THE STAR OF IPPICRUS

6


'TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW, BROTHER RAPHAEL?'

Several days had passed since the reappropriation of the ancient relic the Star of Ippicrus. Sergeant Raphael floated inside a geno-vat in one of The Rock's most sacred medicae wards. His wounds had almost healed, along with the post shock of battle and near death.

Cherubim hovered above his tank, dipping into the gurgling waters every few seconds to measure out the scorching temperatures, viscosity and quantity of the geno-balms mixed within, the wings of the tiny bio-constructs fluttering almost beyond the capacity of human sight, like hummer-fishers from the old home world. The sound of their vibrating wings and the glow of their little cybernetic eyes leant a familial tranquillity to the rocky chambers carved into the Dark Angels great asteroid warship. The Cherubim and the high vaulted ceilings of The Rock had replaced all the things Raphael had once known as home as a boy. Here he could release his tensions and allow the cybernetic creatures to soothe his injuries and psychological tumult.

Raphael glanced down upon his pruning fingers, so pale in the tinted brown Larraman brine, studying the myriad scars that had formed over centuries across knuckles and palms, forearms and shoulders.

I am more scar than skin, he thought to himself, though he felt an immediate pang of regret for it. There were scars much deeper than those that scored his body. The scars of all the faces of the battle-brothers he would never look upon again, fight beside, share a meal with, or laugh with. Turmiel, Aramon, all of First and Second platoon Seventh Company. The quest for the Star of Ippicrus had taken a shattering toll upon the Dark Angels.

'There is no shame in speaking of it,' the voice goaded him. 'Tell me what you know.'

Raphael looked up into the probing gaze of Chief Librarian Ezekiel. He had not expected the old man to debrief him. Usually it was Captain Emryion of Seventh Company, or Chaplain Tardigus.

'I appropriated the Star of Ippicrus as was tasked to me and my platoon,' the veteran sergeant spoke through a hoarse, thick voice. 'I lost everyone. Everyone.'

The glowing red lens of Ezekiel's crude bionic eye bobbed gently in the gloom along with the Chief Librarian's head. Behind him a trio of Cherubim watched on as though with akin interest, a long flowing parchment of Purging Psalms joining them together, the only thing to cover their cloned nakedness. 'You fulfilled your duty to your Chapter and to your Emperor, young Raphael. You know the cost as well as any of those who did not return.'

The veteran sergeant felt the glowing coals of anger simmering in his heart upon hearing the old man's words, but he managed to quell the emotion almost as soon as it surfaced. The steel-like flexion in his forearms gradually eased as he released his grip upon the edges of the vat. He noticed the old Librarian was grinning. Grinning like a man who knew things far superior to any other - that even the death of friends and brothers could seem but a trifling amusement.

'You are dissatisfied with the outcome?' Ezekiel added, leaning a little closer.

Raphael thought he might strike out and pull the old man's head down into the vat with him, hold the Librarian under the briny waters until Ezekiel no longer breathed, no longer spoke, no longer lived to prescribe the terrible duties and cruelties he plied upon his Chapter. Thirty-three space marines had died at the tail end of his most recent wishes.

'Am I dissatisfied?' Raphael whispered, his voice quavering. 'They are gone! No more! Never will I hear their laughter or their words again. Dissatisfaction barely puts a thimble's measure upon what I feel!'

Ezekiel nodded. 'So true, young Raphael, so true. But you brought the boy back with you. You managed that. That is one other still yet remaining of your two lost platoons.'

Raphael quieted at the acknowledgement. 'How goes Brother Tars?'

'He is healing,' Ezekiel said, almost with tenderness. Almost. 'He spent his time in the Larraman brine, but we have set him up in a psy-cell for the time being. The Empyric energies that invaded his body upon touching Turmiel's force sword almost killed him. Even worse he could have brought forth any number of warp-ridden spawn with him. Somehow the boy fought them off. He has more talent than even I had first assumed. A latent psyker it seems. Hidden from even the best amongst us. He will need to be re-tasked, retrained, structured thoroughly enough to replace Turmiel.'

'He is deserving of it,' Raphael said. 'That boy fought with valour and fire. Enough for five marines.'

'As did you,' Ezekiel said.

Raphael shook his head. 'I could not save them.'

'No,' the Chief Librarian sniffed and straightened the edges of his stoll across his lap. 'We can only learn from our mistakes, if we live long enough to see them through. You have never repeated a single one of yours in all the years I have been watching you. You will not make the same mistake twice. That is what I like about your grit, Raphael. This will serve to make you stronger in the end.' Then the old man leaned closer, his voice lowering to a more intimate, almost child-like level. 'How did he die?'

Raphael almost withered before the man's gaze. In that moment he knew there was more fire and wrath in that ancient body than an entire company of space marines lined up to meet the Foe. He did not need to question whom the Chief Librarian meant.

'I tore him limb from limb,' Raphael said, the first words to leave his mouth with vigour. 'I waited until the last light was sucked from his eyes. If I were a Librarian I would have done something to sever him from his masters, return him to the Emperor. I fear we will meet him again one day in some new and obscene, foul form.'

'Quite likely,' Ezekiel muttered. 'Quite likely. But that will be a matter for that day, not this one. A valiant battle nonetheless, no matter what the cost.'

The veteran sergeant could not help but look away. 'What is the Star of Ippicrus, Master Ezekiel? It looked to be nothing more than a shattered rock upon a bed of feathers. What does it do? Is it worth such a price?'

Ezekiel leaned back a little, shrugging. 'That is something not even I can explain at this point in time, Raphael. But know this. It is of tremendous necessity to the future of this Chapter. To the Imperium and perhaps Humanity itself. It was a test also, amongst other things. A test for Turmiel, and a test for each and every member of those two platoons who was slain trying to retrieve it. I augured the outcome long before you left. I knew in some ways it might be the end of every last one of you. I warned Turmiel of the possibility. Only you and Brother Tars returned. That test is enough to bring you closer to me. Closer to those who seek the end of the Fallen. The two of you are exactly what we have been looking for. Tars will become a Librarian. And you, Brother Raphael, have been made Captain.'

Rapahel stared at the old man in disbelief. He swallowed, lost for words.

'I do not deserve it,' Raphael sobbed. 'I fell before the Foe. If not for Tars and Aramon - and Turmiel! - I would not have stood to finish what had to be done!'

'Such is the ebb and flow of brotherhood,' Ezekiel crooned softly. 'You and your brothers did what must be done. Any failure is simply that which cannot be engineered out of you. The perfection lies in the sanctity of the whole. Individually, any one of us, is little more than a man risen above other men. Together we are the Smiting Force of the Emperor's Will. And if my will can engineer it, the sanctity and future of this Chapter. If you had faltered at the end you would not be here, and neither would Librarian Tars, and Draznicht would still yet live. You did your part, Captain Raphael. The reward is your due.'

'I do not deserve it,' Raphael repeated. 'Such rewards belong to others.'

'There are no others. Only you and Tars. So now you must prove to me that you are deserving of it. And if not for me then for all those battle-brothers who fell before you. They died so that you might live. Now you can make certain others do not fall as they did. You and Brother Tars shall draw upon new stock to replenish your lost platoons. You shall rebuild First and Second together. There is much work ahead for you. So heal up well, Raphael. Heal swift. There is a small group I wish to introduce you to before you and Tars head for Hexos.'

Raphael looked up into the Chief Librarian's one good eye and felt an icicle of dread lance through him. 'What is in Hexos?'

Ezekiel grinned. 'Four more of the Fallen. Along with a vanguard detachment of Ravagers. I wish for you and Tars to be the spearhead of the assault.'

Raphael swallowed and felt the icy lance of dread burn away into fiery pride. 'It would be an honour.'

'Good. Then heal swiftly, Captain Raphael. And welcome to the Inner Circle.'

The Chief Librarian disappeared with his small coterie of Cherubim trailing behind him. Raphael sat up from the bubbling waters, watching as the mysterious old man vanished through the thick, coiling mists of the Medicae Ward.

There was a new scar across Raphael's chest in the shape of a star. It was the place where Draznicht's power-maul had crushed his chest, staved in his sternum and all his ribs. Yet somehow the veteran had survived. Raphael touched the buckled knots of skin and pressed the protrusions of new bone that grew beneath.

He and Tars would rebuild First and Second Platoon, and they would bring the wrath of their dead brothers upon the Fallen until not a single one of them was left, in this world or the next.

A cherubim fluttered down from the vaulted ceiling with a soft, pale gown in its tiny infant hands. Captain Raphael stood up from the scolding hot vat and drew the robe over his powerful sinuous frame. There was work to be done, marines to be trained. And an old friend to meet.

.. .. .. ..


THANK YOU ALL FOR READING. I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF IT.

IT IS A STRANGE THING TO WRITE FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A BATTLE REPORT. A LITTLE SHALLOW IN SOME WAYS BUT A LOT OF FUN IN OTHERS. TRYING TO CREATE PLOT FROM GOOD AND BAD D6 TO HIT ROLLS AND SAVING THROWS. SO MANY CURSES AND MIRACLES. ITS WHY I LOVE THE GAME OF WARHAMMER 40K SO MUCH. LIFE UNFURLS ITSELF ALL IN THOSE CLICKING DICE.

ANYWAY, A SALUTE TO YOU ALL FOR GETTING THIS FAR. MY NEXT STORY WILL DEFINITELY BE MORE STORY DRIVEN AND HOPEFULLY A FASTER PACED ACTION.

RAWK!