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  ‘The Greater Good, hunter. May your contributions be many and great, and remembered with honour forever after.’

  Thirteen

  Karras was tense on the shuttle over from The Aleste. As gruelling as they had been, the purity tests were behind him. The Watch had cleared him for a return to duty, though how hotly contested that decision had been he would never know.

  He stood in full armour, helm set atop a nearby ammunition crate, and silently went through several of the stabilising mantras he knew. None seemed to work as well as they ought to.

  He could have spent the journey in a passenger compartment, but he preferred the shuttle’s main hold. For one thing, the emptiness of the hold suited his mood. For another, he was in appropriate company here.

  Across from him, held firmly in place by thick titanium chains, sat the Dreadnought Chyron Amadeus Chyropheles.

  Immense.

  Wordless.

  Still radiating all that sorrow and rage.

  Karras knew the Lamenter’s story. He felt for him. Perhaps more so now than ever before, having seen his own Chapter undone in the eldar witch’s damnable mind-manipulations.

  But visions were just visions.

  Lies were just lies.

  Chyron’s Chapter had suffered genuine obliteration. The Great Devourer had crashed down on the Lamenters like a tsunami. No Chapter could have stood against such a storm.

  Tragic.

  Legend said the Chapter had been cursed from the start, part of the infamous 21st Founding. Now there was no Chapter. Chyron believed himself the last of his kind.

  Karras scowled. He wished there was something he could do for this battle-brother. The Dreadnought’s sorrow and survivor guilt only ever dimmed when he was lost in combat, giving himself over utterly to battle flow, his pain submerging till the peace of victory called it forth again. In time, he might face a worthy foe and sell his life dear. It was his greatest hope, but so far, none had equalled him.

  Was the mighty warrior staring back at Karras as the Death Spectre thought these thoughts? The Dreadnought had no face to read. No expressions. All he had was angled armour, tank-like, broken by a single diamonite vision block. But for the flickerings of his troubled aura, he was inscrutable when quiet.

  If he was watching Karras, he could surely read the apprehension, the tension, on the Death Spectre’s face. Karras didn’t bother to hide his mood. The last time he had seen his squad brothers, he had been peering up at them from rubble with one intact eye, the other pierced with rock, his body crushed under black stone, bones broken, blood flowing. They had, more likely than not, thought him beyond saving.

  But Sigma had known. He had known of the eldar machine.

  Were it not for that damnable device, brother, thought Karras, I might have ended up encased in a chassis like yours.

  There was great honour in being so interred. More, certainly, than owing one’s life to a daemon and a xenos machine!

  How do you do it, brother? How do you keep fighting when all you held dear was erased from the universe? When there is no brotherhood to return to, how do you stay the course? There is so much I could learn from you. Truly, I honour your strength. Your soul may be the strongest of all of us.

  Karras could hardly conceive of an Imperium without the Death Spectres there to fight for its protection. And yet, that was precisely what Hepaxammon had threatened. Not just the destruction of the Chapter, but its fall from glory, the stripping of its names from the halls and rolls of honour throughout the Imperium. To be disgraced. To be excommunicated. To have all they had accomplished over thousands of years purged from record and memory.

  Lies. All lies.

  Torment was the daemon’s purpose. Torment and manipulation. It had overstated its power, its influence. Karras had to believe that. He had to.

  He grappled with his thoughts, forcing them to his brothers on Talon Squad, to the four other Space Marines that awaited him aboard the Saint Nevarre, four exceptional warriors with egos to match. To be worthy of leading them again, he needed to stand before them unclouded by doubts. They were apex predators, all. They would smell weakness like blood on the air. They needed to see in him a force of certainty and wrath that they could follow once more, not some haunted wretch preoccupied with the lies and illusions of the Imperium’s enemies.

  I am not that. I am Talon Alpha. And I have work to do.

  He was about to resume his mantras when the rumbling growl that constituted Chyron’s machine-modulated voice interrupted him.

  ‘You are different, and yet the same, Librarian. There are new shadows in your eyes.’

  ‘The more we learn,’ replied Karras, ‘the more shadows we come to see. I’d not choose ignorance to spare myself difficult knowledge, brother.’

  ‘Others might. The truth is seldom comforting. But the Raven Guard named you Scholar, and he named you well. Whatever you have learned in your time away has not been to your liking. That much is clear. Remarkable that you live at all. I saw them preserve the mess that was left of you. I did not expect to see you draw breath again. It would have been an honourable death, I say. The foe was worthy. I would have envied you.’

  ‘There will be other chances for such envy, I’m sure,’ said Karras, and he found himself grinning. ‘I doubt our next deployment will be any easier than the last.’

  ‘In Terra’s name, I hope not. Let the foe be obscenely strong and the odds be preposterous. I want to die laughing, drenched in xenos blood.’

  A deep, rumbling sound filled the air – laughter as approximated by Chyron’s powerful vocaliser grilles.

  As Karras enjoyed the sound, a voice interrupted on the shuttle’s comm system. ‘Docking in three minutes.’

  He lifted his helm from the crate on his right and placed it in the crook of his left arm.

  Chyron’s laughter ceased. With abrupt gravity, he said, ‘You are Talon Alpha. You lead, we follow. Make sure the others know it, Scholar. Whatever Sigma’s demands, lead as you did before. You were strong. You got us through. These fresh troubles you carry – bury them. Show the squad your strength. We are Space Marines. We respect little else.’

  Karras threw the massive walking tank a grin. ‘Good counsel, Old One. As to your glorious death, I’m sorry – fate has a twisted sense of humour. Like as not, you’ll outlive us all.’

  The sound of docking clamps closing on the shuttle’s hull echoed through the hold.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Chyron. ‘That is my curse.’

  Gravity shifted slightly, a gentle change felt in the pit of the stomach. The shuttle had fully docked now in one of the hangars aboard the Saint Nevarre, and the larger ship’s grav-plates took over.

  Karras strode over to the Dreadnought and unfastened the titanium crash restraints. With a hiss of powerful pistons and a rumble of promethium engines, the massive warrior rose to full height, towering over Karras, dwarfing him in every dimension.

  ‘I hate being trussed up like a grox over a feast fire,’ rumbled the Dreadnought.

  Two serfs in black jumpsuits appeared at the inner portal, bowed low and crossed to the rear of the compartment, there to initiate the process of lowering the shuttle’s ramp.

  Chyron swivelled to watch them, then turned his visor back towards Karras. ‘I will follow you, Alpha. Into battle. Into glorious death. Let our enemies dread our wrath. That is the way. These new shadows… The fires of battle will burn them away, even if only for a while. I know. Had I eyes of my own still, you would see those same shadows in them. You have my strength beside you. Lead us well. Make me proud that I still serve. Do that for me.’

  Karras rapped a fist off Chyron’s front armour. ‘I’ll give you xenos blood by the ocean if I can, brother. Now let us go meet those other troublesome bastards. They’ve surely missed us.’

  The ramp descended with the smooth, well-oiled silence o
ne might expect of an Ordo Xenos craft. When it hit the hangar decking, however, there was a resounding clang that echoed off the vast hangar walls. In the relative quiet, it sounded like the ringing of a temple bell.

  Four black-clad Space Marines stood a few metres apart, all facing the shuttle’s aft hatchway. None quite knew what to expect. They knew Karras and Chyron were returning to them, but in what state? Chyron was already so mechanised that his restoration was a given, but Scholar? Last they’d seen, several large pieces of him had been strung together by little more than shreds of nerve and tendon.

  When he marched, proud and whole, down the shuttle’s ramp, they watched in stunned silence. Here was the Death Spectre at full height, moving as assuredly and confidently as ever, his stride long, his head high, as noble and austere an image of the Adeptus Astartes as any of them might aspire to.

  Behind him came the great metal behemoth, thundering down the ramp on piston legs as thick as the shuttle’s own landing stanchions.

  Karras and Chyron reached the bottom of the ramp and strode forward, all eyes on them.

  Four metres from the line, they stopped.

  Silence and stillness pervaded as the Space Marines regarded each other.

  Karras’ awareness was heightened. His vision shifted, augmented by his gift, to show him the auras of three. One, as ever, had no aura to show.

  There was turmoil there in the pulsing colours. Doubt. Apprehension. Things Karras could well understand. But there were flashes of positive colour too, even from the Ultramarine.

  That is unexpected, thought Karras.

  ‘Talon Squad,’ he barked sharply. ‘Deathwatch brothers…’ A grin spread across his porcelain-white features. ‘It is good to see you.’

  He clashed his right fist against his breastplate. The response was automatic. Even Solarion saluted back.

  It was Zeed, always one to disregard protocol at the earliest opportunity, who broke from the line and strode straight up to Karras. He stopped right in front of him, their faces only a metre apart, his all-black eyes peering into Karras’ all-red ones with curious intensity, as if he were examining a strange new species.

  Then a broad smile cracked his face and he slapped Karras’ left pauldron with a gauntleted hand. ‘You mad dog, Scholar,’ he said with genuine joy. ‘Next time you decide to kill something, don’t pull half a planet down on top of yourself. I didn’t join the Deathwatch to dig out your suicidal backside.’

  He thrust out his hand and they gripped each other’s wrists. Then Zeed moved to Karras’ side, throwing a short nod at Maximmion Voss. The burly Imperial Fist hardly needed any encouragement. He, too, stepped up to Karras and warmly gripped wrists with him.

  Karras smiled down at the short, over-muscled Adeptus Astartes.

  Voss’ broad features were as open and honest as ever, skin creasing around the deep scars he bore as he smiled. His brown eyes glinted under a thick, jutting brow. ‘Do you remember my last words to you, Scholar?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ said Karras.

  ‘I was right. And I’m glad to see you back.’ Voss hesitated a moment, then added with a curious glance, ‘Your recovery is… remarkable.’

  Karras was ready for this. He managed to mask the awkwardness he felt. He fed his battle-brother the only answer he could, the one he had settled on during transit. ‘The Apothecaries at Damaroth are unrivalled. I was as surprised as you are.’ He raised his left hand and flexed it in front of his face. ‘The price of such recovery was the scars I’d earned. But I’ll earn many more before this secondment is over. Sigma will see to that.’

  ‘And now you owe him a debt,’ said a low, gravelly voice from behind Voss. ‘For he did not abandon you, despite his warnings.’

  The Imperial Fist moved aside, stepping off to join the Raven Guard in greeting Chyron.

  It was Darrion Rauth of the Exorcists who had spoken. It was he who stepped forward next.

  Karras nodded to him and extended his hand. ‘Brother.’

  They stood regarding each other for a long moment. Rauth’s eyes were as hard as ever, like black diamonds, studying Karras without reserve.

  ‘Those warding tattoos are fresh, Death Spectre.’

  ‘They are.’

  The Exorcist examined them with interest. Finally, he said, ‘They did good work on you. The grimoires look strong.’

  Karras nodded, then pointedly looked down at his own hand, still extended.

  Rauth didn’t smile, but that was Rauth. A smile might have cracked that crag of a face. Nevertheless, he reached out and gripped wrists with Karras, and there was force in the grip. For a moment, the two stood joined in mutual greeting, and there was respect there, though there was also a certain unmistakable frostiness to it.

  ‘He didst return changed,’ quoted Rauth, ‘and the changes wrought upon him were both hope and sorrow to the people of the steppes, for his strength was multiplied, fed and forged by the losses he had known, but his soul now bore a weight that much greater, and the fire within him burned less bright. And in time, those changes worked a fell magic on him and did seal the fate of his people.’

  ‘The Chronicles of Uranos,’ replied Karras, ‘by Auldre Derlon. Hardly apt, brother. Uranos was a brutal warlord who butchered millions in the name of a false idol.’

  In truth, the choice of quote disturbed Karras, though he grinned as he spoke. Did the Exorcist mean to suggest Karras would doom his kill-team? Was it meant as some kind of warning?

  Rauth gave the smallest of shrugs and released Karras’ wrist. ‘It is a quote about a leader’s return after sustaining near-fatal wounds. Apt enough in that. I am sure you are as eager to redeploy as the rest of us.’

  ‘No,’ said Karras. ‘More so. You, at least, have been active. Sigma provided summaries. I read them in transit. Heavily expurgated, of course, but it’s good to know that you have been kept sharp.’

  Rauth took that without further response. He went to greet Chyron, leaving only one yet to step forward.

  ‘I will not grip wrists with you, Scholar,’ said this last, his voice as haughty and sharp-edged as ever. ‘We almost failed at Chiaro under your so-called leadership.’

  Karras gazed back into grey eyes filled with ice. Before he could answer, Siefer Zeed called out from behind him.

  ‘We’d have fared far worse under you, Prophet! You couldn’t lead a slow march across flat ground. Don’t listen to him, Scholar. He’s the one that missed you most!’

  He and Voss laughed together at that. But the Ultramarine blazed as he replied, ‘You had your words, Ghost. Keep your damned peace while I have mine.’

  Zeed snorted and said to Voss, ‘I could hit him seven times before he’d know which side I was on, and he’d still guess wrong.’

  Voss chuckled.

  Karras ignored the jibe at Solarion and stepped forward to stand between him and the others. ‘Whatever your thoughts on how I handled Night Harvest, brother, I am glad to see you well. I am disappointed that you hold to your resentment of me, but it matters not. Just do your job. Or I’ll give you cause to resent me a lot more.’

  There was a flicker in Solarion’s aura then – something transient, ephemeral, so fleeting that Karras almost didn’t catch it, but he did, and its colour was dull orange edged with blue.

  So there is a part of him that is glad to see me returned. Would that it were not quite so small.

  ‘We do not always get what we want, Scholar,’ said Solarion. ‘I did not wish you dead, but Sigma is a fool if he fails to hold you accountable for almost costing us the Chiaro mission.’

  ‘I am many things, Ultramarine,’ said a dry, grating voice from over Solarion’s shoulder, ‘but a fool is not one of them.’

  The members of Talon Squad turned as one. Before them, they saw a spider-like mechanical construct – a pillar of sensors, scanners and vocaliser gri
lles atop eight spindly metal legs.

  As if the puppetmaster would ever reveal himself to his puppets, thought Karras. He greets me via mechanical proxy. I should have expected as much.

  The inquisitor’s proxy scuttled forward, clicking and whirring. When it settled a few metres in front of Karras, the voice continued. ‘Welcome back aboard the Saint Nevarre, Talon Alpha. You look suitably restored. That is well, because time is against us. I require your presence in the main briefing chamber. Now.’

  The spidery construct turned somewhat awkwardly and began to scuttle away, but as it went, it called back to them, ‘And you others, be ready for a group briefing as soon as your Alpha and I are done. Do not tarry. It is time once again for the Deathwatch to earn its reputation.’

  Fourteen

  ‘Why?’ asked Karras. ‘If you tell me nothing else, tell me that.’

  The figure on the tall black throne turned its hololithic head to regard him coolly. Since the figure was projection only, Karras’ senses could tell him nothing. There was no soul there to read, no aura, no energy, just photons. This was precisely why Sigma remained above on the three Geller-shielded upper decks, off limits to most onboard. It was easy enough to guess that those decks housed the inquisitor lord’s astropathic choir, maybe his psychic coven, and no doubt a veritable army of servitors to take care of more mundane needs. But Karras’ mind was blocked from knowing. His astral self could no more penetrate those protective fields than he could sense emotion from this shimmering lie seated above him.

  ‘Why?’ echoed the inquisitor through the vox-grilles built into his throne. ‘Because it serves me. I chose you to lead Talon. It serves my needs, and my needs serve those of the ordo and the Imperium itself. I may come to regret my choice in time, but your success on Chiaro has borne my decision out so far. You extracted White Phoenix from the mines. Others would have failed. It was unfortunate that eliminating the broodlord almost cost you your life, but, as I said, the odds were against Night Harvest from the start. Projections for the survival of the entire team were incredibly low, and yet–’