escape his inner conviction that he was being looked down upon because he was not full Astartes.

‘It has always been Chapter Master Hadariel’s way to take the lead whenever our Chapter is sent to a new theatre of operations,’ said Zahariel. ‘He likes to be able to see things for himself.’

‘A wise practice,’ nodded Kurgis.

Kurgis glanced back towards the view of Sarosh through the portal, holding his gaze on the planet for long seconds as though weighing the words he was about to say.

‘Don’t trust them,’ said the White Scar.

‘Who?’

‘The people of Sarosh,’ Kurgis replied. He faced more fully towards the view-portal and indicated the planet. ‘You haven’t met them yet, brother, so I thought I should warn you. Don’t trust them, and don’t turn your back on them.’

‘I thought they were peaceful? According to the briefings, they have been welcoming from the first.’

‘They have been,’ agreed Kurgis, ‘but still, I would not trust them, not if you have sense, brother. And, don’t trust the briefings. Lord Governor-Elect Furst and his cronies have too much influence on what is written within them.’

He turned momentarily to grimace towards a silver-haired, medal-festooned dignitary holding court among a sea of sycophants off to the side of the deck.

‘That is the lord governor-elect?’ asked Zahariel.

‘In his day he was a great general,’ shrugged Kurgis, ‘or so they say. It happens sometimes. A man is made chieftain and, soon all that is important to him is his status. He becomes deaf to any voice that doesn’t try to soothe and cosset him. Before long, he only listens to those who tell him what he wants to hear.’

‘And that is what is happening on Sarosh?’

‘Without a doubt,’ said Kurgis, pursing his lips in frustration. ‘If Furst had any sense he’d ask himself why the Saroshi are stalling. If they truly wish to be part of the Imperium, as they claim, you’d think they would be ready to move the very stars to satisfy our requirements. Instead, there are always more delays, more intransigence. Don’t misunderstand me, they are unfailingly polite, the Saroshi. Whenever a new problem arises with the compliance process, they throw their hands in the air and wail like women mourning an elder’s death. To listen to them you’d think it was all accidents and bad luck. That is why I say don’t trust them. Either they are intentionally putting off compliance, or they are the unluckiest people in the galaxy. And, I don’t know about you, brother, but I don’t believe in luck, neither good nor bad.’