‘See? Grinning again, you won’t charm me with that. Who are you?’
‘Ishaq Kadeen, official remembrancer.’ He liked the way that felt on the tongue, so he said it as often he could.
‘Oh.’ The old man cleared his throat with a sound like gargling gravel. ‘You’re not a poet by any chance, are you?’
‘No, sir. I’m an imagist.’
‘That’s a shame. The Blessed Lady has an ear for poetry. Though, hmm, it’s for the best if you never darken her door, I’m sure.’
This was before he knew who the Blessed Lady was, but that grumble alone was enough to make him vow to darken her door as soon as possible, whoever she might be.
‘So you’re hunting for picts to take?’
‘Guilty,’ Ishaq halted the grin before it reached his lips, ‘as charged.’
The old man scratched at his neat beard, fingers making scritch, scritch, scritch sounds against what was barely more than stubble. ‘This is a warship, you know. You can get in a lot of trouble wandering around like this. Go back to the lower decks, and wait for the Chaplain’s arrival like everyone else. You’ll get all your picts then.’
Ishaq considered that a fair deal, but as he turned to leave, he decided to push his luck a little more.
‘Sir?’
‘What?’ The old man was already walking away, cane tapping on the decking.
‘You don’t seem the merciless terror that the remembrancers have been told to fear.’
General Arric smiled, which made the slit in his face even less appealing. ‘That’s only because you’re not one of my men, Remembrancer Kadeen. Now get off the operations decks and back to the jury-rigged bar I know you little vermin are already setting up in the shadows of this blessed ship.’
‘It’s called the Cellar.’
‘How very apt,’ the old man huffed as he walked away.
So he’d waited eleven days, and true to both form and the general’s appraisal, he’d spent those eleven days in the bar.
Now he was here, after hauling his hungover carcass across to the main starboard hangar, waiting with the dregs and top brass alike for the Chaplain to arrive.
‘I thought the Crimson Lord was supposed to be here,’ he whispered to Marsin. The other remembrancer just shrugged, still taking notes and sketching vague figures.
The Astartes were here at least, though Ishaq took much less pleasure in their presence than he’d expected. Twenty of them in all: grey statues in two ranks of ten, not a ghost of movement between any of them. Immense bolt pistols were clutched to the Word Bearers’ chests, while unpowered chainswords were kept at their sides. Scrolls and iconography marked them as warriors from the 37th Assault Company.
Ishaq kept abreast of deployment chatter: most of 37th Company were engaged on the world below, waging a compliance war alongside General Arric’s Euchar regiments.
He snapped several images of the towering, silent Astartes, but his angle was far from perfect, and the edge of frame was ruined by servitors stumbling around in the background. He supposed there should be something glorious and inspiring about the warriors, but he found it hard to swallow if he looked too long in their direction. They weren’t inspiring at all. Just... imposing. Distant. Cold.
‘Attention!’ the general barked.
Ishaq conceded to this by standing slightly straighter. The Euchar officers went ramrod-straight. The Astartes still didn’t move.
The gunship came into the hangar on a sedate drift, guidance thrusters gushing pressurised air as it hovered down. Crimson armour plating coated the Thunderhawk in dry scales, while heavy bolter turrets panned left and right – the servitors slaved to the guns’ systems ever-alert to threats.
Landing claws kissed the decking. At last, the boarding ramp lowered on squealing hydraulics. Ishaq clicked a pict of the gunship’s yawning maw.
From the hangar’s edge, more Astartes entered – five warriors clad in armour of a newer, more streamlined design than their grey brethren, painted in scarlet and silver, with black helms staring ahead. The remembrancers turned as one, whispering and muttering, variously taking picts, making notes and sketching what they saw.
Gal Vorbak, came the whisper from many mouths.
Leading them was a warrior with a black cloak draped over his shoulders, and his Legion symbol hidden beneath yellowed parchment scrolls depicting his deeds. He stalked past the gathered remembrancers, the joints of his Mark IV battle armour humming a smooth hymn. Skulls of slain alien warlords rattled against his dark ceramite as they dangled from iron chains.
There he is, the whispers started up again. The Crimson Lord.
The warrior moved to the Blessed Lady’s side, whereupon he offered her a slight inclination of his head, and spoke the name ‘Cyrene’ with a growl of acknowledgement.
‘Hello, Argel Tal,’ she smiled without looking up at him. Her entourage of maids and advisors scattered back with dignified slowness as the Gal Vorbak took their places around their master.
Ishaq took another pict: the huge warrior in his snarling black helm, and the petite figure at his side, both surrounded by red-clad Astartes.
The figure that descended from the Thunderhawk onto the hangar deck wore armour to match his brothers in the Gal Vorbak, though his trimmings were reinforced bone and bronze, and his helm bore Colchisian runes painted in gold leaf.
Chaplain Xaphen walked down the gang ramp, briefly embracing Argel Tal at the bottom.
‘Cyrene,’ the Chaplain said afterwards.
‘Hello, Xaphen.’
‘You look younger.’
She blushed, and said nothing.
Argel Tal gestured to the Thunderhawk. ‘How were our brothers in the IV Legion?’
Xaphen’s rumbling voice was as vox-ruined as Argel Tal’s. ‘The Iron Warriors are well, but it is good to be back.’
‘I assume there’s much to discuss.’
‘Of course,’ the Chaplain replied.
‘Come, then. We’ll talk while the preparations are made for planetfall.’
The warriors walked past, and the orderly gathering began to dissolve into groups heading back to their duties. Just like that, it was over.
‘You coming?’ Marsin asked Ishaq.
Ishaq was looking down at his picter, intensifying the image on the small viewscreen. It showed the two commanders of the Gal Vorbak side by side, with the Blessed Lady nearby, her head tilted as she regarded them both with unseeing eyes – a look of adoring beneficence writ upon her lovely features. One of the Astartes carried his black crozius maul: the ornate weapon slung over his shoulder. The other, the cloaked Crimson Lord, sported deactivated claws of red iron, each oversized power fist ending in four talons the length of scythe blades.
Both suits of armour glinted with shards of yellow jade as they reflected the orange overhead lighting. Both helms had slanted, sapphire eye lenses that seemed to stare right into Ishaq’s viewfinder.
This, he thought to himself, might be another classic.