Extremus Fors Chapter 5

The gas giant Greater Tectum had never been busier, the hustling docks labouring to rebuild battered warships and restock the survivors. Cargo lighters swarmed around transfer stations, guzzling supplies being shipped from across the Sector. Personnel shuttles blew past like leaves in a tornado, shipping troopers and workers and administrators between postings. Docking cradles were inundated with requests for berths, overloaded with the scale of the task at hand. The Indomitus Crusade had been mauled in the Great Refusal but the Primarch's will was adamant. Fleet Primus would set forth in a little under two months' time, if that meant draining Tectum dry then so be it. He would wring every last drop of usefulness out of Battlefleet Karyl, before allowing his campaign to falter.

In the hustle and bustle it would seem odd that a moon would be left to its own devices. GT-XXIX, a blasted waste of a rock, scoured by Daemonic weaponry, but its orbital docks were still operational. Every other scrap of functionality had been subsumed by the Crusade, but not this moon. This moon was ignored entirely, given a wide berth by all. No ship captain dared turn his surveyors in this direction, no fighter patrol dared cross the invisible perimeter, none dared even hail them, save unidentified shuttles that came and went without challenge by the Imperial Navy. GT-XXIX had been given over to the shadowy agents of the Inquisition and none wished to draw the attention of the Emperor's Left Hand.

The Inquisition's relationship with Imperial Departmentos was complicated. The Inquisition owned no vast warfleet, no armies to conquer worlds. Their strength was entirely borrowed, seconded ships, conscripted regiments. Even the Chambers Militant were separate institutions, bound by oaths of alliance more than subservience. Yet the Inquisition owned that most nebulous of powers: Authority and when they demanded compliance it was seldom refused.

As a result the fleet orbiting GT-XXIX was an eclectic mix. Small blockade runners, doughty troop barges, proud cruisers and sleek gunships. Anything an individual Inquisitor could compel, all brought together to serve their elusive Ordo's will. Among that congregation a most curious vessel drifted. A Strike Cruiser, similar to the Adeptus Astartes' primary warships, but sleeker and more dangerous by far. Her hull was etched with arcane runes, to make her near invisible to otherworldy eyes and her drives made potent by secret sciences even the Mechanicus considered myth. She could skip across the galaxy in a fraction of the time any lesser breed could manage and defeat threats others had not suspected to exist. Her name was Purity of Silence and she was a Strike Cruiser of the Grey Knights.

Deep within the ship Hypras was busy working. In the largest chapel he knelt, clad only in a short shrift. Without his blessed plate his skin appeared pallid, scars standing out pinkly against his milky white skin. He did not know his world of origin, but had spent many centuries in the vaults of Titan, and fighting in power armour across worlds of darkness and despair. Sunlight had not touched his bare skin in four hundred years, a state of being he was proud of. Pride, he knew it was his weakness, that was why he was here, clad in serf robes, scrubbing the tiles with a wire brush.

Hypras plunged the brush into a bucket of soapy water then returned to scrubbing. He had scrubbed half the vast floor already but did not consider taking a break, he did not even look up at the golden adornments or reliquaries. There was only the task at hand, the simple elegance of the work. He devoted himself to it entirely, seeking to empty his mind of all thoughts save his duty. In such menial work there was a purity of purpose. He did not need to question, he did not need to doubt. The task was all, the mission was everything, he needed no other justification than that the duty was necessary. This was the purest expression of his creed, in all things great and small, Hypras' will was unyielding.

Many hours had he laboured but his work was interrupted by a clicking noise. Hypras sighed as his focus was broken, knowing he was about to receive a visitor. A psychic scan was unneeded, he recognised the sound. A soft tread, accompanied by a heavy click of metal on stone. Hypras grimaced but carefully sank his brush into the bucket before sitting up and calling, "Brother Belavire, is there some help I may offer you?"

The tread drew to a halt as a raspy voice uttered, "Merely curious as to why you are doing my job?"

"Do you not appreciate assistance?" Hypras asked without looking back.

"Such tasks are for a Sepulchar , a highly respected Librarian should be concerned with loftier matters," the rasp chided.

"Do you consider the reverence of our Brothers to be beneath my consideration? You think such a duty too meagre to deserve our fullest effort?"

"I think you're hiding from something," Belavire scoffed.

"I am hiding from my pride," Hypras stated flatly, "It does one good to be humbled on occasions."

"Somehow I doubt it will stick," Belavire snorted.

Hypras' lip twitched in amusement as he stood and turned about. Sure enough he saw his old friend standing in the chapel, augmetic eyes whirring as they focused and reset constantly. Belavire, an old squadmate from Hypras' younger days, when he had been a mere line-Brother of a Strike squad. The two had faced many dangerous Neverborn together, banished many terrible fiends, until war had separated them. Belavire's extensive augmetics to his face and chest told of the dire wounds he had received, and his left arm and leg were entirely augmetic. The damage to his mind was worse, his psychic abilities flayed to uselessness. Broken and made slow by injury, unable to fight as a Grey Knight, yet still the closest thing Hypras could consider to a friend.

Hypras shook dirty water off his hands and said, "Am I obstructing your duties?"

"I wash chapels and tend statues of heroes all day," Belavire dismissed, "A Sepulchar's work is never done. I am more troubled by rumours of your efforts. I hear the Inquisition is furious with you."

"The petty bleating of mortals is of no interest to me," Hypras sniffed.

"So, you didn't tell Inquisitor Sekar to frak off?" Belavire probed.

"Not so bluntly, but I made it clear the Ordo Malleus does not command the Grey Knights."

Belavire shook his weary head slowly as he groaned, "Hypras, a good working relationship between the Inquisition and Titan is essential."

"I do not argue that, but these mortals need reminding of their place. They carry the Emperor's warrant, but we carry His blood. The authority of the throne is pressed into our flesh; every fibre of our being is imbued with His majesty. We are the Emperor's last gift to mankind, not them."

Belavire sighed, "There are many in our order who disagree. Many of our Brothers say we should be content with our role, leaving matters of investigation and command to those best suited to it. Grand Masters of Titan swear oaths of allegiance with the Inquisition."

"Alliances and mutual goals do not make us slaves to their whims. The Inquisition thinks themselves petty Emperors, but we have only one Master and He sits upon the Golden Throne. These mortals need to be reminded they too are but servants of His will."

Belavire cocked his head and asked, "So, it's true, you defied Inquisitor Sekar to transport some Astartes Librarians from Holdfast?"

"A necessary decision," Hypras grunted, "A swift passage in exchange for a True Name, to add to my grimoire. Though it galls me they are allowed to remember it."

"Librarians are exempt from mind-scrubbing," Belavire sniffed, "Among the few allowed to know we exist."

Hypras snarled, "They shouldn't be, they should be purged of all knowledge, as should all Space Marines."

Belavire chewed his jaw for a moment then said, "You have never approved of the conventional Astartes Chapters."

"They were trusted to secure the galaxy, they failed," Hypras stated icily, "Loyalist or Traitor, none could defeat the Primordial Annihilator. Reorganisation wasn't enough; the Legions should have been disbanded wholesale and replaced with superior warriors. The Grey Knights should have expanded until we were the only Space Marines in the galaxy, pure and resistant to temptation."

"You have always said such, but that is beyond our remit."

"If we had done so, Sin Incarnate would have been defeated. Mankind would be safe in blessed ignorance, unaware of the Ruinous Powers, as they should be."

"That sort of thinking led to the Months of Shame," Belavire chided.

That shut Hypras up. Those dark days were a grim memory among the sons of Titan. The defeat of the Daemon Primarch Angron on Armageddon, five hundred years ago, followed by the inevitable purge of all who had breathed the same air as that thrice-damned traitor. Only the self-righteous Space Wolves had interfered, allowing condemned regiments to flee and spread word of the war, and the Daemonic threat defeated there. Hypras and Belavire hadn't been part of the desperate battle, but had been involved in the clean-up. Blasting troop ships from the void and beheading loyal men, whose only crime had been to live when all others had died in battle.

Hypras remembered the final fight over Fenris, battling Space Wolves boarding parties in the bowels of their own ship. Hypras had claimed several feral heads that day, but Belavire hadn't been so blessed. Confronted by a Rune Priest, he had been broken in body and mind. Grey Knights were powerful, but so too were the Battle-psykers of the Astartes, the elite Daemonhunters were specialised in the way of a rapier, but the Librarians of other chapters were potent in the manner of a broadsword. Belavire had been shattered body and soul, left for dead amid the piled corpses. Hypras hadn't even been able to avenge him, a humiliating ceasefire had been called and the conflict ended diplomatically. An insult Hypras had never forgotten, or forgiven.

"I shouldn't have said that," Belavire sighed, his aura leaking regret.

"It is I who should be sorry, you suffer more than any," Hypras whispered.

"I cannot enjoin with the Aegis anymore, my mind is lamed," Belavire replied, "Still I can clean and tend graves, fetch and carry… and pass messages."

That snagged Hypras' attention and he pressed, "Word comes from Titan?"

"Indeed," Belavire replied, "The Prognosticars foresee a great upswelling of the Primal Hatred, a Daemonic incursion of immense proportions. The incident at Holdfast was only the beginning, they foresee an Omega-Majoris incursion. The fiends of the Grandis Pandemonium arising, the Accursed Sons march free."

"The most damned court of the warp," Hypras snarled, "Those who spit upon their oaths of loyalty, the Daemon Primarchs."

Belavire sighed, "Mortarion moves to besiege Ultramar, Magnus invades Fenris and Pertuarbo's forges grow hot. Lorgar stirs from his millennia of contemplation and Angron carves a path of blood through the heavens. Fulgrim plays his games with the lives of billions. Our order is to be tested as never before, yet you have concerns closer to home."

Hypras caught the implication and exclaimed, "It is found?!"

Belavire nodded, "The Prognositcars have tracked your lost blade. The Daemon-Prince Ozymandias is found, on a lost Forgemoon, less than fifty light-years from here."

Hypras' hearts beat faster and his throat dried up as he said, "We thought it would be centuries till it resurfaced, if ever. But turn up so close, and so soon… this can only be His will. We must move immediately to secure the fiend!"

"You did not listen," Belavire chided, "The Brotherhoods are redeploying. Brother-Captain Manguire has orders to sail for the Heraculan Deeps, he will not abandon his orders for your quest."

"He must!" Hypras exclaimed, "This may not be a Daemon-Primarch, but Ozymandias is still a Mediocris Infernalus threat. We have a rare chance, to capture a Daemon bound to a physical object and secure it for all time. If we can but get our hands on that weapon first we can remove a dire threat permanently. Secured in the vaults of Titan that Daemon will trouble mankind no more. Surely Manguire will embrace such an opportunity."

Belavire sighed, "We both know what Manguire's answer will be, but I know you will try anyway. You are as stubborn as ever Hypras."

"My will is rarely turned once set," Hypras confessed.

"Then I wish you fair tides and success in your endeavour," Belavire said, "I only wish I could come with you."

"It would have been an honour to fight at your side," Hypras agreed, "Such is not our fate though. I must depart this very day."

"At least I can finish your scrubbing," Belavire said as he stooped to pick up the bucket, "Go, I will take care of this, so you can win your glory."

"It is not for glory but duty," Hypras corrected, "I will speak to you again when I return, with the Daemonsword. By the stones of the Dead Fields I swear I will not relent or turn from this course, until the Daemon is imprisoned in our eternal keeping. No matter where I must go, or whoever gets in my way, I will allow nothing to stand between me and that sword."