Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story: Exitus Ultima

Somewhere, Somewhen

It was good to be home, Furion thought as he breathed deeply of the briny air. Around him the Fortress-Monastery of the Storm Heralds went about its endless routines, thousands of serfs labouring night and day to keep their Astartes' masters needs met. Above them mighty edifices loomed, defence lasers and void shield projectors rising over hangers, training parks, armouries and Templums. An entire volcanic island converted into a home and industrial hub, all to service the Chapter's warriors.

Furion felt the salt air upon his face as he gazed upon endless waves, stretching to the distant horizon. He was a tall Marine, well into his two-hundreds, with stern features and a look to his eye that spoke of horrors seen and defeated that few could scarce imagine. His Mark III plate was black, with a winged skull upon the breastplate and around his neck hung a Rosarius on a long chain. At his hip rested a golden Crozius, with spread wings and lightning bolts for feet, Storm-Heart a storied Relic of the Chapter. Furion was unmistakably a Chaplain, though not a content one, the office had never sat easily with him and he viewed it as a burden and a duty, not a right.

Behind him Thunderhawks and Overlord gunships disgorged squads of Space Marines. Third and Sixth Companys, freshly returned from their battles against the Psybrid Xenos. A simple training mission that had turned into a bloody war. Furion was proud of each and every Marine who survived, Primaris and Firstborn alike and he would very much have liked to walk among them. Unfortunately he had places to be, an urgent summons calling him to the Reclusiam for a meeting with the Chapter Master himself. Furion could hardly believe it was for congratulations, there had been complications in the war, the conduct of a fellow Chaplain named Polarus risked disgracing the whole Chapter.

Reluctantly Furion turned and strode away, heading into the interior of the Fortress-Monastery. He passed gangs of serfs hauling munitions and artisans tending to auspex vanes and comms towers. A few Space Marines were marching to the shooting ranges and Furion exchange nods with them, sharing a moment of dutiful respect. Furion suspected it was his office that brought respect, not him, another divide between him and the line brethren he sadly tolerated. A few Brothers bore damaged armour and cracked pauldrons, odd, such damage should have been restored immediately. The fact that Brothers walked in battered plate told him the damage was recent and severe, the Techmarines must be busy indeed to allow such a thing to occur. The Chapter had recently hosted a Feast of Blades, but he could not imagine what would have resulted in such a state from a competitive event. A mystery for later he concluded.

Soon his feet brought him to the Reclusiam, a hallowed hall, resplendent in form and function. He passed through the door and found a nave so long even he struggled to see the far end. Tall pillars lined the routes, hiding frescos of great victories, stained-glass windows of lauded heroes and treasured relics resting in shimmering stasis-fields. It was an awe-inspiring place, and here would the Chapter gather on Holy days for sacred observances and events of great import.

Furion strode down the nave with a quick clip, passing hunchbacked clerics who spent their lives ensuring the artworks were ever pristine and the relics protected. He gave them scant heed, for their role reminded him of the less enjoyable aspects of his role. As Chaplain of Third Company it fell to him to watch over the rituals, treasures and practices of the Chapter. Furion however found the minutiae of his role dreary, a Chaplain's place was among his Brothers, leading them in battle, offering counsel and solace, holding them to the straight and narrow path of righteousness. Furion would gladly shed his blood to reach a dying Brother and comfort his last moments, better that than spending his days arguing over the accent placed on words in a ritual thousands of years old.

Furion spied the altar at the far end of the nave and sure enough saw three Marines awaiting him. The first was unmistakable, Phalros the Pure, Chapter Master and Lord of the Storm Heralds. He was a patrician Marine, with a senatorial air and a distinctive nose. His plate was glorious and yet bore traces of damage, fresh scars hinting at fierce battles. Phalros waited for him to close then said, "Ah Chaplain Furion, my thanks for coming so swiftly."

Furion stopped and bowed to his master as he replied, "Your summons seemed urgent."

"Indeed it is," Phalros said, "We must discuss recent events, and the troubling reports from your expedition."

"Ah..." Furion sighed, "Polarus."

"Yes, Polarus!" snapped the second. This one was tall, as tall as Furion but in Mark X plate. First Captain Jemiel, inducted from the Indomitus Crusade as part of the reinforcements granted to the Storm Heralds. He was Primaris, new to the Chapter and its ways but made the second-highest authority by command of the Imperial Regent. Few doubted he was Guilliman's eyes and ears in the Chapter, and none knew whether his reports were glowing or condemnatory.

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves," Phalros chided, "Furion, tell me of the Psybrids."

Furion drew in a breath and explained, "The Xenos attacked in great number, it was all we could do to hold them at bay. We forged an alliance with the locals and the Adepta Sororitas to defeat them, but at great cost."

"Captain Toran always had a knack for making allies," the third member chuckled, making his sideburns dance. This was Nimodes, Tenth-Captain and Master of Recruits. A sly and cunning warrior, with a pragmatic streak for looking beyond protocol, but one whose loyalty to his young charges was unbreakable. He and Furion had been the Chapter so long neither could remember who was older, both fixtures in the ranks for centuries. Furion admired Nimodes for his rough candour and was glad to see he had secured a place in the closest councils of the Masters; his rough wisdom was desperately needed.

Furion continued, "The relief forces arrived after the battle was won and pressed on to Psybrid space. They plan to launch a campaign of Exterminatus, to eradicate the Xenos once and for all."

Phalros sighed, "A thousand years they have plagued the Saint Karyl Trail, now with a sweep of his hand the Lord Regent casts them into oblivion. Truly, these are remarkable times."

Nimodes sniffed, "We've felt the aftershocks already, the Navigators report the Trail is flowing swifter and more securely than they have ever seen. The Psybrid's psychic presence disrupted the Warp, without them our ships move faster than ever recorded."

"A welcome reprieve," Furion stated, "With all other warp routes betwixt Segmentums Solar and Tempestus lost, this passage's strategic significance cannot be overstated. Improved transit can only benefit the Imperium in the wars to come."

"Enough chitchat," Jemiel snapped, "What happened with Polarus?"

Furion drew in a breath and said, "His philosophies were incompatible with our principles. His callous disregard for innocents cast a pall of shame over our actions."

Nimodes frowned, "Sometimes hard choices must be made in war."

"Not those choices," Furion retorted, "He slew civilians rather than let them fall. He placed his life over the lives of those we are sworn to protect. No rationale can justify such dishonourable conduct."

Phalros frowned as he said, "Yet your reports speak of his death being noble."

"He recanted his mistakes before the end," Furion allowed, "It does not expunge his dishonour, but I truly believe he changed at the last. He died well, that is how I choose to remember him."

"It seems you had an effect on him," Phalros remarked.

"That's the understatement of the millennium," Nimodes snorted.

"My lord?" Furion asked warily.

Phalros drew in a breath and explained, "You are aware Polarus petitioned to become Master of Sanctity, but you may not know that before he died, he left a message behind withdrawing his claim and throwing his support behind another... You."

"Me?!" Furion started in surprise.

Jemiel confirmed, "You, much as it surprises us. Polarus' name was known among the Primaris for his ardent zeal and unflagging ambition. We find it hard to believe he would step aside for another, yet here we are. He was emphatic that you be given the honour of being High Chaplain."

Furion swallowed, "I don't want it."

"Tough," Nimodes quipped, "We've talked it over and agreed you're the man for the job."

"I refuse," Furion barked.

Phalros shook his head and said, "You do not understand the seriousness of this matter. We have rebuilt the Chaplaincy piece by piece since the Storm Herald's civil war, but have been lacking a Master of Sanctity. Disagreements grow among our ranks, our rituals are drifting away from their original intent and our principles are being lost in a clamour of argument. The arrival of the Primaris has only magnified the issue, so many new ideas, so many changes, we are in danger of forgetting who we are."

"Then appoint another," Furion protested, "Cortha of the Second..."

"Is a boy," Phalros snapped, "He commands no respect. You however, all know you and admire your unflinching commitment to our ideals."

"They honour my rank," Furion argued.

"They honour you," Nimodes countered, "You were the first Chaplain to be raised up after the civil war, you taught half the Chaplains who followed. All know Furion to be a pillar of moral strength, it has to be you."

Jemiel scowled as he growled, "I don't understand why you protest so. Is the taint of the late Samect so foul you cannot abide his office?"

"That is part of it," Furion confessed, "But in truth I am not ready to be parted from my Brothers. To be High Chaplain means leaving the Third, they will go to war without me."

"You don't want to leave Toran," Nimodes sighed, "He has been like a son to you, but sons must take leave of their fathers and become their own men. It is time for you to step aside and allow him to fly free."

Phalros affirmed, "You have a greater duty than one company, or one Captain. There is an entire Chapter crying out for moral guidance, a thousand Brothers who need an example to follow. There have been incidents while you have been away, troubles within the Chapter and without. Conflict brews and our principles risk becoming lost. We have been lacking for too long, we have been incomplete and that void can no longer be tolerated. Our Primaris Chaplains are fierce but do not know what it is to be a Storm Herald, and none of our Firstborn are experienced enough to command their respect. You are the only option."

Jemiel added, "There are none who can cast doubt upon your quality. Every Captain consulted speaks as you as being unwavering in your righteousness, never letting those under your charge set one foot upon the path of Heresy. We need such unbending moral fibre at the highest levels of the Chapter."

Furion's hearts fell as he whispered, "You've already made your minds up, haven't you?"

"You're going to be High Chaplain, even if the whole Chapter has to drag you along kicking and screaming," Nimodes laughed.

Furion's eye fell as he breathed, "I knew the decision was coming but I hoped to avoid it. I merely wished to serve, that is all."

"A higher duty calls," Phalros declared, "Your wisdom is required by more than one Company. Will you turn away from Brothers who need you?"

"I cannot refuse," Furion conceded, "Though, may I have time to tell my comrades first?"

"Time is not with us," Jemiel stated primly.

But Nimodes countered, "We still have a lot to sort out before we start handing out laurels. The Apothecaries require a Chief, it will have to be a Primaris officer, all our Firstborn specialists are apprentices or wear the Chains of Shame. Then there's the integration of Primaris into the ranks, reforming our tactics, building diplomatic ties to the new Officio Logisticarum. The recent Emergency Tithes have provoked protests and uprisings on many worlds and we must determine if we need to intervene or leave it to the Arbites. Echeb hides something about the Librarius Conclave, hardly unusual, secrets are his trade but this smells dire. That's not even mentioning the clusterfrak with the Techmarines Sodality, we still haven't dealt with the fallout from that."

"Enough," Phalros sighed wearily, "Nimodes you don't have to list our woes. Suffice to say we shall be supremely busy for the coming months, but I will not wait for long. You may return to your duties in the Third but only until a replacement is selected. The Lord Guilliman has concluded his business on Forgeworld Crux Lapis and makes a state visit to Sucaris, to tour the Dreaming Spires and lecture on academic reform, then he shall return to Tectum and lead the Crusade on. Before he does so you shall leave the Third and take up the post of Master of Sanctity and we shall be whole at last."

Furion could only bow to the decision, but in his hearts he was saddened. To no longer fight beside his Brothers sat ill. He would still wage war, all Space Marines did, even the highest, but he would no longer stand in the line as one of them. He would be separate, isolated by rank and privilege, a fate he would never have wished for. He would watch the Third sail off without him, to fight and die in distant wars where he could not share their dangers. It was troubling, but worst of all was that he would have to tell Toran he was leaving and Furion had absolutely no idea how to break it to him.