20
The Thunderhawk banked away from the Errant, arcing wide to avoid any stray laser shot or ballistic flung from the battle far behind them. The giant strike cruiser ghosted into the battle on its plasma drives, prow lances stabbing out to disintergrate an Ork vessel. Thunderbolt squadrons deployed from landing bays along its flanks and a vicious dog fight commenced in the open space between the giant ships. The Thunderhawks pilot waited for the magos to annoit a console before punching a code through the runic device before him. He set the formiddable gunship on its course and eased back into his harness. The third occupant of the cockpit was not part of the flight deck and he bowed in deference to the pilot and offered his thanks before disembarking the command pulpit and taking the short ladder down to the main body of the ship.
Sergeant Tiberius curled his ceramite clad fingers into a fist, the small clacking sound lost amongst the roar of the power house engines. He grit his teeth at his tactical display, the interior of the ship over laid with a green tint, thermal displays and a range finder. His read out reminded him that being crippled of body is better than being corrupt of mind. He took a silent moment to contemplate that small creed before giving a gruff snort. He pressed on into the troop hold, thumbing an entry rune on the door before him, which hissed open with a puff of coolant fumes. He crossed the threshold and took stock of the image presented to him. The old and battered crate containing the artefact was maglocked to the deck, two of his scouts guarding it silently. On the opposite side, his favourite, young Scaran, had been hoisted and clamped to one of the troop benches where he thrashed at his bindings. He snarled into the room, eyes roving and teeth sticky with the drying blood of the dead Eldar. The scount opposite him, Gellus, watched his brother with cold eyes.
Tiberius crossed to the restless scion and knelt before him, servos whining as they compensated for the weight shift in the artificial gravity. He studied the scouts face from inside his helmet, noting the torn and shredded gums where the youths fangs had errupted in size. The screeching, snarling visage of rage snapped barely an inch from Tiberius' visor. The mouth desperately seeking what was beneath, to rend and tear. Tiberius lowered a hand to the side of his armour, unclamping the bolter pistol that was held there. He slid it from its holding and lifted the stocky weapon, pushing the cold barrel against the youths forehead. The cold metal made a thud as it connected with the scouts skull. Tiberius started intently, watching, judging. The red eyes with sunbursts of gold and cruel slashes of black, stared back into his. It was there, beneath the vision of savagery that the Sergeant saw the gleam of terror, the discord of the helpless. He decided not to squeeze the trigger, instead he stood, half turned then backhanded the youth into unconciousness.
He turned to the scout who sat watching the exchange. He holstered the pistol and gestured to the slouched Scaran.
++ He is no longer your brother, Squire Gellus. He has transcended to a place we do not embrace. He is now the charge of the Templarii and will be given unto their hands. His fate is in the hands of Blessed Sanguinius. May the Emperor have mercy upon his young soul. ++
Tiberius turned away, casting his long shadow across the face of Squire Gellus. The scout, sat with his hands upon his knee's, hadn't removed his intense glare from his brother scout. He stared, unmoving, hardly breathing. He barely even blinked. For inside him, something coiled and squirmed and writhed. Something could feel the rage boiling inside his brother. Something wanted to wake up and be free to rend and maim and kill. He swallowed a mouthful of thick spit, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. His fingers moved from his knee and found the hilt of his combat knife, playing across in the inlaid skull upon the pommel. It brought him reasurance. He lowered his gaze from his brother and drew the blade, placing it flat down upon his outstretched palm. The blade was long, almost a foot and a half of folded steel sharp enough to almost split an enemy on the molecular level. It could when the activation stud below the small hand guard was pushed, sending a shock of energy through the hidden relays within the steel and vibrating the edge of the knife beyond even the ability of a Space Marine to track. Then he lifted his eyes and stared into the ones staring at him. Red, black and gold. Those eyes looked into his soul and there they discovered a kinship. Scaran began to thrash against his harness once more.