‘Damn you,’ Karras barely managed through clenched teeth. ‘What–’
The elevator doors drew open and a single Space Marine stepped out, dressed in the black armour of the Deathwatch with the winged-helix icon of the Apothecarion on his right knee-guard.
He looked Karras up and down. ‘So this is the Death Spectre,’ he said; his voice was somewhat nasal. ‘Fearsome looking, isn’t he? Mark those red eyes.’
‘Get it over with, Asphodal,’ said Lochaine.
The Apothecary marched to Karras’s side and raised a pistol-like device to his neck. Karras felt several needles pierce the skin below his left ear.
‘Put your faith in us, brother,’ said Asphodal. ‘We mean no harm, no offence. All arrivals must endure this. A little undignified, perhaps, but you will understand the need for it soon enough.’
Karras was hardly listening. His blood roared in his ears. He was here to serve with honour. This was a grave insult, an outrage he would not forget nor soon forgive. Had he been able, he would have smashed his forehead into the face of the Apothecary and blasted Lochaine with balefire of his own.
He was a Death Spectre, damn it!
The Apothecary pulled a trigger. There was a sharp hiss and a strange sensation of simultaneous freezing and burning that spread from Karras’s neck throughout his entire body. Darkness fell over him. How could this be? He was a Space Marine. His body had been engineered to overcome any known paralytic drug.
Dimly, he felt his centre of balance shift. Strong hands caught him.
Before darkness descended fully, he heard two voices speaking close to him one more time.
‘Throne curse that we have to do this. He’ll hate us for it.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because I did.’
No one should have been here. This was an old section of the Underworks known as the Arraphel mine. Rich in its day, it had been abandoned over three hundred years ago, its thick, branching veins of precious ore utterly stripped. Silent and dark it had lain since then, frost riming the long-unwalked tunnels, but it was not silent and dark now. Ordimas rode in the last of three autocarts that trundled noisily along the dusty tunnel floors. The unconscious forms of the H-6 miners lay before him on the deck of the cart, ringed by the men who had assaulted them. The victims lay heaped together, wrists and ankles bound, mouths gagged. Looking down at the slumped forms, Ordimas’s thoughts returned unbidden to Mira. He searched his feelings for guilt, and was glad to find none. He knew the type well enough. She’d only have found herself another abuser… and she would have talked. Eventually, people always did. Granting her a quick, painless death, that had been a mercy. Or was he merely justifying his actions? How many had he killed in his lifetime? Close to a hundred now, he guessed, and each so that he might get the job done. His Lordship cared not about deaths in such trivial numbers. His game, after all, was played out on a much grander scale.
He turned his eyes from the victims on the autocart floor to the men seated across from him. He still couldn’t work it out: the silent almost drone-like behavior of the rest of Mykal’s crew, making it almost too easy to pass for Mykal among them; the stun-cudgel assault on the other mining party; this grim, silent convoy into a long-ignored part of the mine.
What in the blasted warp are we doing here? What’s going on?
An entire work-crew, kidnapped, loaded up, and driven down here to these mined-out branches! Ordimas scrabbled to make sense of it. He knew he was in great danger. Raised adrenaline levels would have told him as much, even if the prickling of his neck hairs and the goose-bumps on his skin hadn’t. The dour, uncommunicative behaviour of his fellows was a blessing, now as before. No probing questions, no awkward conversations that could have tripped him up. But the strange silence still made him feel deeply uneasy, and the men trussed up at his feet, like pigs bound for the cook-fire… that was more unsettling still.
He caught one of the I-8 crew, Nendes, looking at him. They locked gazes for a second. Ordimas nodded in silent acknowledgement. Nendes nodded back and raised his hand to his chest in the three-pronged salute. Ordimas copied it as before. What did it mean? Not so much as a flicker of human emotion showed on Nendes’s face, but his gaze moved on, and Ordimas breathed a shallow sigh of relief.
Whatever happens,
he told himself, whatever you see,
don’t give yourself away. Be steady. Maintain the mask. Maintain the mask.
Despite years in the service of His Lordship, who wielded almost holy authority in the Emperor’s name, Ordimas didn’t really believe in the Emperor of Mankind. Most people, he suspected, didn’t really believe. Hope and belief were often mistaken for each other. In the cold light of day, all he could rely on were his wits and his skills. It was these that had gotten him through all those times he’d been sure he would die. It was these that he turned to now, knowing he had to be ready for whatever lay ahead.
At that moment, what lay ahead was a massive plasteel door some ten metres across. Supervisor Yunus, riding the first cart in the line, stood and raised his hand for the others to halt. The autocarts rolled to a growling stop in a line facing the plasteel door. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, two men in enforcer uniforms stepped into the cart headlights. They wore helmets and carapace armour, and in their gloved hands, each brandished a lethal wide-bore riot-gun. These they levelled at the men on the first cart.
‘Unity,’ the one on the left called out.
It was Yunus who spoke in reply.
‘The gift of the Master.’
‘Strength,’ challenged the guard.
‘And life everlasting,’ said Yunus.
The guard lowered his riot-gun. ‘In whatever form that be.’ Saying this, he nodded to his companion, who also lowered his weapon.
‘Your group is the last to arrive,’ said the one on the right. ‘You have new kindred?’
Yunus nodded and gestured to the bodies heaped on the carts behind him. The guard moved down the row of idling vehicles, inspecting the haul of victims that lay in the back of each. When he got to Ordimas’s cart, he nodded approvingly. He looked up, directly at Ordimas, and said, ‘They will soon awaken to the blessings of the Master.’
Ordimas thought it deathly unwise to speak at that moment, so he nodded once, face impassive, and returned his gaze to the slumbering victims.
The guard walked back to his companion at the metal door. ‘All is well,’ he said.
The other guard then walked to the wall and struck a number of runes on a dark panel there. Ordimas wondered how he could see them in such low light. The headlamps of the carts lit the area immediately in front of them, but nothing else. Then it occurred to him that these men had been standing here in utter darkness for… How long? Ordimas could see clearly in the dark thanks to the opticom aug sitting in his right eye socket. Watching the man at the panel, it suddenly became clear that these guards could see just as well. Someone had augged them, too? Who? That kind of upgrade was well beyond the reach of some backwater Civitas precinct. Who had supplied the augs? Who were these men? If they were enforcers, what in nine hells were they doing down here in the freezing darkness?
New kindred, the man had said. More than anything, it was those words that made Ordimas’s skin truly crawl. These people sounded like cultists.
The tunnel began to shudder as the vast doors slowly split apart. More darkness lay beyond. After thirty seconds or so, the doors finally ground all the way back into their housing, and the way ahead lay open.
The guard on the right ushered the carts forwards now, and Ordimas swayed a little as his vehicle started into motion.
As his cart rumbled past the enforcers, he looked down and tried to read the name and number embossed on the golden badge worn by the one on the right.
Cartigan. 899-00-213.
Was this man really Enforcer Cartigan? Or was the uniform stolen?
It wouldn’t be hard to find out, if he ever got out of here. He had hacked the local Civitas cogitator mainframe a number of times over the last year on the orders of His Lordship. He would look up this Cartigan. Maybe he was listed as missing.
If I get out.
As if in answer to that thought, the plasteel doors ground shut behind him with a deafening clang.
The carts rolled on. The tunnel was wide here. It curved slowly down to the left. It seemed to go quite a distance, half a kilometre at least, before another source of light could be seen up ahead. Another five minutes and the convoy emerged into a wide chamber dimly lit by grox-oil lamps that cast everything in pale, flickering orange.
In the centre of the chamber, two broad lift shafts plunged down into the abyssal black depths. The lift platform on the left was raised, already here in the chamber, waiting to take the new arrivals to Arraphel’s lowest levels. The shaft on the right gaped open, its platform waiting at the bottom, and no light shone upwards from within it.
We’re going deep
, thought Ordimas with a lurch in his stomach. He struggled with an overwhelming urge to turn, leap from the cart, and run from here. He had come this far on experience, grit and cool nerves, but the very idea of descending these shafts with these people made him blanch.
I’m terrified
, he admitted to himself.
Something is down there, waiting, and I’m not going to like it. Throne help me, if something goes wrong, if I’m discovered, if the mask slips…
He was already well beyond the point of no return. He acknowledged that now. There was nothing he could do. He had to ride this out, see where it led, and hope to Holy Terra that he lived to breathe the open air again.
Yunus barked out more orders and, one by one, the carts all rumbled in an orderly fashion onto the open lift platform. Even with all three vehicles, there was plenty of room to spare. Then the chief jumped down from his vehicle, walked to the control console at the platform’s edge, and tapped a code into its lambent green runeboard.
Ordimas heard gears grind to life in the shaft walls and, with a violent judder, the platform began its long descent.
There were work-lumes set in the shaft walls, as there were with most shafts in the Underworks, but they were not lit. Apart from the headlamps of the carts, the only light Ordimas could see now was the square of orange above him at the top of the shaft.
As the minutes of slow descent stretched out and the pressure in his ears gradually increased, he looked straight up, watching that square become smaller and smaller, and with it, his hopes of getting out alive.
Karras awoke to a hammering pain in the back of his head and neck. He opened his eyes to find himself in a lume-lit room, measuring, he estimated, about eight metres on each of its sides. His vision was blurry at first, but it soon sharpened. He was not alone. Across from him, seated in a high-backed chair of grey stone, was a large Space Marine in black fatigues.
Lochaine!
The Chief Librarian was less imposing out of armour, but not by much. That didn’t stop Karras. He surged forwards without thinking, pinning Lochaine to the back of his chair with his left hand while his right hovered before the Storm Warden’s throat, fingers rigid, poised to strike a blow that would crush the other’s windpipe.
‘What did you do?’ raged Karras. ‘What in damnation did you do to me?’
Lochaine sighed. ‘Sit down, brother. You won’t spill blood here.’
For a moment, they stayed like that, the Death Spectre frozen in his confusion and rage, the Storm Warden quietly waiting, face impassive.
It was then that realisation dawned. It hit Karras like a thunder hammer. Always before, when rage had overtaken him, his gift had risen, the flow of power boiling up to meet his violent needs.
Not so now.
It was this, as much as the truth in Lochaine’s words, that forced Karras back into his own stone chair. His alabaster face retained its murderous snarl, but rage had already given way to grave concern. Why had his talent not manifested?
Lochaine knew.
‘We had no choice,’ he told Karras. ‘It is always the way with the Librarians who come. Do not feel that you have been singled out. I endured the very same when I first arrived here, and I raged as you do, but I soon saw the need.’
‘You… you have sealed my power?’
Karras’s blood ran cold. For as long as he could remember, the gift had been with him, guiding him, protecting him, setting him apart from other men, even from other Space Marines.
Athio Cordatus had told him to cleave to self-image in times of doubt. But Karras’s self-image was inextricably woven to the witching ways that made him such an asset to his noble order.
‘You must understand the nature of this organisation,’ Lochaine continued. ‘Space Marines from hundreds of Chapters are pledged to serve the Watch with honour. Every last brother who dons the black is desperately needed. Promises must be made. And once made, kept. Every Chapter has its secrets, Death Spectre.’ The emphasis on those last two words could not be missed. But Lochaine couldn’t know anything. Like he said, every Chapter had its secrets. That didn’t mean he knew what they were.
‘The powers we yield could be used to pry them from a brother’s mind. I won’t insult you by spelling out what that would mean to the Deathwatch. It cannot be permitted. Long ago, compacts were made. The Deathwatch assures as much confidentiality as it asks. Until you have taken Second Oath, your psychic power must be suppressed.’
As Lochaine spoke, Karras focused inwards, desperately searching for the least remnant of his power that might remain to him. It was there, a muted flickering of eldritch energy deep within him, like a raindrop where once had blazed a lake of fire, so far removed from the glorious flow he had known that he almost cried out in despair.
‘This… I…’
Lochaine leaned forwards, forearms resting on his knees. ‘Be patient with us, brother. You will see in time that we do this not only to preserve the accords, but for your benefit also. We Librarians are ever too dependent on our gifts. You’ll gain much from training without. You’ll rediscover what it’s like to fight with only physical strength. Before your deployment, the warp-field suppressor will be fully removed.’
Karras tried to isolate and locate the source of the pain in his head and neck. He stretched a thickly muscled arm over his head and reached back, feeling the base of his skull, the back of his neck, tracing his spine as far down as he could. That wasn’t very far. The muscle mass of his shoulders and biceps meant he could not reach lower than the centre of his trapezius. It was, however, enough. His fingers brushed cold metal.
‘We graft them to the spine. Easily removed with the proper rituals when the time comes, but don’t try to pull it off yourself. Permanent paralysis won’t help your fighting abilities.’
‘It’s not just a suppressor, is it?’ Karras growled.
‘Sharp, brother. Keep thinking like that and you might just make it to the end of your term alive. No, it’s not just a suppressor.’
‘So all those seconded here receive implants?’
Lochaine nodded. ‘Standard procedure. A tracking device with a neural interrupt. It’s how we keep order here, enforce the boundaries and such. There is much in the archives here at Damaroth that is classified at the highest levels, information of a nature that, if leaked, could destabilise the treaties and accords that hold the Imperium together. The Deathwatch is ancient, Karras, and the scrolls and datacores collected here record countless things best forgotten.’
To this, a more bullish Space Marine might simply have said,
Destroy them!
Not so a Librarian. Not Lyandro Karras. To a Librarian, knowledge was its own justification, and as vital to victory as a keen blade and a loaded bolter.
Those who stick their heads in the sand find only the darkness of ignorance. Shy not from the horror and shame of the past. The hardest memories teach the strongest lessons.
When had his khadit told him that? Long ago. A century now. It was as true as it would always be. Karras could see the need to track battle-brothers while they remained at the Watch fortress. That did not make the method any less insulting.
‘The implant will shut off muscle control should you try to breach a restricted area. You’ll drop, as limp as an empty sack, until a Watch sergeant issues the override command. Likewise if a fight gets a little too intense. We can’t have Space Wolves and Dark Angels killing each other.’
‘You could have asked, Storm Warden,’ hissed Karras. ‘Had you explained, I would have complied.’
‘And what if you had not? Do you think we could just ship you home? No. I told you, Karras. The Watch needs every last Space Marine it calls upon. Would that we could take more. Trust is a luxury few can afford in this Imperium. And we don’t have time to build it. So we no longer ask. We do what we must. Do you imagine we could negotiate the use of such implants with a White Scar? A Black Templar? It was tried. That we resort to such extremes ought to tell you how well
that
played out.’
Karras cursed. To be tracked like an animal… To be robbed of his gifts and forced to train without the power he had always commanded…
Things were not as he had imagined them to be. Where was the honour in this?
Stephanus. How did you react? Were you as indignant as I?
Whether Stephanus had railed against his own implant or not, he had remained to serve for over thirty years with great pride. He had brought glory to his Chapter. Indignant or not, Karras could do no less.
‘You believe the end justifies the means, Brother Lochaine. Very well. Your judgement is better informed than mine. But it is a bad start for us, as it must be with the others.’
Lochaine shrugged. ‘As I said, I felt the same way. I got over it. You will, too. Your training will begin tomorrow at 0200 hours. From that moment forth, you will have precious little time to dwell on injured pride.’
Lochaine rose from his stone chair. Karras did likewise.
‘Within the hour, that pounding in your head will dissipate. You will quickly cease to notice the physical presence of the implant. The absence of your gifts will bother you as much as you let it. Try to remember that it’s only temporary.’
He turned to leave, but Karras stopped him.
‘Tell me, brother,’ he said. ‘How is it done? Among my own, my power was considered great. I needed no psychic hood. On the battlefield, I burned my foes to ash with the white fire of the soul.’
‘It will be great again,’ said the Storm Warden, ‘when the time is right. As to the method – like so much else here, that is not for you to know.’
He walked to the chamber door, big shoulders rolling. The doors slid apart before him, but, as he was about to step through, Lochaine stopped and spoke over his shoulder.
‘I will call for you in one hour, Karras. Wear the robes we have prepared for you. They are lying on your cot. You will receive First Induction from the Watch Council today.’
Karras said nothing.
‘After induction,’ continued Lochaine, ‘things will change. For the duration of your service, you must be Deathwatch first and a Death Spectre second. I know how that sounds. I remember how it sounded to me. But come to terms with it quickly, for your own sake. Only in this way shall you earn glory for your Chapter. So it is with all who honour the ancient accords.’
Karras stared at Lochaine coldly. It seemed impossible to think that way. A Death Spectre second? His mind rebelled, offended by the mere notion.
Yet his secondment could work no other way.
It will be hard. Throne, will it be hard.
‘One more thing,’ said Lochaine. ‘You should know that the moment these doors close behind me, the soft gloves come off. Do not forget that I am Chief Librarian here. You are subordinate to me for a reason. From this moment forward, you will address me in the manner to which I am entitled. You will address me as
my lord
. Is that clear, Codicier?’
Karras stiffened. Lochaine’s voice was sharp with command.
‘Crystal clear,’ he said, then added after the briefest pause, ‘my lord.’
‘One hour, Karras. Be ready.’
Lochaine strode out and the steel jaws of the chamber doors crunched shut behind him.
Karras turned and surveyed his new quarters. Small. Simple. Spartan in the extreme.
Good.
There were recesses in each wall, waist high from the floor, each bearing a small bronze figure – icons of death like the ones at the entrance to the great docking bay. Apart from his simple stone cot, there was a black granitwood bookshelf stocked with approved texts, and a marble font filled with clear, ice-cold water. To the left and right, stone archways led into two antechambers. In one of these, Karras found the force sword
Arquemann
and the few personal effects he had been allowed to bring, one of which was the oldest known copy of Belvedere’s
Tribulatus Terrarum –
a fine, if somewhat dramatised account of the political events that led to the Schism of Mars.
Arquemann
had been mounted on the wall. Beneath it, on a black iron rack, one of the Rothi had lit votive candles. He had recognised the sword’s relic status. Karras silently approved.
He reached out a hand to
Arquemann
’s hilt, whispering to the sword.
‘Deathwatch first? They ask too much. My death in battle, this I offer freely for the honour of the Megir. An eternity of service, never again to see the domed mausoleums and polished crypts of Logopol? Even this I would endure. But the Chapter I will always put first.’
Even before the Imperium
, he admitted to himself guiltily.
He half expected the spirit of the force sword to flare in response. In their time training on the
Adonai
, the blade had joined its power to Karras’s just as his khadit had said it would, reacting to the strength and sense of honour within the warrior’s soul. How would it react to this last, less-than-honourable thought?
Karras felt nothing from the haft. He moved his fingers to the keen shimmering edge of the blade itself. Still nothing.
Damn them.
In sealing his power, they had cut him off from the soul of the ancient weapon. He almost lashed out, almost struck his heavy fists against the wall. But he mastered himself. It took a moment, but he did it. With a growl, he turned from the antechamber and went to investigate the other.
In the second antechamber, he came upon a sight that doused the fires of his frustration.
It was a gloomy, candlelit room, but bright enough to his enhanced eyes. On every wall was hung polished, resin-coated alien skulls and strange helms fashioned by inhuman hands. Each item had a parchment scroll beneath it, some far older and more worn than others. Crossing to the grotesque skull of a massive ork, Karras read the parchment. His eyes widened in surprise. He crossed to a bladed helm of dark metal, easily recognisable as the mask of some eldar abomination. He read the scroll beneath that one, too. Each artefact in the room was the same – a trophy, placed here to honour the Space Marine who had taken it.
He knew those names. Every last one of those Space Marines had been a Death Spectre. A few of those represented here had even returned to Occludus alive.
It was a shrine to the long service of Karras’s Chapter, and he immediately felt abashed, regretting his anger of only moments ago.
He looked down. The black marble flagstones beneath his feet were engraved with four words in High Gothic:
They served with honour.
He scowled at himself.
As I must. And I will add trophies of my own.
He bowed and said a silent prayer for the souls of those long passed, then strode back into the main chamber where a heavy robe lay spread on his cot. He sat on the cot’s edge and gathered up the coarse black material in his hands.