the dead would serve the Legion in their stead, passing on to strengthen new initiates when the next round of recruitment began. Once in a while, a lucky find would bring the recovery crews a live battle-brother, dormant inside his armour beneath the lulling pressure of his sus-an membranes, but that happened very rarely.
Beyond the zone where the Death Guard fleet gathered like carrion birds around a corpse, the jorgall bottle was executing a slow, wounded turn to sight down into the ecliptic plane of the Iota Horologii system. Drifts of wreckage and broken panels from the construct's vast solar panels floated behind it in a faint cometary tail. The main drives blinked out of sequence as the fusion motors worked the colossal mass of the world-ship about. Dissenting voices from the Mechanicum contingent aboard the warship Spectre of Death had petitioned Mortarion for a few days in which to loot the alien craft of technology. The pri-march, as was his prerogative, refused the request. The letter of Lord Malcador's orders – and therefore, by extension, those of the Emperor himself – was that the jorgall incursion into the sector was to be exterminated. The master of the Death Guard clearly saw no point of confusion in those orders. There was to be nothing left of the aliens.
And yet…
Nathaniel Garro watched the play and turn of the fleet from the gallery above the Endurance's main launch bay, above him a span of thick armoured glass and space beyond it, below, through skeletal brass frames and grid-cut decking, the expanse of the flight platform. Gradually, his gaze dropped.
Down among the sleek Stormbirds and heavy Thunderhawks was a single swan-like shuttlecraft, the
spread wings of the ship detailed in gold and black. It stood out among the white and grey Astartes craft, a single bright game fowl nestled in a flock of pale raptors.
Aboard that vessel, a sole tangible remnant of the assault would remain after all the works of the jorgall were erased from this sector of space. He found himself wondering what other orders the Sisters of Silence had, orders that were unbound even in the face of a primarch's countermand. It was not defiance on their part to go against Mortarion's wishes if it was the Emperor's will to do otherwise, surely? This was not disobedience. This was a trivial issue, a small thing of little consequence. Garro had never known of and could barely envisage an instance when the commands of primarch and Emperor would not be in harmony.
An oiled hiss signalled the opening of the gallery's hatch and Garro looked to see who had come to interrupt his customary moment of solitude after the battle. A small smile curled at his lips as two figures entered the echoing, empty colonnade. He gave a shallow bow as Amendera Kendel approached him, a younger woman in a less ornate version of a witch-seeker's robes walking at her heels.
Kendel looked to Garro as he assumed he must have looked to her: fresh from the battlefield, fatigued, but content that the fight had gone well. 'Sister,' said Garro, 'I trust the outcome this day was satisfactory to you.'
The woman signed a few words and the girl at her side spoke. 'Battle-Captain Garro, well met. The goals of the Imperium have been ably served.'
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow and looked directly at the girl. He saw her more clearly now, noting that she
had no armour or visible weapons as Kendel did. 'Forgive me, but it was my understanding that the Sisters of Silence are never to speak.'
The girl nodded, her manner changing slightly as she answered. 'That is indeed so, lord. No Sister may utter a word, unto death, once she gives the Oath of Tranquillity. I am a novice, captain. I have yet to take the vow and so I may speak to you. Sisters-in-waiting such as I serve our order when communication is needed with outsiders'
'Indeed,' Garro nodded. 'Then may I ask your mistress what she wishes of me?'
Kendel gestured again, and the novice translated, her voice taking on a formal tone once more. '1 wished to speak with you before we departed the Endurance, on the matters to which you and your men were party aboard the jorgall cylinder. It is the Emperor's wish that they not be spoken of.'
The captain absorbed this. Of course, why else had Kendel killed the alien psyker with a shot to the chest instead of a round through the skull? To preserve whatever secrets it held inside that misshapen head. He nodded to himself. The Lord of Man's great works into the understanding of the ethereal realms were beyond his grasp as a mere captain, and if the Emperor required the corpse of a dead xenos mutant to further that understanding, then Nathaniel Garro had no place to contradict it. 'I shall make it so. The Emperor has his tasks and we have ours. My men would never question that.'
The Silent Sister came a little closer and watched him carefully. She signed something to the novice and the girl hesitated, questioning her mistress in return before relaying the words. 'Sister Amendera asks… She wishes to know if the child spoke to you.'
'It had no mouth/ Garro answered, quicker than he intended to.
Kendel placed a finger on her lips and shook her head. Then she moved the finger to her temple.
Nathaniel looked at his hands. There were still flecks of alien blood on them. 'I am clean of any taint,' he insisted. 'The thing did not contaminate me.'
'Did it speak to you?' repeated the novice.
The moment became long before he spoke. 'It knew what I was. It said it could see tomorrow. It told me all I worship would die.' Garro sneered. 'But I am an Astartes. I worship nothing. I honour no false god, only the reality of Imperial truth.'
His answer seemed to appease Sister Amendera, and she inclined her head in a bow. 'Your fealty, like that of all Death Guard, has never been in doubt, captain. Thank you for your honesty,' relayed the novice. 'It is clear the creature was attempting to cloud your intention. You did well to resist it.' The Oblivion Knight made the sign of the aquila and bowed.
The girl mirrored Kendel's gesture. 'My mistress wishes you and your company to accept the commendation and gratitude of the Sisters of Silence. Your names will be presented to the Sigillite in recognition of your service to Terra.'
You honour us,' Garro replied. 'If I might ask, what was the fate of your comrade, the Null Maiden who was unhooded in the fighting?'
The novice nodded. 'Ah, Sister Thessaly, yes. Her injuries were serious, but she will recover. Our med-icae aboard the Aeria Gloris will heal her in due course. I understand your Brother Voyen saved her life.'
'Aeria Gloris! repeated Garro. 'I do not know of that vessel. Is it part of our flotilla?'
A smile crossed Kendel's lips and she signed to the novice. 'No, captain. It is part of mine. See for yourself.' The woman pointed out through the glass dome and Garro followed her direction.
A piece of the void moved slowly across the prow of Endurance, passing between the bow of the warship and the distant glow of the Iotan sun. Whereas conventional vessels of the Imperial fleets ran with pennants and signal lamps to illuminate the lengths of their hulls, this new arrival, this Aeria Gloris, came in darkness, arriving out of the interstellar deeps as an ocean predator might slip to the surface of a night time sea.
Garro had never laid eyes on a Black Ship before. These were the mothercraft of the Silent Sisterhood, carrying them back and forth across the galactic disc on the Emperor's witch hunting missions. It was hard to make out anything more than the most basic details of the ship's design. Framed against the solar glow of Iota Horologii, the battle cruiser was at least a match in size for the Death Guard capital ship Indomitable Will. It lacked the traditional plough blade prow of most Imperial vessels, ending instead in a blunt bow. A single, knife-edge sail hung below the stern and on it was an aquila cut from shimmering volcanic glass. Where Endurance and the ships of the Astartes flotilla were swords against the enemies of Terra, Aeria Gloris was a hammer of witches.
'Impressive,' rumbled Garro. There was little else he could say. He found himself wondering what it would be like to wander the decks of the vessel, at once attracted and repelled by the idea of what secrets the craft must hide.
Sister Amendera bowed again and nodded to her novice. 4<Ve take our leave of you, honoured captain,'
said the girl. 'We are to make space for Luna by day's end, and the warp grows turbulent.'
'Safe journey, sisters,' he offered, unable to tear his gaze from the dark starship.
Kaleb guided the cart across the length of the armoury chamber, taking care to stay to the outer walkway around die edges of the long hall. His master's bolter lay across the trolley, the weapon's usually flawless finish marred by lines of damage from the engagement on the jorgall world-ship. As Garro's housecarl, it was Kaleb's duty to see the gun to the arming servitors and ensure that the weapon was returned to its full glory as quickly as possible. He intended not to disappoint his captain.
He passed knots of Deadi Guard as they debriefed and disarmed, men from Temeter's company in animated conversation about a diorny moment during the boarding of a xenos destroyer, and Astartes of Typhon's First in bellicose humour. Across the chamber he spied Hakur talking with Decius, as the younger man relayed a moment from the battle with an enthusiasm mat die dour veteran clearly did not share.
The men of the XIV Legion were not given to raucous celebration in their victories – such displays, Kaleb had heard it said, were more in the character of the Space Wolves or the World Eaters – but they did, in their own fashion, salute their successes and give honour to those who fell along the way.
The Death Guard cultivated an image that other Legions were only too quick to accept: that they were brutal, ruthless and hard-hearted, but the reality had more shades to it than that. That these Astartes rarely made sport of their warfare was true, but they were not so bleak and stern as some would have believed.
Compared to the stories Kaleb had heard of stoic and dispassionate Legions like the Ultramarines or the Imperial Fists, the Death Guard could almost be considered wilful and disorderly.
Rounding a stanchion, the housecarl's train of thought stalled at the sound of harsh laughter from a figure before him. He hesitated. Commander Grulgor stood in his path, speaking in muted, amused tones to an Astartes from his Second Company. The two men clasped gauntlets in a firm, serious handshake and in spite of the dimness of the ill-lit walkway Kaleb was still able to make out the shape of a discshaped brass token held in Grulgor's fingers before he passed it into the other man's grip.
He understood immediately that he had intruded on a private moment, something only Astartes should share, something that a mere serf like him was not to be privy to, but there was nowhere Kaleb could hide, and if he turned around, the clatter of the cart's wheels would reveal him. In spite of himself, he coughed. It was a very small sound, but it brought with it a sudden silence as the commander broke off and noticed the housecarl for the first time.
Kaleb was looking directly at the decking, and did not see the expression of complete contempt Grulgor turned upon him
'Garro's little helot/ said the commander. 'Are you listening where you should not?' He took a step towards the housecarl and against his will, Kaleb shrank back. Grulgor's voice took on the tone of a teacher lecturing a student, making a lesson of him. 'Do you know what this is, Brother Mokyr?'
The other Astartes examined Kaleb coldly. 'It's not a servitor, commander, not enough steel and pistons for that. It resembles a man.'
Grulgor shook his head. 'No, not a man, but a housecarl! The emphasis he put on the title was scornful. 'A sad bit of trivia, a dusty practice from the ancient days' The commander spread his hands. 'Look on, Mokyr. Look at a failure.'
Kaleb found his voice. 'Lord, if it pleases you, I have duties to perform-'
He was ignored. 'Before our primarch brought new, strong blood to our Legion, there were many rituals and habits that knotted around the Astartes. Most have been cut away' Grulgor's face soured. 'Some still remain, thanks to the dogged adherence of men who should know better.'
Mokyr nodded. 'Captain Garro.'
'Yes, Garro.' Grulgor was dismissive. 'He allows sentiment to cloud his judgement. Oh, he's a fine warrior, I will give him that, but our brother, Nathaniel, is old in his ways, too bound by his Terran roots' The Astartes leaned closer to Kaleb, his voice dropping. 'Or, am I incorrect in my judgement? Perhaps Garro keeps you around him, not out of some misplaced sense of tradition, but as a reminder? A living example of what it means to fail the Legion?'