To Question is to Doubt


The field had been idyllic when the sun first rose. Perfect drops of dew had gleaned in the morning light. Now the grass was slick with blood. Too many Ultramarines lay dead. Thousands of good Imperials had died this morning. With them lay hundreds of Tau warriors, tanks, and battle suits. Not even the noonday sun could warm the cold valley breeze.

The battered Standard Bearer of the Ultramarines fifth company climbed atop an alien battle suit. His flag curled in the chilling breeze. He pried a plate of metal from the machine. Smoke billowed out and a xeno coughed. The alien held up a blue hand to yield. The Ultra ran his sword into the alien. It was done.

The Ultra looked out to the valley. No one was left. There was death as far as the eye could see. Death. The war had begun with a peace summit massacre. And after a decade of fighting, Death. The whispers of the serpent from ages before crept into his ear again. With a snarl he banished the thought.

It was becoming harder. The Ultra had even begun to see the Hydra in his dreams. But there was no room for such memories. He looked to the holy fifth company banner at his side. Its blue majesty recalled all the triumphs of the fifth company. It should have invoked pride and reverence. But today, the Imperial champion felt anger. He had reclaimed the banner and slew the wicked serpent that had stolen it. But he had confessed his shame, and all of Ultramar knew that the banner had been baptized in unholy blood. It had been cleansed. But now, looking to the flag gave him no comfort. And the poisoned words of the Alpha Legionnaire still stung in his ear.

There was movement, rustling, and clanks. The Ultra whirled around, blade at the ready. A fallen Tau suite rolled over. From beneath it a man in black staggered to his feet. The Ultra leapt to aid the survivor, but the man waved him away.

The man in black wore the badge of the Inquisition. This old man leaned on his staff. His eyes were hollow and the smell of magic hung around him, a psyker.

"Victory." The psyker spit blood and glared out over the field.

"For today. But how many more will we sacrifice when the enemy returns tomorrow?" The Standard Bearer did not mean to ask the question aloud.

The blind psyker looked up at the giant Ultra with a sneer. "Oh? How tenuous a peace would you accept? Do you not see the legions they send to fight us at every turn? Death is the only way to break their resolve. War is the inevitable reality."

"As is death. Are we so eager to have more of it?" He couldn't stop his mouth from opening.

"Yes, as the Emperor demands. Death to the xeno, death to the mutant, death to the heretic."

"And are psykers not a product of mutation? What right have you to condemn so many to death." Why would I say such a thing?

The old man's liver spots wrinkled together. "I do not condemn, I obey. Does your contrary melancholy have a point? Or perhaps…"

The winds became still. Then the Standard Bearer felt something. Icy fingertips probing his mind, his at picking thoughts. Anger flashed, How dare you witch! He tried to use his anger and discipline to shield his wounded conviction. But the cold needles prodded deeper, until it found his worry.

"You question. You doubt." Blood dripped from the psyker's nose. "Fear."

"Away from me!" Witch! Mutant! Abomination!

Cold invisible fingers sunk even deeper into the Standard Bearer's thoughts. They sifted through memories and emotions, until they found the buried core of uncertainty. The Serpent.

"Poisoned."

"You are not my judge! Out of my mind!" The Standard Bearer shoved the man.

Winded, the psyker caught himself on his staff. Holding out the seal of the Inquisition he bellowed, "By the might of the god-Emperor I command you, repent or condemn yourself to death!"

"Death is everywhere! Do you not see it!? What if peace were a victory!? Why always death!?"

There was no hesitation. The man in black struck out with his staff. In the nick of time the Standard Bearer turned the blow aside. The magic coursing though the wood ripped through his pauldron. Death, there was no longer any choice. Anger and resentment bubbled inside the Ultra. With the banner of the fifth company at his side, the champion slashed at the psyker. The Ulramarine's blade whiffed through the empty air.

The blind old man was faster then he should have been, much faster. Magic swirled around him as he dodged like a fickle wind. A quick thwack to the wrist sent the Standard Bearer's sword flying off into the grass. The staff thumped him in the shoulder, and then thumped him in the knee. The champion stumbled and clung to the banner.

The Imperial psyker's empty eyes began to glow. His breath became like a mist. Frost began to build along his beard and brow. "Yield blasphemer! Fear for your soul!"

"Ultramarines know no fear!"

The psyker sucked in a huge gulp of air. With gaunt cheeks he blew a storm of ice from his lips. The doubting champion stepped in front of the banner. Slivers of frosty magic cut his face. The ice clung to him and stiffened his armor. The psyker blew and blew until the champion could not move. When he was done he huffed regaining his breath.

"Death for you traitor. Emperor have mercy on your soul." The old man in black raised his glowing staff.

Death is everywhere! What if peace were a victory? Why always death?

The Ultra pulled against the ice. It cracked, splintered, then shattered. As the psyker's staff came singing down, the marine broke free. The Ultra swung an icy fist and cracked the old man in the nose. The Inquisitor dropped to the earth, stone dead.

Fin