Tarvitz had no expectation of his visage ending up here, but he would strive to end his days in a manner that might be considered worthy of such an honour. Even if such a lofty goal was impossible, it was something to aspire to.
Eidolon stood before the graven image of Lord Commander Teliosa, the hero of the Madrivane Campaign, and even before Tarvitz drew near he turned to face him.
‘Captain Tarvitz,’ said Eidolon. ‘I have rarely seen you here.’
‘It is not my natural habitat, commander,’ replied Tarvitz. ‘I leave the heroes of our Legion to their rest.’
‘Then what brings you here now?’
‘I would speak with you if you would permit me.’
‘Surely your time is better spent attending to your warriors, Tarvitz. That is where your talents lie.’
‘You honour me by saying so, commander, but there is something I need to ask you.’
‘About?’
‘The death of the Warsinger.’
‘Ah,’ Eidolon looked up at the statue towering over them, the hollow eyes regarding them with a cold, unflinching gaze. ‘She was quite an adversary; absolutely corrupt, but that corruption gave her strength.’
‘I need to know how you killed her.’
‘Captain? You speak as if to an equal.’
‘I saw what you did, commander,’ Tarvitz pressed. ‘That scream, it was some… I don’t know… some power I’ve never heard of before.’
Eidolon held up a hand. ‘I can understand why you have questions, and I can answer them, but perhaps it would be better for me to show you. Follow me.’
Tarvitz followed the lord commander as they walked further down the Gallery of Swords, turning into a side passage with sheets of parchment pinned along the length of its walls. Accounts of glorious actions from the Legion’s past were meticulously recorded on them and novices of the Legion were required to memorise the many different battles before their elevation to full Astartes.
The Emperor’s Children did more than just remember their triumphs; they proclaimed them, because the perfection of the Legion’s way of war deserved celebrating.
‘Do you know why I fought the Warsinger?’ asked Eidolon.
‘Why?’
‘Yes, captain, why.’
‘Because that is how the Emperor’s Children fight.’
‘Explain.’
‘Our heroes lead from the front. The rest of the Legion is inspired to follow their example. They can do this because the Legion fights with such artistry that they are not rendered vulnerable by fighting at the fore.’
Eidolon smiled. ‘Very good, captain. I should have you instruct the novices. And you yourself, would you lead from the front?’
Sudden hope flared in Tarvitz’s breast. ‘Of course! Given the chance, I would. I had not thought you considered me worthy of such a role.’
‘You are not, Tarvitz. You are a file officer and nothing more,’ said Eidolon, crashing his faint hope that he had been about to be offered a way of proving his mettle as a leader and a hero.
‘I say this not as an insult,’ Eidolon continued, apparently oblivious to the insult it clearly was. ‘Men like you fulfil an important role in our Legion, but I am one of Fulgrim’s chosen. The primarch chose me and elevated me to the position I now hold. He looked upon me and saw in me the qualities needed to lead the Emperor’s Children. He looked upon you, and did not. Because of this, I understand the responsibilities that come with being Fulgrim’s chosen in a way that you cannot, Captain Tarvitz.’
Eidolon led him to a grand staircase that curved downwards into a large hall tiled with white marble. Tarvitz recognised it as one of the entrances to the ship’s apothecarion, where the injured from Isstvan Extremis had been brought only a few hours before.
‘I think you underestimate me, lord commander,’ said Tarvitz, ‘but understand that for the sake of my men I must know—’
‘For the sake of our men we all make sacrifices,’ snapped Eidolon. ‘For the chosen, those sacrifices are great. Foremost among these is that fact that
everything
is secondary to victory.’
‘Commander, I don’t understand.’
‘You will,’ said Eidolon, leading him through a gilded archway and into the central apothecarion.
‘T
HE BOOK
?’
ASKED
Torgaddon.
‘The book,’ repeated Loken. ‘It’s the key. Erebus is on the ship, I know it.’
The ashen darkness of Archive Chamber Three was one of the few places left on the
Vengeful Spirit
where Loken felt at home, remembering many a lively debate with Kyril Sindermann in simpler times. Loken had not seen the iterator for weeks and he fervently hoped that the old man was safe, that he had not fallen foul of Maloghurst or his faceless soldiers.
‘Abaddon and the others must be keeping him safe,’ said Torgaddon.
Loken sighed. ‘How did it come to this? I would have given my life for Abaddon, Aximand, too, and I know they would have done the same for me.’
‘We can’t give up on this, Garviel. There will be a way out of this. We can bring the Mournival back together, or at least make sure the Warmaster sees what Erebus is doing.’
‘Whatever that is.’
‘Yes, whatever that is. Guest of the lodge or not, he’s not welcome on my ship. He’s the key. If we find him, we can expose what’s going on to the Warmaster and end this.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘I don’t know, but that won’t stop me trying.’
Torgaddon looked around him, stirring the ashes of the charred books on the shelves with a finger and said, ‘Why did you have to meet me here? It smells like a funeral pyre.’
‘Because no one ever comes here,’ said Loken.
‘I can’t imagine why, seeing as how pleasant it is.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Tarik, not now. The Great Crusade was once about bringing illumination to the far corners of the galaxy, but now it is afraid of knowledge. The more we learn, the more we question and the more we question the more we see through the lies perpetrated upon us. To those who want to control us, books are dangerous.’
‘Iterator Loken,’ laughed Torgaddon, ‘you’ve enlightened me.’
‘I had a good teacher,’ said Loken, again thinking of Kyril Sindermann, and the fact that everything he had been taught to believe was being shaken to its core. ‘And there’s more at stake here than a split between Astartes. It’s… It’s philosophy, ideology, religion even… everything. Kyril taught me that this kind of blind obedience is what led to the Age of Strife. We’ve crossed the galaxy to bring peace and illumination, but the cause of our downfall could be right here amongst us.’
Torgaddon leaned over and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Listen, we’re about to go into battle on Isstvan III and the word from the Death Guard is that the enemy is led by some kind of psychic monsters that can kill with a scream. They’re not the enemy because they read the wrong books or anything like that; they’re the enemy because the Warmaster tells us they are. Forget about all this for a while. Go and fight. That’ll put some perspective on things.’
‘Do you even know if we’ll be headed down there?’
‘The Warmaster’s picked the squads for the speartip. We’re in it, and it looks as if we’ll be in charge, too.’
‘Really? After all that’s happened?
‘I know, but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
‘At least I’ll have the Tenth with me.’
Torgaddon shook his head. ‘Not quite. The Warmaster hasn’t chosen the speartip by company. It’s squad by squad.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he thinks that confused look on your face is funny.’
‘Please. Be serious, Tarik.’
Torgaddon shrugged. ‘The Warmaster knows what he’s doing. It won’t be an easy battle. We’ll be dropping right on top of the city.’
‘What about Locasta?’
‘You’ll have them. I don’t think you could have held Vipus back anyway. You know what he’s like, he’d have stowed away on a drop-pod if he’d been left out. He’s like you, he needs to clear his head with a good dose of fighting. After Isstvan things will get back to normal.’
‘Good. I’ll feel a lot better with Locasta backing us up.’
‘Well, it’s true that you need the help,’ smiled Torgaddon.
Loken chuckled, not because Torgaddon was actually funny, but because even after everything he was still the same, a person that he could trust and a friend he could rely on.
‘You’re right, Tarik,’ said Loken. ‘After Isstvan everything will be different.’
T
HE CENTRAL APOTHECARION
gleamed with glass and steel, dozens of medical cells branching off from the circular hub of the main laboratory. Tarvitz felt a chill travel the length of his spine as he saw Captain Odovocar’s ruined body suspended in a stasis tank, waiting for its gene-seed to be harvested.
Eidolon marched through the hub and down a tiled corridor that led into a gilded vestibule dominated by a huge mosaic depicting Fulgrim’s victory at Tarsus, where the primarch had vanquished the deceitful eldar despite his many grievous wounds. Eidolon reached up and pressed one of the enamelled chips that formed Fulgrim’s belt, standing back as the mosaic arced upwards, revealing a glowing passageway and winding spiral staircase beyond. Eidolon strode down the passageway, indicating that Tarvitz should follow him.
The lack of ornamentation was a contrast to the rest of the
Andronius
and Tarvitz saw a cold blue glow emanating from whatever lay below as he made his way down the stairs. As they reached the end of their descent, Eidolon turned to him and said, ‘This, Captain Tarvitz, is your answer.’
The blue light shone from a dozen ceiling-high translucent cylinders that stood against the sides of the room. Each was filled with liquid with indistinct shapes suspended in them – some roughly humanoid, some more like collections of organs or body parts. The rest of the room was taken up by gleaming laboratory benches covered in equipment, some with purposes he couldn’t even begin to guess at.
He moved from tank to tank, repulsed as he saw that some were full of monstrously bloated flesh that was barely contained by the glass.
‘What is this?’ asked Tarvitz in horror at such grotesque sights.
‘I fear my explanations would be insufficient,’ said Eidolon, walking towards an archway leading into the next room. Tarvitz followed him, peering more closely at the cylinders as he passed. One contained an Astartes-sized body, but not a corpse, more like something that had never been born, its features sunken and half-formed.
Another cylinder contained only a head, but one which had large, multi-faceted eyes like an insect. As he looked closer, Tarvitz realised with sick horror that the eyes had not been grafted on, for he saw no scars and the skull had reshaped itself to accommodate them. They had been grown there. He moved on to the last cylinder, seeing a mass of brains linked by fleshy cables held in liquid suspension, each one with extra lobes bulging like tumours.
Tarvitz felt a profound chill coming from the next room, its walls lined with refrigerated metal cabinets. He briefly wondered what was in them, but decided he didn’t want to know as his imagination conjured all manner of deformities and mutations. A single operating slab filled the centre of the room, easily large enough for an Astartes warrior to be restrained upon, with a chirurgeon device mounted on the ceiling above.
Neatly cut sections of muscle fibre were spread across the slab. Apothecary Fabius bent over them, the hissing probes and needles of his narthecium embedded in a dark mass of glistening meat.
‘Apothecary,’ said Eidolon, ‘the captain wishes to know of our enterprise.’
Fabius looked up in surprise, his long intelligent face framed by a mane of fine blond hair. Only his eyes were out of place, small and dark, set into his skull like black pearls. He wore a floor-length medicae gown, blood streaking its pristine whiteness with runnels of crimson.
‘Really?’ said Fabius. ‘I had not been made aware that Captain Tarvitz was among our esteemed company.’
‘He is not,’ said Eidolon. ‘Not yet anyway.’
‘Then why is he here?’
‘My own alterations have come to light.’
‘Ah, I see,’ nodded Fabius.
‘What is going on here?’ asked Tarvitz sharply. ‘What is this place?’
Fabius cocked an eyebrow. ‘So you have seen the results of the commander’s augmentations, have you?’
‘Is he a psyker?’ demanded Tarvitz.
‘No, no, no!’ laughed Fabius. ‘He is not. The lord commander’s abilities are the result of a tracheal implant combined with alteration in the gene-seed rhythms. He is something of a success. His powers are metabolic and chemical, not psychic.’
‘You have altered the geneseed?’ breathed Tarvitz in shock. ‘The gene-seed is the blood of our primarch… When he discovers what you are doing here…’
‘Don’t be naive, captain,’ said Fabius. ‘Who do you think ordered us to proceed?’
‘No,’ said Tarvitz. ‘He wouldn’t—’
‘That is why I had to show you this, captain,’ said Eidolon. ‘You remember the Cleansing of Laeran?’
‘Of course,’ answered Tarvitz.
‘Our primarch saw what the Laer had achieved by chemical and genetic manipulation of their biological structure in their drive for physical perfection. The Lord Fulgrim has great plans for our Legion, Tarvitz: the Emperor’s Children cannot be content to sit on their laurels while our fellow Astartes win the same dull victories. We must continue to strive towards perfection, but we are fast reaching the point where even an Astartes cannot match the standards Lord Fulgrim and the Warmaster demand. To meet those standards, we must change. We must evolve.’
Tarvitz backed away from the operating slab. ‘The Emperor created Lord Fulgrim to be the perfect warrior and the Legion’s warriors were moulded in his image. That image is what we strive towards. Holding a xenos race up as an example of perfection is an abomination!’
‘An abomination?’ said Eidolon. ‘Tarvitz, you are brave and disciplined, and your warriors respect you, but you do not have the imagination to see where this work can lead us. You must realise that the Legion’s supremacy is of greater importance than any mortal squeamishness.’
Such a bold statement, its arrogance and conceit beyond anything he had heard Eidolon say before, stunned Tarvitz to silence.