03 - Savage Scars (47 page)

Then, the tau had come before the council. Few of those crowded into the
council chamber had even laid eyes on their foe; in fact most had never before
confronted any type of sentient alien. When Aura and his fire caste honour guard
had entered the chamber, utter silence had descended. The Space Marines had
watched impassively, not acknowledging the aliens’ presence but at least
refraining from pumping a magazine full of mass-reactive explosive rounds into
their heads. The Adeptus Astartes had far larger concerns than the tau, Sarik
had told Lucian before the session, concerns that made these comparatively
benign aliens pale into utter insignificance.

The initial discussions had been stilted and difficult, with the tau envoy
making all manner of veiled threats. Yet, Lucian had brought into play every
ounce of his diplomatic skill, drawing on a lifetime’s experience of trading
with all manner of societies and races the length and breadth of the Imperium.
With Rayne’s blessing, Lucian had imparted something of the coming tyranid
swarm, though he had twisted the truth to suggest that the tau were actually in
more danger than the Imperium. It was hoped that in doing so the tau would allow
the Imperium to depart unopposed while they fortified their worlds against the
coming storm, and cause them to focus all of their efforts against the tyranids.
Whether or not the envoy had entirely believed him, Lucian could not be sure;
but regardless, face was saved and honour maintained, and the tau had not only
agreed to allow the fleet to disengage, but the seeds of future cooperation had
been sown.

Most importantly, from Lucian’s own perspective, he had forged a number of
highly lucrative, exclusive contact treaties with the tau, securing the fortunes
of the Clan Arcadius for decades to come. His mind had wandered as the council
session had dragged on into the early morning, Lucian calculating the profit his
dynasty stood to make. Perhaps he would rebuild the family manse in Zealandia
Hab on Terra, or purchase a paradisiacal garden world for the same outlay.

When the council had finally come to vote on the ceasefire motion, only
Cardinal Gurney had objected. It appeared to all that Gurney’s career in
politics was as good as over, yet he planned, by all accounts, to accompany the
fleet to Macragge, to use his fiery rhetoric to drive the ground troops forward
in the glory of the Emperor. Lucian grudgingly accepted that was the best role
for the cardinal, but silently hoped he went and got himself eaten by some
slavering alien monstrosity.

At the last, Brielle had been summoned to address the council. Lucian’s
daughter had given a detailed, if somewhat truculent account of her dealings
with the tau, in which she had justified her actions by claiming she had sought
all along to bring the aliens to the negotiating table for the benefit of all.
Lucian had to admit, Brielle had given an impressive performance, playing the
innocent victim to Grand’s hostility and the selfless servant of the Imperium in
her crippling of the enemy’s command and control system that had caused the tau
armies to lose coherence during their retreat from Gel’bryn. Most of the council
had lapped it up. Lucian was nowhere near so gullible, but propriety was
maintained, and his daughter returned to his side.

As Brielle sat back down, Lucian repeated, “Does the council have any
questions?”

Most of the councillors appeared too weary to query anything of Brielle’s
statement. Lucian was about to call for the motion to dismiss his daughter, when
Cardinal Gurney stood.

“I call for a motion of censure,” Gurney scowled. “For the crime of
conspiring with xenos.”

Lucian sighed inwardly, though outwardly he maintained his composure. “And
who will second this motion?”

Gurney looked to the Logistician-General to his right. Ordinarily, Stempf
would have toed the line of his council faction. But with the demise of
Inquisitor Grand and the settlement of the ceasefire, that faction had to all
intents and purposes ceased to exist.

Stempf stared at the black marble table in front of him, suddenly very
interested in the lines of deep maroon flashed through its polished surface.

“It appears, cardinal,” said Lucian, “that none here will support your
motion.”

Gurney’s eyes flashed with impotent rage, and he sat back down, casting a
vengeful glance at his former ally by his side.

Brielle was trying hard to disguise a dirty smirk by fiddling with a lock of
plaited hair.

“Then if there are no objections,” Lucian announced, “I propose this final
session of the Damocles Gulf Crusade command council is closed.

“Thank you, gentlemen.”

With a curt gesture, Lucian dismissed the crewmen tending to the sensorium
terminals of the observation blister high atop the
Oceanid
’s spine.
Turning to his son and his daughter, he spread his arms wide. “Welcome back,” he
grinned, “the pair of you.”

Brielle and Korvane refused to acknowledge one another, addressing only
Lucian. Brielle stepped up to one of the arched, leaded ports and stared out at
the mass of activity in Dal’yth Prime’s orbit. She muttered something, which
Lucian could not quite hear.

“Brielle?” said Lucian.

His daughter turned, and Lucian saw an unfamiliar hint of sadness in her
eyes. “I was saying a prayer,” she said. “For them.”

Lucian followed her gaze, towards a trio of huge troop transports that hung
in formation ten kilometres to the
Oceanid
’s starboard. Each carried an
entire regiment of ground troops, and Lucian knew that one might be carrying the
noble Rakarshans.

“They’re all going to die,” Brielle said flatly.

Korvane grimaced, evidently unconvinced by his stepsister’s uncharacteristic
show of empathy.

“All of them,” she said with grim conviction. “And billions more.”

Lucian felt a cold shiver pass up and down the length of his spine, as if
Brielle’s words were somehow prophetic; as if she were gifted some insight
denied to others. He suddenly felt the weight of his own mortality, for the span
of his life had been extended beyond the normal measure by the application of
rejuve treatments few in the Imperium had access to. As he pictured entire
sectors stripped to bare rock by a species of ravening alien abominations, the
thought struck him; perhaps the ancient and noble line of the Arcadius would end
with him. Who then would remember his deeds and honour his name?

At Lucian’s side, his son closed his hand around the ring his father had
given him, the ring containing the cipher matrix of the stasis-vault on Terra,
where rested the most valuable asset in the dynasty’s possession: the Arcadius
Warrant of Trade.

Sergeant Sarik was knelt in prayer in the
Nomad
’s chapel. Through an
armoured portal wrought in the form of the White Scars lightning-bolt Chapter
icon he could see the crusade fleet mustering for war, scores of tenders and
service vessels swarming around the wallowing capital ships as crews and
supplies were ferried back and forth. Most of the ground forces were already
embarked, though it appeared that at least one Brimlock unit would be left
behind, from the initial deployment at least.

The chapel represented a small part of Sarik’s home world, the pelts of huge
Chogoran beasts adorning its walls lending it the aspect of the interior of a
chieftain’s yurt. Mighty curved horns adorned the walls, many inscribed with the
names and the deeds of the warriors who had slain them in glorious battle. In
the centre of one wall was mounted a massive, reptilian skull, taken from the
mica dragon that Sarik and his fellow scouts Qaja and Kholka had slain together
on Luther McIntyre when all three were but neophytes. The scent of rockrose hung
heavy in air, the dense smoke drifting upwards from an incense bowl set in the
centre of the chapel. Upon the altar beneath the lightning-bolt portal was laid
a sacred stone tablet bearing ten thousand-year-old script hewn by the hand of
the White Scars’ primarch himself, the proud and wild Jaghatai Khan.

Sarik was in the chapel to recite aloud the name of every battle-brother that
had fallen in the battle for Dal’yth Prime. Each would be honoured later, he
knew, according to the customs of each Chapter represented in the crusade force,
but Sarik had been their field commander, and he owed them that much. The tally
had been great, for the tau had proven a fearsome, yet ultimately honourable
adversary. He felt no ire towards the aliens, and accepted the necessity of the
re-deployment to Ultramar. Sarik was a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes, a son of
Jaghatai Khan, who was himself a son of the Emperor. His duty was to a higher
calling.

As Sarik completed his litany, commending the souls of the fallen to the
eternal care of their ancestors, a revelation born of his meditation came over
him. Where previously he would have raged impotently at the loss of so many
brothers, brooding alone for days on end at the injustice of the galaxy, a new
clarity and wisdom now settled upon him. It was as if the script inscribed on
the stone tablet before him by his primarch had been written just for him, for
they spoke words the meaning of which Sarik had never truly understood though he
had read them countless times. In the crucible of the battles fought these last
few days, Sarik had been re-forged, like a dulled blade returned gleaming from
the hand of the master artificer.

Sarik felt renewed purpose and resolve deep in his heart. Though the tyranids
represented a dire threat to the very survival of mankind, they were also the
agency by which the champions of the Imperium would come together and find
honour and glory beyond measure. Even now, garbled reports were coming in of the
terrible enormity of the tyranid invasion. Sarik’s battle-brothers in his own
and many other Chapters were dying, giving their lives to hold at bay the most
devastating incursion the Eastern Fringe had ever witnessed.

Sarik swore, to his primarch and to his Chapter, that he would stand at their
side come what may. By his savage pride and the honour scars carved into his
weather-beaten face, Sarik vowed that the tyranids would know the wrath of the
White Scars, and of all of humanity.

Andy Hoare
worked for eight years in Games Workshop’s design studio,
producing and developing new game rules and background material. Now working
freelance writing novels, roleplaying game material and gaming-related magazine
articles, Andy lives in Nottingham with his partner Sarah.

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