3
'If thou shalt trespass against me
Each trespass shall be repaid in pain
If thou shalt trespass against my brothers
Each trespass shall mean death
If thou shalt trespass against the Emperor
Each trespass shall be proof of eternal damnation,
and the vengeance I wreak shall never cease'
(Battle-Litany of the Imperial Hounds)
Onosun Pratel stood and watched as Geravus and Rydel had their blood sample taken. Apothecary Barst was not a gentle doctor, and his arm still felt sore. He was sure it still bled, too, which wouldn't be surprising considering the size of the needle, but he didn't want to look, because that would mean admitting that this simplest of tests caused him pain, and he couldn't allow that.
Geravus came and stood next to him, and Rydel followed. Pratel wasn't sure how he had ended up at the front, but at least he had got to experience the sample without having to see it first.
There was a long, silent pause while the Apothecary ran their blood samples through some obscure machinery and read the results from a monitor. Pratel felt the tension. This was nerve-wracking. He could fail right here, through no fault of his own, just dismissed because his blood was not pure enough. And what would happen then? Would he be sent home? Could he even get home now? They had been on-board the Imperial Hounds' battle-barge for nearly an hour, most of which had been spent navigating a long corridor to the Apothecary's surgery. He had no way of telling if the vessel had moved from orbit in that time. If they had moved, would they return to Entaris 3 to set him down? He doubted it – which raised the question- What would they do with him?
Other thoughts bubbled to the surface. This test, from what he understood, looked for impurities in his blood - any trace of deviancy or corruption would mark him as unsuitable for adoption into the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes. But would that be all? What would warriors of such purity do with him, having learned he was in some way corrupt? He doubted that they would just give him a ride home. For that, he doubted that they would let him live beyond a few minutes of learning he was so foully deviant.
What was taking so long? He could see the Apothecary was twiddling with the machine and kept putting the blood samples into different ports. Why was this taking so long? Entaris 3 didn't have gene-sampling machinery, but he got the impression it should be a quick process. Shouldn't it?
A tech-servitor trundled by and began making adjustments to the machinery. Apothecary Barst turned and faced the nervous-looking recruits.
"You will report to the Chaplain in the chapel" he said.
"He shall discuss the results of these tests with you there, and begin your education" He drummed his armoured fingers on a surgical table. Pratel wondered how manoeuvrable the glove would be in surgery – or did the Apothecary take his power gloves off when he was operating? Why did he keep thinking? He was glad for his expressionless mask, something he had honed from his experiences in battle in order to keep the men around him steady. He could see (from the corner of his eye, obviously – he wouldn't do anything as overt as look around) that Geravus and Rydel were looking a lot more edgy. Then again, perhaps he was an open book to a Marine.
"Listen carefully" announced the blank, white-armoured medic suddenly "For I will give you directions to the chapel only once – and you will receive no further instruction until you get there"
He proceeded to roll off a series of complex, winding, directions, which all three recruits struggled to commit to memory. Without further ceremony, they were dismissed. The anticlimax was as gut-wrenching as the suspense had been.
The complexity of the instructions meant that the recruits had to talk to each other. For a brief moment, the idea crossed Pratel's mind that perhaps this was intentional, but then he had to focus.
"Was it the left corridor for three turns and then right?" asked Geravus, pausing in the hurried walk they had adopted.
"Right for three and then left" clarified Rydel, as the other two halted just ahead "And then its up the ramp and along four, right?"
Pratel nodded his agreement "Yeah – an aquilla-marked door" he added. He had forgotten about going along four doors after the ramp.
They set off once again, and a quiet settled over the group. They hadn't seen any Imperial Hounds around, though a servitor had trundled past on some obscure task, and Pratel could swear he had heard some odd barking sounds echoing through the steel-clad corridors.
"So" said Geravus, in a tension-breaking manner "I'm gonna frekking double over if I don't learn what those test results were soon"
Pratel chuckled, and Rydel snorted with humour. Suddenly everything seemed a bit easier to cope with.
"Yeah" said Pratel "It's all the worse 'cuz we can't do anything about it"
The others nodded.
Suddenly, Rydel spoke up "You know anything about the Astartes?" he asked. He was looking at Pratel.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Pratel drew on what little he had learnt from the local Schola in Bludreing.
"They are humanity's greatest warriors" he began, adopting the well-known line, then going into greater detail "They patrol the heavens, combating the forces that assail the Imperium" he paused and racked his brains for further details "There are different chapters, I know that much - they have different methods and different styles of combat" The others nodded, and he realised they would probably know about this from their own time in the Scholas.
"I fought alongside their Scouts" he said. This had a bit more of an effect. "They are.. . unique - they have no fear – they don't waver in the line of battle like normal men, they..." he struggled to put into words what he had seen when he fought alongside Sergeant Myrtah and his squad. How did you sum up the ferocity and courage of these super-humans – the way they had raced past obstacles that had halted his men for hours – the way they cut through Ork packs like a knife through butter.
"They can't wait to deal death" he said "They bite at the bit to enforce the Emperor's Will"
There was some silence as this was absorbed. No doubt the others had their own reflections on the Hounds, on how untouchable they seemed.
"What the hell are we going to do here?" asked Rydel, with a sad smirk. Pratel smirked back, while Geravus chuckled openly.
"Die, most likely" Pratel said, as they finally reached the ramp. A sober moment drifted by, counted past by their footsteps. He had intended the statement to be light-hearted, but it had obviously rung true for the young men.
"Still" said Rydel, a serious face drawn "We got picked"
Pratel didn't smile. But he did feel the pride resonate slightly. All three of them had been judged... acceptable. Barely so, perhaps, but still... A brief moment of honesty allowed him to admit that he was probably one of the few living heroes of the Entaris 3 Campaign, and that likely meant that the others were here with him. They were the only people in the universe who could come close to understanding him at the moment, or at any time to follow.
They continued walking in silence. An aquilla-marked door was waiting somewhere up ahead.
***
The battle-barge of the Imperial Hounds 7th Company was named the Derbus. Like most battle-barges used by the Adeptus Astartes it was a relatively small craft – barely more than what you'd call an escort ship in size, roughly 4 kilometres of unlovely metal. But, like most battle-barges, it was packed with much more offensive power and armour than any regular ship of its size. It had powerful engines that allowed it to move through the Entaris system quickly.
As it surged outward, it moved through the debris of the Ork hulks that had brought the greenskin menace to the system. The battle-barges of the Imperial Hounds had made short work of the primitive hulks, despite the massive differences in tonnage.
They had torn the greenskin craft to pieces, circling and snapping with co-ordinated firepower. The Ork's 'techies' had many guns, but little ability to aim them accurately, and even less in the way of shielding. Many naval experts had confessed they were baffled as to how the ragtag xenos vessels held their integrity. The vessels of the Space Marines, however, were tough as well as both accurate and deadly, and what cannonade had managed to impact on them was shrugged off easily. The Derbus had claimed a good few kills in the silent arena of the inner system while the Company had fought planetside. It was a blessing of the Chapter's good relationship with the Adpetus Mechanicus that nearly every Company of the Imperial Hounds had its own battle-barge with which to wreak destruction in the void.
Now the vessel moved proudly through the remnants of its foes, like a warrior striding through the bodies of the fallen on a planetary battlefield. It swept out to the edge of the system, seeking the entrance to the warp that had brought it to the system. A new destination awaited the Derbus.
The 7th Company had been drawn away from their usual patrol route by the distress call from Entaris. As a Reserve Company designed to support rather than lead, they had called on the assistance of Jalthin's 4th Battle Company before responding to the threat. The quirks of warp-travel had meant that the two battle-barges had arrived at the same time, despite 4th Company having travelled from much further away. Now the Imperial Hounds 7th Company was returning to its route patrolling the somewhat destabilised sub-sector. In their absence, piracy and worse could come to plague the sector's trade-routes, and the Company was charged with preventing exactly that. The Imperial Hounds did not have a home-world, but they had territory which they were responsible for, and they took that responsibility more seriously than some believed possible.
The 4th Company would later follow their path out-system, but the route they took through the warp would be a different one entirely. As a Battle Company their assigned task was a much more hazardous and daring one. While the Reserve Companies secured territory and provided assistance, the Battle Companies took the fight to the Imperium's foes. 4th Company was already receiving transmissions from the Plinthian system on the far edge of the sector, where Eldar raids were mounting on the mining colonies at an alarming rate. Within scant weeks, they would be back into the fray.
***
Chaplain Hyndasin was no less intimidating removed from his skull-masked helmet and polished black power-armour. His iron features had the look of one who was unlikely to tolerate any kind of foolishness or light-heartedness. To compare him to a stern Ecclesiarchy pastor would be a grave under-representation of the Imperial Hound chaplain. His unarmoured form seemed likely to be capable of prising apart Pratel's old pastor like Pratel would a wishbone. A dressing-down from this man was something to be avoided.
The chapel itself was a simpler affair than Pratel had expected. The Imperial Aquilla and other symbols of faith stood alone on plain walls. There was no special ornamentation or architecture to the room, bar the arches over the private alcoves. The three recruits had been coldly instructed to sit cross-legged on the floor while the Chaplain saw to his armour in a seperate room, one which was presumably his private quarters. They had done so in silence, and it seemed obvious that all three young men were still dwelling on the expected results of their medical examination. Pratel sat to the left of the group, with Geravus at his side. The scarred lad was somewhat more charismatic than him and Rydel, and so it seemed natural that he took the central position as a social bridge between them. Not that anyone was being sociable at the moment. Hyndasin had just walked out of his chamber, clad in a simple light-brown robe with the Chapter's wolfhound crest emblazoned on the chest. He seemed if anything more dangerous when thus attired – the Artificer armour let you imagine that there was no human inside at all, but without it, you got to see just how muscular and fearsome the Chaplain himself was, making his impressive height and build somehow much more real and terrifying. The Chaplain swept across the room without looking at them, only deigning to lower his eyes to their level when he was stood directly in front of them.
"I have been informed of your medicae examination results" he said ominously. His tone did not lend Pratel faith.
"The Apothecary assures me you are all free of physical taint" he began. That hurdle, at least, was cleared. Pratel could feel some tension drift away.
"He also reports that you all have a high compatibility with our geneseed" he continued. That sounded like it should be good news to Pratel's ears, but Hyndasin delivered it like they had all failed a test. It seemed there was more to come. Hyndasin faced away from them, turning to regard an Imperial Aquila on the wall.
"That said, there are other factors that cause us concern. You are all past the recommended age for implantation – your bodies are not as adaptable as we would like. Apothecary Dhuy has some skill with handling sub-prime specimens, but there is a likelihood that you will all die on the operating table"
Hyndasin turned back around and glared at them, not angrily, but with some unrelenting suspicion in his eyes.
"If so, I only hope that you have the good grace to die before too much effort is expended on you"
Pratel quelled the anger that had started to rise within him from this sudden beratement. This was something he would have to learn to live with if he was to survive. Although, was it his imagination or had Hyndasin become more hostile since he'd addressed them on the Thunderhawk? He avoided thinking about what Hyndasin had said. Dying on the operating table was a long way from here and now.
A klaxon sounded. Hyndasin did not seem perturbed by this in the slightest.
"You were given your chance to return home" he stated, motioning for them to remain seated.
"If you fail in your training, you will likely die. If you do not die, then you will be judged for your suitability as a Chapter Serf. The same will happen if you change your mind and drop out of the training programme"
His steel gaze locked onto Pratel
"Know now that failure can at best result in a lifetime of humiliated servitude"
"How do we fail?" It was Rydel that had spoke, but Pratel had been forming those exact words himself. Hyndasin did not look best pleased with the interruption.
"The Chapter itself will determine what constitutes failure, it is not necessary for you to know what criteria we judge you by"
That was a little frustrating. They were expected to suceed without being told the rules? Pratel kept his mouth shut. There would be no point in arguing.
A jolt of terror struck him. What if that was a test – was he supposed to show spirit and challenge that ruling? A moment of agony passed as he tried to decide between showing courage and showing obedience. Obedience won out, in the end.
Hyndasin turned his head slightly. Pratel could hear the sound of heavy boots marching out in the corridor. They stopped outside the door.
"The klaxon you hear is an alert" explained Hyndasin "It informs us that the ship is entering the Warp"
Pratel was slightly nervous about that. He knew that interstellar travel was all but impossible without the pathways of the Warp, but he had been raised on tales of the monsters that dwelled in that other-world. Once they had seemed distant threats, ones he would never encounter, but now...
"When you hear the klaxon, you will hasten to join me here in the Chapel, on pain of disciplinary action" said Hyndasin. "I have been tasked with maintaining your spiritual wellbeing throughout your training, and I will not risk you to the insidious predations of any entity that might breach the ship's shielding"
That was an order Pratel reckoned he would have no trouble obeying. Having his mind consumed by the darkness was something he would gladly endure Hyndasin's presence to avoid.
"Now" said Hyndasin, taking the silence to be assent. "There are further tests to be performed shortly, but until the Pack Master arrives from his other duties, I shall make use of the time to begin instructing you. As we travel through the Immaterium, your souls may need re-inforcing as proof against the darkness that dwells there. We will begin with the first of the Chapter's Battle-Litanies, one apt for lowly initiates such as yourselves"
The scarred hand gestured for them to stand. All three of them rose, shooting each other nervous glances.
"Repeat after me" Hyndasin instructed
"From those who have seen the raging hordes..."
***
Pack Master Culdor felt refreshed from his devotions to his armour. Space Marines did not need sleep, at least not to the degree normal men did, so their moments of peace often came during the religious ceremonies that permeated their lives, when they could be alone with The Emperor. For an Imperial Hound, tending to the power-armour that embodied the link between each Astartes and their divine progenitor was one such moment, and it was one that allowed you reflect upon matters of conscience, inspired as you were by the genius of The Master's creation.
The rites involved in the maintenance of the armour did little to repair combat damage – such skilled tasks were left to the Company's Techmarines. Instead, it was a Marine's task to check that each component was functioning correctly and well-oiled, that no joints stuck and that all sensory equipment functioned perfectly. Culdor's MkVI armour was of the highest quality, and though he had been the target of barrages of Shoota fire during the campaign on Entaris, there was no damage beyond a few chips out of his breastplate. He could have the Techmarines repair the damage, but he preferred to wait. The damage was superficial, and it paid to show that he actually fought in campaigns.
He turned to regard the Marine beside him. Techmarine Duban was busying himself with the trolley-full of unique gadgets he pushed. The Techmarine was unusually social for one who had studied the lore of the Omnissiah – it was normal for students of the Adeptus Mechanicus to return aloof and superior, but Duban seemed much unchanged from how Culdor remembered him as an initiate – he was friendly and energetic, constantly fiddling with some intricate device or another while joking with the other Hounds.
What fortitude of character it must have taken to endure the schooling of the Mechanicum unchanged, Culdor knew not, but he admired Duban, in his own way. Duban did not seem particularly aware of this – he talked infrequently and joked very little with Culdor, who could never decide if it was because of some personal issue he was unaware of, or simply the age-old problem that he was Pack Master and therefore beyond approach in the eyes of those who did not already know him well.
Duban had greeted him cheerfully enough when he had turned up at the Techmarine's quarters and informed him of the task required, but beyond the odd remark, he had stayed silent the whole time they walked the corridors of the Derbus. Culdor was beginning to wonder if he should take the Techmarine aside and find out what the problem was directly – the silence was killing him.
Thankfully, they had reached the chapel. Brother Tans and Brother Mastiff stood sentry outside, their boltguns held at the ready. Strange things could happen during warpcraft, and the protection of the chapel as one of the sites of purity within the Derbus was an important task. Culdor knew that if he was to walk to the brig, the librarium, the cages, the engine room or the vast Imperial Hounds armoury he would find similar sentries standing ready to repulse boarders. Brother Tans stepped forward and waved him over casually, lowering his. Some might consider this a lapse of security, but Culdor was well aware he had already been positively identified – not by sight, because the warplings were adept at fooling the eye, but by scent and by heart. Imperial Hounds instinctively recognised their master.
"Hyndasin's running them through the Litanies" said Tans, his deep voice distorted by his helmet's speakers. "Takes you back, doesn't it?"
"Indeed" Culdor smirked "In fact, it's a good thing you're positioned here, Tans – I seem to remember you mixing up the Thirtieth when we mobilised for Bludreing. Something about 'by the feet of the xenos and the heretic', I believe?"
Tans shuffled his feet, inadvertantly producing sparks in the process. Mastiff was laughing quietly behind his fellow's back. Tans had indeed mixed up that line of the Thirtieth during the engagement, as the whole company was now aware. Brother Mastiff, as a true friend, had wasted no time in spreading the word as the company was shuttled up from the surface following Bludreing.
"Don't remind me, sir" mumbled Tans "Hyndasin's on the warpath, I swear – I think Kullon positioned me here just to see what happens"
Culdor chucked. It seemed plausible enough. He gestured Duban forward with the trolley.
"We're here to give the new blood the test" he said. Tans stood aside hurriedly to avoid being seen as the door opened. From inside came the sound of Hyndasin in Litany-mode.
"...Shall lie by the feet of the Emperor, and guard against the xenos and the hertic..."
Culdor would have given anything to see Tan's face at that point. Chuckling, he clapped the Hound on his shoulder-pad and nodded at Mastiff, who was nearly bent double with restaining his mirth, and headed in, with Duban trotting behind him.
***
Pratel was somewhat off-balance. The three Entarisians had stood for what felt like hours in the chapel, reciting and recalling different Litanies, apparently at random. It was more difficult than it sounded seeing as Hyndasin didn't tolerate even the slightest variation, and with only three of them speaking at once, it was impossible to just drone along as Pratel had during most devotions back home. If you messed up, Hyndasin would snarl at you – not figuratively, but literally. He snarled like a wild animal, or a berserk Ork, baring his teeth in your face. It was terrifying, but it made you damned committed to remembering your lines.
Then, just when Pratel had felt he was losing it, the Captain had walked in. Sorry, the 'Pack Master' had walked in – Hyndasin had found the time to give them a snappy overview of Imperial Hound terminology and custom, and would occassionally break from a Litany to growl a question at one of the unsuspecting recruits. Pratel had got lucky so far, though he still couldn't remember what a 'Warhound' was, or how the Pack meetings were arranged.
Behind the Pack Master, whom they had all remembered to drop to their knees for, an enthusiastic-looking Marine had entered, pushing a trolley and with odd mechanical arms attached to his armour. He had proceeded to hand out a variety of devices to the recruits while the Chaplain and Pack Master looked on, telling them to work out how to operate the odd gadgets. Pratel had done pretty well on the first few, but as he progressed he found it became less about logic and more about some kind of mechanical intuition. None of the three had got very far with the range of devices, and Pratel was subjected to the sight of the enthusiasm slipping from the Marine's face, to be instantly replaced by jovial acceptance. Whatever that test had been about, it didn't seem that failing it constituted overall failure. Hyndasin had not looked at all bothered by Pratel's inability to figure out what the device with the four buttons and the rotating arm was for. After the Imperial Hound had left with his trolley, the Chaplain had made an announcement to the effect that they were prohibited from suddenly developing psychic powers during their training, which frankly Pratel didn't understand whatsoever. A short klaxon bleep had sounded, indicating that they had left the Warp. Then the Pack Master had sent them here.
The training-pits had a markedly different feel to the chapel. The ground was packed earth rather than bare steel, cages on every side were occupied with unarmoured Imperial Hounds fighting brutal battles against training servitors and each other, and the whole area stank of blood and sweat. Whereas the chapel had been a place of quiet simplicity, this area seemed well-used and had an air of good-humoured competition. Marines shouted encouragement and insult to each other from the cages, cheering when a brother defeated a foe, and laughing whenever one of their number was hit. The three recruits had wandered to the central chamber as instructed, and now stood wondering what they were meant to do next.
"Perhaps we're meant to use one of the cages?" Geravus suggested, pointing to an unoccupied one nearby.
To Pratel's side, a marine in a cage narrowly dodged a buzz-saw that would have cleaved him in half, then punched the metallic body of the training-servitor that weilded it. Pratel winced.
"I hope not" he said, seeing that the Imperial Hound had in fact managed to severely dent the armoured plating.
Rydel seemed to be of a similar opinion "Perhaps we're meant to fight each other?" he offered, indicating a nearby cage where two marines were doing just that, laughing and baiting each other as they exchanged thunderous blows. The three turned to watch the fight for a moment, then Geravus shook his head.
"Perhaps we're over-thinking it" he said "Perhaps we're just meant to stay here and watch the fighting"
"Possibly" said Pratel, turning away from the fight "There's a door over there though – maybe we're meant to wait for someone?"
No sooner had he suggested it than the door opened and a familiar figure strode through. Sergeant Myrtah was dressed in the robes which Pratel had come to realise were the standard outfit of the Hounds outside of battle. His over-robes were cut short, resting at his thighs and tied close by a belt, and his baggy trousers revealed that his feet were bare, and somewhat hairy. Most of the Hounds around them were dressed similarly, and it seemed that Hyndasin's longer robes were the exception rather than the rule.
"Close, recruit Pratel" he said as he reached them "But i'm not just here to give you curs a chat"
The three recruits gathered in front of him in a semi-circle as he came to a halt. The Scout-sergeant examined them all dispassionately.
"Is this the best we could get?" he muttered audibly, as if they weren't meant to hear it. Pratel wasn't fooled. He knew damn well that Myrtah could be as quiet as a leaf when he wanted to. The grizzled-looking marine let his gaze linger on Pratel a second, then he turned to observe the other two.
"What are your names?" he demanded. Geravus and Rydel responded promptly.
"Okay then, recruits Geravus and Rydel, step back to the edge of the ring" he turned to smile at Pratel, who didn't like the way this was going. The other two backed off, shrugging.
"Pratel, throw your sword to recruit Geravus" he instructed. Pratel did so with some trepidation.
"Good. Now – recruit Pratel here had the pleasure of fighting alongside me on the surface, didn't you, lad? Even assisted me in taking down that greenie Warboss?"
Pratel nodded, though he wouldn't stretch it so far. He had 'assisted' by distracting the Ork in question enough for Myrtah to cripple it and saw its head off.
"Well then, you have an advantage over these young lads here, don't you? You know how I fight"
Pratel nodded. 'Like hell unleashed ' he thought to himself.
"I intend to level the playing-field somewhat, Pratel, just so it's fair. I was hoping you could assist me in demonstrating my fighting methods..."
A booming laugh came from one of the cages behind Pratel. It was not in the least reassuring.
Myrtah seemed to be encouraging Pratel to prepare himself to fight, and he did so, shrugging off his jacket and crouching low. He knew he was frekked, but he had to give it a shot.
Myrtah stood idly for a few minutes, then leapt into action at an unnerving rate. Pratel had faced Ork berserkers and won – he had even gone toe-to-toe with a number of fledgling Warbosses during the invasion, but he was simply outclassed by Myrtah. Through sheer luck and hard-won intuition, he managed to avoid some of the initial blows while Myrtah warmed up. The first time he attempted to block a kick the recoil caused him to punch his own face, and only by nearly collapsing on the floor did he avoid the follow-up.
Against the Orks, he had always fought a duel of attrition, blasting them in the face to blind them and then hamstringing them and staying away from their Choppa, diving in to deliver a cut here, a cut there. Here, no such options were available to him, and he wasn't sure they would have worked anyway.
He had precious seconds before Myrtah got him. He rolled and kicked out with a practised move, slamming his boot into Myrtah's knee. On any human opponent, that would have buckled a man's leg. Myrtah merely grunted and kicked back.
The next few seconds were a whirlwind of confusion and pain. When it stopped, Pratel realised he was lying on the floor, which was spinning. There was a shroud of blood around his vision. Somewhere above him he heard Myrtah snort.
"Not a bad attempt, runt, but i'm the Sergeant, not your mother. Come on, you two, lets see if you can work up a sweat on me"
There were hesitant footsteps, and then the sound of heavy impacts. Pratel had a moment to wonder if either of them would outlast him before the darkness came.