Ignis in Vacui Chapter 26

The Apothecarion smelt of blood, even with the thick cloying scent of anti-sceptics and caustic cleansers the smell lingered. It was a faint presence in the air but it was always there, burrowing into the nostrils like a burr. With his enhanced senses it was clear and all-pervading, yet not discomforting or nauseating. To Furion it was a familiar scent, he was accustomed to it as the smell of the unguents and the lapping powders used to clean his armour.

Furion was stood in a long corridor, peering into a line of surgical suites. Here various Brothers were being operated upon, they were in various states of injury and being tended to by Chirugeons and medicaes. Mortals laboured over open torsos and spilled rich Transhuman blood upon the floor as they muttered arcane terminology and called loudly for more tools. Meanwhile servo-skulls drifted overhead, spraying sacred incense and repeating prayers in endlessly looped refrains.

Furion was not in the least concerned by this, the prognosis of these warriors was good. In fact such surgeries as he saw here were mostly to hasten the healing process. An Astartes' physiology was a miracle wrought in flesh, the product of the Emperor's great genius. Anything that didn't kill an Astartes outright could be overcome, usually within a few days. How else did a Chapter of a mere one thousand souls survive a lifetime of war.

Furion moved past the surgeries, his Skull-helm hanging by his belt next to Storm-heart. He had come to the Apothecarion with a specific purpose but he saw many Brothers here, and his duties were waiting for him. Furion had spent straight twelve hours flagellating his own back for his poor performance on the Hulk, losing his weapon twice was an egregious error and it was one that must be atoned for. His back was now a mass of scabs and scars, rubbing painfully under his armour but he mastered it. Such pain was a welcome reminder of his lapses and a compulsion to correct his mistakes.

He continued on until he found the recovery ward. Here were those Brothers whose injuries were not so severe, the walking wounded and those awaiting augmetic replacements. As he walked closer his sharp hearing could hear various voices, the deep tones of Transhuman's and the frail quivers of mortals. As usual the Astartes were trying to discharge themselves, confident their implants could heal anything. The mortals were trying to stop them leaving, citing the severity of their lost limbs and other wounds.

Furion smiled to himself, somethings never changed. Any Astartes worthy of the name would rather be charging over an assault course or honing his aim than lying on a med-slab. Furion set his face in a grim aspect then stepped inside, causing all to cease talking. The Chaplain surveyed the room and the Brothers lowered their eyes in respect. Furion nodded back then moved to the closest med-slab and picked up a chart saying, "Brother Bolivar… are you questioning the medicae's judgement?"

Brother Bolivar was missing a leg but still replied, "Chaplain, I am wasting away here. I don't need two legs to aim a bolter. Get me a crutch and I will be on the firing range post haste."

Furion eyed the fallen Brother and said, "You are under the authority of the Apothecarion and will remain here until they deem you fit to leave. Besides it would offend the dignity of the whole Chapter were the serfs to witness you hopping down the corridors."

Bolivar grinned as he acceded and Furion was pleased. He was starting to see that being a Chaplain didn't mean he had to be dour all the time. He had thought the Brothers would look upon warmth as a sign of weakness, but faces all around were smiling at his words. It seemed Furion didn't have to act like old Wrethan to perform his duties.

Furion moved from med-slab to med-slab, speaking to each Brother and comforting or admonishing them as required. At last he came to the final med-slab and here he found Cortha, sitting with his armour half-stripped away to reveal his amputated right arm. The limb was bare from the elbow down, revealing a stump about half-way along. The stump was covered with a metal ring that was festooned with neural interfaces and nerve-impulse conductors. Beside Cortha lay Dread-hand, reverently placed on a small shrine.

Furion had come here to speak with Cortha but he realised he hadn't thought about what to say when he got here. Furion searched for the words and ended up lamely asking, "How are you?"

Cortha tried to rise to his feet but was waved back down, then he answered, "Impatient, Memnos promised me a new hand but it's taking forever."

Furion leaned over to inspect the wound, but as he did so his gauntlet brushed Dread-hand for a moment. Cortha started and yelled, "No don't!" but Furion was already touching it. It was the strangest sensation, the coldness running up his arm to seize at this hearts. The colour drained from the world and sounds became muffled in his ears. There was a shard of ice in his mind, slowing his thoughts and freezing his spirit. Glory, honour, triumph, Brotherhood, these things seemed impossible to remember, even the concepts of them were being stripped from him.

The touch lasted only the briefest of moments but Furion snatched his hand away starting, "What was that?!"

Cortha nodded at his weapon and said, "Dread-hand takes its toll."

Furion felt the ice seeping from him and rubbed his gauntlet as if to warm it while he stared at Cortha. He couldn't imagine bearing such a relic for more than a moment, yet his apprentice carried the Crozius as if it was nothing. Furion found it staggering to imagine the kind of willpower it must take to bear such a device and he realised that he had underestimated Cortha badly.

Thankfully at that moment Memnos bustled up, bring a trolley with him which bore an item covered in cloth. The Apothecary looked extremely pleased with himself and was quick to say, "I have your new arm, a most precious artefact from the reliquary."

He whisked the cloth away so Cortha and Furion could examine the augmetic. After a moment Cortha hesitantly said, "There must be some mistake, that's… that's a claw."

Furion couldn't argue with his bewilderment, the hand resembled a gauntlet with wickedly serrated digits for fingertips. They looked razor sharp and were hooked like some feline predator. The limb had been coloured black to match Cortha's armour but on the back of the hand was a large red jewel, the light within dancing like it was on fire. The bearer of such a limb could hold a Crozius in his grip or slash a man's face off with his claws, but would never be able to hold a quill or a fine tool.

Furion saw Cortha's dismay but he spoke up, "I like it and it suits you. Such a relic is a sign of favour in the Chapter. All shall know you are a warrior to be feared from now on."

Cortha looked a bit less apprehensive but questioned, "Will it take long to fit?"

Memnos replied, "All the hard work is done, I had to trim back the bone and muscle to fit the neural-connector plate and bind it to your nerves. All I have to do now is attach the limb thusly… then turn it so… and there it is."

With deft movement the Apothecary fitted the limb and twisted it with a loud click then stepped back. Cortha flexed his new claw and examined it in minute detail then nodded and said, "It looks… fearsome. I am honoured."

Furion stated, "Just stay out of Novak's way or he'll try to give you some impertinent nickname. Now get your armour on and walk with me."

Serfs hurried up and hastily fitted Cortha's plates and then Furion led them out of the Apothecary. Cortha paused to retrieve Dread-hand, barely flinching at its cold touch then they walked into the depths of the Thunderchild as Cortha asked, "What happened after we left?"

Furion replied, "The Hulk broke up, shattering into a billion pieces. The survivors of the Ork fleet fell into infighting, they always do when there is a leadership struggle. We took it as a sign that it was time to leave."

"And the Diasporex?" Cortha inquired.

"Fled the second the battle was done," Furion answered, "Wise of them, they knew our alliance would end once the mutual threat was gone. Mark my words, we haven't seen the last of them, there will be a reckoning."

"And Vevara?" asked Cortha.

Furion smiled slightly and said, "Quite incandescent but her ire seemed to pass once I assigned Brother Jediah to watch over her. She decided it was best to stay in her quarters after I loudly ordered Jediah not to eat her brains."

Cortha nodded and said, "So… where are we going?"

"To attend to our duties," Furion answered, "But as we walk I wish to learn more of you, tell me of yourself."

Cortha blinked in surprise and then uttered, "I was born on Lujan II like most Storm Heralds and I saw my family die during the invasion of the Traitor Vorshaan, just one more notch on that scum's belt. I swore I would find a way to avenge them and I trained every day to be strong enough to join the Chapter. When the trials came I was deemed worthy enough for recruitment and so became an aspirant."

Furion nodded and asked, "You didn't fight in the civil war?"

"I saw some fighting in the Scout-Barracks," Cortha corrected, "Alas I was captured when Tenth-Captain Judio was slain. The heretics captured many Scout-Novices, thinking to convert us to their cause. Some among us wavered but I refused to let them bend the knee. I spoke of our duty and the bloody vengeance we owed the Heretics and so we remained imprisoned."

Furion thought upon it and then asked, "So what is it that drives you? What is your ambition?"

Cortha thought about it then slowly said, "Ambition… I barely know the meaning of the word. I have no interest in glory or laurels; I seek only to avenge my family by slaying as many Traitors as I can. Strange, I cannot remember their faces; memories before ascension are such weak things. Yet I will never forget the gaping hole left in my soul when they were taken, it can never be filled. I was satisfied to know I would be apprenticed under you though, I understand you were there when the Chapter triumphed and Vorshaan was slain."

Furion shook his head saying, "It was desperate and bloody and defeat seemed certain at every turn, yet we endured. Vorshaan himself crawled off to die in some hole, betrayed by his own followers."

"Good," Cortha spat, "I trust it was slow and painful."

A thought struck Furion and he wondered, "Is that why you can wield Dread-hand? The need for vengeance, no relic can steal that from you."

Cortha cocked his head and said, "I hadn't given it much thought, it just seems to affect me less than most."

Furion paused then and said what he had been dancing around, "I have been unduly harsh upon you Cortha. I am ashamed to say I that I let the memories of the past overshadow the present. I thought we would repeat the mistakes of our predecessors but now I see Phalros chose wisely; you are the fresh start this Chapter so desperately needs. I would be a better teacher to you than I have been, if you will have me."

Cortha looked bemused and replied, "Of course, you don't have to ask."

Furion was glad to hear the youth held no grudges and said, "Come then, we must attend upon VIth squad, they are mourning the loss of a Brother and the Rites of Mourning must be observed."

Cortha looked concerned as he admitted, "I confess I would rather face the Orks again, I never know what to say at such moments."

Furion explained, "You don't have to know the right words, just how to listen. The ritual phrases are less important than listening to our Brother's grief and reminding them they are not alone in their sorrow. Come with me and I will show you how."

With that they resumed their journey, discussing the nature of their duty. Yet little did they realise that the battle was far from over, for even as their ship sailed away unfriendly eyes were seeking them and their wake was being tracked by a most unexpected hunter.