Hammer Of Daemons Part 12

The shock of it finally caught up with his mind, and the world greyed out.

The blade snapped, and Alaric slumped to the floor, the tip of the blade still sticking out of his chest.

It didn't matter whether he gave in or not. The pain won, and Alaric pa.s.sed out.

T SEE YOU have thought about what I said.' Durendin's voice was low and quiet, very different from the strident tones he used on the pulpit while reminding the Grey Knights of their duties towards their Emperor.

'I have,' said Alaric. Around him was the subdued majesty of the Chapel of Mandulis. It was built of sombre stone, the columns holding up the ceiling carved into representations of past Grand Masters, who had fallen in battle against the daemon. However, instead of having granite walls inscribed with the names of fallen Grey Knights, the chapel was open to the outside, and through its columns could be glimpsed an endless golden desert under a dark blue twilight. Strange stars winked in the sky, the same s.h.i.+fting constellations that bled from the Eye of Terror.

Alaric was sitting on one of the stone pews. Durendin was a couple of rows in front of him, evi-dendy at prayer, since he was not wearing the black trimmed power armour that was the badge of a Chaplain's office. Alaric realised that he was without armour, too.

He was wearing the remains of a badly battered breastplate in the shape of folded wings, and the point of a black sword stuck out of his chest.

'And?' said Durendin.

You were wrong.'

'Really?'

'Some things, you can't fight.'

'Interesting. Do you believe that these Grand Masters would have thought that? That Mandulis could have come up against a foe and said, "This I cannot fight"?'

Alaric looked at the column that represented Mandulis. The Grand Master had carried a sword with the hilt worked to resemble a lightning bolt. Alaric had held that sword, and tried to echo the deeds of Mandulis in vanquis.h.i.+ng the daemon prince Ghargatuloth, but those events felt like they belonged in another man's lifetime.

'I am not one of those Grand Masters,' replied Alaric.

'No, you are not, not if you are going to simply give up.'

'I am not giving up, Chaplain.'

Then what, Alaric? What quality do you possess that can win you victory if not a Grey Knight's willingness to fight?'

'Imagination.'

Durendin laughed. It was a strange thing to see the old man doing. 'Really? How so?'

'It is the understanding that there is more than one way to fight.'

'I see. So, you think that bringing the bolter and the blade to them is not enough, and you seek another way.'

'Yes, I learned that against Ebondrake. I cannot fight them as I would any other enemy, not this whole planet. Even if I win, every drop of blood I spill is a victory for them. It has to be something else.'

'Then what?'

'I do not know.' Alaric sat back, feeling the strength bleed out of him. 'And you think that I can give you answers?' 'I don't know what I think.'

Durendin stood up and smoothed down his devotional robes. He walked up to the chapel's altar and took a brazier from its stone slab. An icon of the Emperor looked down on the Chaplain, as one by one he lit the candles and incense lanterns arranged around the altar. It was an ancient ritual, reflecting the lights that had gone out in the souls of so many Grey Knights since the Chapter's foundation, and reminding the Grey Knights who still lived that their battle-brothers' souls were gathering to fight alongside the Emperor at the end of time.

Alaric imagined those souls gathering like fireflies around a pyre, eager to fight, and he felt sorry for them. For the first time, it occurred to him that their sacrifice might not be worth anything after all.

'I cannot give you answers to this, Alaric,' said Durendin. 'I think you come to me more in hope than in expectation, and I must disappoint you. I was given the Chaplain's burden because I am exactly the opposite of you. I see only the Grey Knights' way, the endless battle against Chaos. Everything else must be seen through that lens. There can be no doubt and no compromise in the eyes of a Chaplain. You are alone, Justicar, as are we all.'

'Then I do not think I can do this,' said Alaric. 'My duties on Drakaasi are clear. Chaos must be punished. The Emperor's justice must be done, but I am just one man, and the lords of Drakaasi are so many and so strong. It is just as Venalitor said, I can either die here accomplis.h.i.+ng nothing, or fight on and win renown for their Blood G.o.d. I cannot win.'

Then that is your fate, Alaric. A Grand Master would never accept mat, of course, but as you said you are not a Grand Master. Please, it is best that you leave now. You are bleeding on the floor of my chapel, and it is an ill omen.'

Alaric looked down at his chest. The wound was bleeding, blood flowing in time with the pumping of his hearts. The blood was trickling down the pew and pooling around his feet.

'Am I going to die?'

Durendin looked around at him, but Alaric could not read his expression. 'If I was to say yes, what would you feel?'

'Relieved,' said Alaric. The choice would have been made for me.'

'But Drakaasi would carry on as before, so I suggest you live.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

'Good luck, Justicar. Perhaps I can meet with you again, the real me, I mean, back on t.i.tan. I imagine I would be very interested to learn of these conversations.'

'Goodbye, Chaplain.'

Durendin looked away, and as he turned, his features melted away and left him without a face. The features of the Grand Masters dissolved away, too, leaving columns of smooth, unmarked stone.

One by one the stars outside began to go out, and the Chapel of Mandulis withered away into the desert.

Alaric took a long, painful breath, and the darkness lifted.

THIRTEEN.

ALARIC AWOKE TO light. He lay on his back, staring up. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted. He wondered, not for the first time on Drakaasi, whether he was dead.

The light was coming from a chandelier, hanging from a ceiling frescoed with images of battle. Victims were painted lying in heaps beneath the feet of armoured warriors, all of them with the sigils of Khorne glowing on their armour. The sky above writhed with blood-laden clouds, and carrion daemons swept in to tear apart the living and the dead. t.i.tanic armies clashed in the distance.

It was a work of genius. The artist would have been one of the greatest of his generation on any Imperial world, perhaps good enough to gain sector-wide recognition. Instead, the mind behind the work had been enslaved by Chaos, withered away by madness until unholy masterpieces were all that was left.

Alaric wondered who that person had been. Had he been insane to begin with, tortured and brilliant, listening to the whispers of the warp for solace? Or had he been just one of those millions of citizens preyed upon by Drakaasi's forces? Alaric imagined the nameless artist huddled among a great crowd of other terrified citizens, waiting for death, perhaps praying for deliverance or trying to offer some comfort to his loved ones. Then the death had come, but not for him. Drakaasi's servants had found out about his skill and chosen him to live on, enslaved, and had rotted his mind away until visions of bloodshed and war were all that he could create. He must have wished he were dead. Perhaps he was still alive somewhere on Drakaasi, still creating horrors for Khorne.

Alaric lay still for a long time. It was only by the Emperor's grace that he was not dead or insane, too. He wondered how easily he would break. It would take longer to break Alaric than to corrupt the painter who had created the image above him, but how much longer? As the galaxy reckoned things, probably not a great deal.

Alaric tried to sit up, but the pain inside him was a hot, red spike piercing his torso. He gasped and fell back. Beneath him was an unyielding surface, and Alaric wondered if it was a mortuary slab in a cathedral of the Blood G.o.d, and if he was finally dead.

He turned his head. He was lying on a huge hardwood table laid out as if for a feast. Bronze plates and chalices had been pushed to one side so that he could be laid there. The table was one of several in a grand feasting chamber as dark and lavish as anything Alaric had seen on Drakaasi. The walls were hung with silken drapes of crimson and black, held up by false columns of black marble. The floor looked, at first, like marble, but at a closer look revealed that it was paved with gravestones in so many different styles that they must have been brought from many different worlds. Devotional inscriptions of Imperial Gothic marched past Alaric's eyes, the names of the desecrated dead.

An altar to Khorne stood at one end of the room. It was a great, irregular chunk of stone, stained black, and covered in ancient gouges: an executioner's block. Behind it was the symbol of Khorne, wrought in bra.s.s, and inlaid with red lacquer. It was the symbol of a skull, so stylised that it was little more than a triangle topped with a cross, nevertheless, it radiated such malice that it hurt to look at it.

The floor in front of the block had drains to carry away the blood.

The executioner's block was still used for its original purpose.

Alaric tested his body for injuries. It felt comforting, because it was part of his training. There was still enough Grey Knight left in him for him to act like a soldier. He had the familiar cacophony of pain from hundreds of minor injuries. His chest was the worst. His breathing was hampered, and one of his hearts was wounded. He could still move, and fight if need be, but it was a major injury, even for a s.p.a.ce Marine, and back on t.i.tan he would have been sent to the apothecarion to recover. On Drakaasi, he would just have to fight through it.

One of the drapes was pulled aside. Beyond it, Alaric glimpsed more finery, a magnificent chamber surrounding a grand staircase lined with bra.s.s statues.

Haggard entered the feasting chamber. He looked so completely out of place, unkempt and grimy like all the slaves, wearing his stained surgeon's ap.r.o.n, that Alaric wondered for a moment if he was really there at all.

'You're awake,' said Haggard.

'So it seems.'

'How are you?'

'I'll live.'

'It was a real mess in there,' continued Haggard. 'One of the lungs won't work. One of the hearts is looking shaky, too. Your spine made it, that's the main thing. There were splinters of metal in there as long as my finger. It was only by the Emperor's will that none of them severed your spinal cord.'

'Thank you, Haggard,' said Alaric. 'I don't know if I could have survived without your help.'

'Don't thank me,' said Haggard. 'Please, don't thank me. I don't know what will happen next.'

Alaric tried sitting up again. This time he bit down the pain. A few of Haggard's crude st.i.tches burst, and fresh blood ran down his chest. He saw that he was wearing the armour in which he had been fighting at Gorgath, with the breastplate removed. The wound on his chest was huge and ugly. No one but a s.p.a.ce Marine could have survived it.

'Whatever happens, Haggard, I'm better facing it alive,' said Alaric.

'I pulled this out of you,' said Haggard. He held up the shard of the Ophidian Guard's sword. In his hand, it was the size of a short sword, the broken haft like a hilt, the edge and point still sharp enough to glow in the candlelight. "You didn't really think you could kill Ebondrake, did you?'

'Our meeting was unplanned,' replied Alaric. 'I wonder if anyone on this planet could kill that.' He looked down at the shard in Haggard's hand. 'Can you hide that among your medical gear?'

'It certainly looks painful enough,' said Haggard, slipping it into one of the pockets of his stained ap.r.o.n where he kept his makes.h.i.+ft surgical tools.

'Keep it for when I return to the Hecatomb. Speaking of which, where am I?'

'Still on board,' said Haggard. These are Venalitor's chambers.'

'Here? The s.h.i.+p isn't big enough.'

Haggard shrugged. 'Physics only works here out of habit. If Venalitor wants to bend it to give himself a place fit for a duke, then he can. Listen, Justicar, it was Venalitor who brought me up here to keep you alive.

Whatever he's going to do, he needs you alive and conscious to do it. He's going to punish you.'

'But he doesn't know I'm awake.' Haggard looked down at the floor.

'Yes, he does, Justicar.'

The sound of scaephylyd claws on the gravestone tiles was unmistakeable, so were the armoured footsteps descending the marble staircase. An honour guard of scaephylyds clattered into the room, pulling Haggard away. Haggard didn't resist.

Duke Venalitor followed them in. He was surrounded by scaephylyd slavers carrying shock prods. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and they scutded away. Behind him, Alaric could just see Haggard being herded up the staircase.

'So, Justicar,' said Venalitor. He suited his surroundings perfectly.

The dark magnificence of his chambers matched his own, with his splendid red and black armour and the mult.i.tude of swords at his back. The place was a reflection, like Venalitor himself, of pure arrogance.

Alaric didn't reply. Venalitor had deliberately made himself vulnerable without his attendant slavers, but Alaric was wounded and unarmed. Venalitor would kill him if he and Alaric fought, and Venalitor wanted to remind Alaric of that fact.

Venalitor walked past him and knelt in front of the altar to Khorne, whispering a few words of prayer.

The Blood G.o.d,' he said, turning back to Alaric, 'listens. When you have earned his respect as I have, he hears you. I ask him for strength to conquer, and I am granted it. I ask for armies, and they march under my banner. They call you Alaric the Betrayed, you know, because you were betrayed by your Emperor. You asked him to deliver you from Chaos, from Drakaasi, and he ignored you. He is just a corpse, who cannot hear your prayers, Grey Knight. That is the ultimate betrayal. My lord will grant you everything you want if you only get his attention.'

Alaric climbed down off the table and stood. He was unsteady on his feet, but he did everything he could not to show it.

He could fight here, and die. At least it would be over. At least he wouldn't have to listen to Venalitor's blasphemous words any more.

You have that chance, Alaric,' continued Venalitor.

You are asking me to join you?' Alaric smiled. 'Only in desperation would anyone think such a thing was possible.'

You have seen the sc.u.m of Drakaasi's cities,' said Venalitor unshaken. You have mingled with the even lower vermin of the Hecatomb: those killers, those broken men, the violent dregs of your Imperium. That is the lot of the great majority of those who come here. Khome despises them, and they are left to rot or be killed as fodder for His bloodl.u.s.t. The lucky ones become sacrifices, but you, you are different. You do not belong with those sc.u.m. You have yet to even glimpse what you could become on Drakaasi. The Blood G.o.d is willing to listen to you if you will only let him.' Venalitor indicated the altar. 'It is so easy, Grey Knight, and it is the only choice you have. No matter what you do, or how hard you try, you will die in the Blood G.o.d's name. The only way out is to bow before a real G.o.d for once.'

Then I will die,' said Alaric.

'A few drops of blood,' said Venalitor, 'that is all he requires.'

'He will have to wring them out of me.'

Venalitor shook his head. You try to humiliate me. You even try to cross swords with Lord Ebondrake. The Blood G.o.d looks upon such audacity, and smiles. That you honestly believe you can win some victory over me is indication of the mental strength a champion of Chaos requires. The fact that you are still alive shows you have the strength of arms. You could rule this planet, Alaric. Then you could do with Ebondrake as you please. You could even put me on this altar, and have me slit from neck to belly, if only you do it for Khorne.'

'Never,' said Alaric, 'not as long as I live, never. You will just have to sacrifice me like all the rest of your vermin.'

Venalitor smiled. There is something n.o.ble in you, I think. The Emperor's lackeys taught you well, I will give them that. Victory means so much to you, and you see it in the bleakest of situations.

For you, dying here is a victory'

'My duty allows for no failings,' said Alaric, 'and it does not end in death. You cannot defeat that, Duke Venalitor.'

You had a duty towards Sarthis Majoris too, did you not?'

Alaric could not answer.

'Do you know what we did to that planet?'

Alaric fought for something to say, something that would silence Venalitor, something devastating, but there was nothing.