Interludes
The cards slewed across the table, untouched. The cloaked ominous figure stood impassive as patterns made and remade themselves. Eventually the dance stopped. The old woman took one look and whimpered, clearly terrified beyond the ability to make coherent sound.
There was a flare of power and the table flashed to ashes. The oracle, weakling that she was, gazed in helpless pleading at his helm. His arm came up and the mass-reactive shell blew her skull across the faded and dust-patina'd wall. The cloaked figure vanished in a scarlet flare of light.
The corpse was never discovered, just a few bones, gnawed away by vermin and scavengers.
Arch-cardinal Athios, Guardian of the Golden Cathedral of Vias, Keeper of the Scared Relictory of Saint Ajiala, whimpered in utter terror. He would have screamed but the heavy ceramite boot on his throat made it impossible to make such a noise.
"Pederasty is not a saintly or honourable hobby," came the soft feminine voice from his left. His left, where his favoured assistant, Hegel, lay in a pool of his own guts, choking out each agonised breath as his lungs slowly filled with blood.
His eyes darted round the richly furnished private apartment; a last, futile, search for assistance. The two drugged boys – his intended amusements for the evening – lay naked on his sumptuous satinate sheets, unharmed, unconscious and uncaring. The heavy boot pressed down and his trachea gave way. Athios' last sight was an Imperial Aquila shining golden on purple armour. It was beautiful.
"Foolish man," said Sara, sadly. "Brought low by his own lusts. Still, despite his perversions, he had not entirely turned to evil."
She turned a burning gaze on the still-living man bubbling in pain. "You, on the other hand," she said, her voice suddenly cold and merciless.
A swift grasp tore the blood-stained robes to reveal his cult tattoo. Somewhere, Hegel's pain-filled mind grasped the dreadful certainty of his own punishment; the Lord of Change did not accept failure. The woman's face above him could have been carved from stone and held as much pity.
"Enjoy your reward, heretic." A long metal blade filled his vision and then there was only pain.
"Any others?"
"That was the last. In any case, the Ecclesiarchy will hot-foot an investigatory team here when they are discovered. They will tear the local hierarchy apart, just in case."
"What about the two boys?"
"They will be safe enough. Their families are important; they cannot simply vanish. We have no facilities to look after them in any case."
A nod. "Janey, two to teleport."
There was a flare of bright whiteness, and they were gone.
The great hall was noisy, crowded with warriors in and out of armour. The ancient tables groaned with roasted meats and traditional breads, and deep voices laughed and boasted of fell deeds and victories. Despite these warriors' familiarity with advanced technology, the celebratory gathering would have been immediately recognisable to any of their kinsfolk on the other continents. The Space Wolves held tradition dear.
This gathering, though, was not merely for show. Since the events thirty-five decades past between the Inquisition and the Chapter, few Wolves had accepted secondment to the Deathwatch. Today, one of those few had returned, and the celebratory feast was in his honour. Other Chapters might have held a formal parade; the Wolves did things differently, as they had always done. At the Great Wolf's request, all the Great Companies had sent representatives tonight, and both the returning warrior's own Great Company and that of the Great Wolf were present in full, as were their commanders, Krom Dragongaze and Logan Grimnar, and a third Wolf lord, the legendary Harald Deathwolf, who had been recruiting to his warriors following heavy casualties against orks in the Armageddon Reach.
As their warriors swapped tales, Grimnar spoke more seriously with his senior commanders; the orks of the Reach appeared to have a more powerful than usual warboss, one Ghazkull, and were starting to pose a serious threat to which the Wolves would have to respond. Even at feast, the business of war retained its priority. Their conversation was interrupted by a massive boom from the massive, and closed, doors at the Hall's end.
Grimnar stood and spoke the traditional demand. "Who approacheth the Halls of Russ?"
A mighty voice, artificial yet purposeful, answered. "A returned brother, a true son of the Wolf, demandeth entrance."
"Who art thou, to speak of his behalf?"
"I. My name be Bjorn, likewise called the Fell-handed, skilled in war and a warrior of the Chapter. Open the gates."
The Deathwolf stood and spoke. "Bjorn is known to me, a warrior I am proud to call brother. Open the gates."
Grimnar raised his left fist, and opened it in the traditional sign of kinship. "Let the gates open."
Hidden servo-motors worked silently. The great doors, panelled in wood and embossed in brass, but truly consisting of two-metre thick adamantium plate, swung slowly wide.
Along the aisle between the feast tables strode the mighty dreadnought, dominating the room not only by size, but also by the power of legend; even in this company, relatively few had ever spoken with the oldest astartes still in service. Beside him walked a slighter but still mighty figure, an astartes marine clad in the black armour of the Deathwatch, and bearing the chapter sigil of the Space Wolves on his pauldron. He bore a massive heavy bolter at parade rest, and his helmet was clipped to his belt to reveal a greying beard and heavily grey-streaked hair in braids.
The Dragongaze stood and spoke into the silence. "This is my brother Sigurd, who took service with the Deathwatch companies three decades past."
The black-clad warrior brought his weapon and form to perfect attention, and saluted, fist to chest. "Lord Dragongaze, I greet thee anew. I am returned from honourable service and require my place in your company, as is fitting."
The Wolf Lord's face did not change expression. "Speak, warrior, that your deeds be known and your fitness to return to the Chapter be assessed by this company."
"By your command," replied Sigurd. The tension grew as the Hall suddenly fell quiet. So far all had been tradition; the warrior's tale, however, would be new, and recorded by the Chapter's sagamasters for instruction and to add to the books of deeds. If accepted.
"In this hallowed place I honour warriors of the Emperor, brothers who fell in His service. In these Halls I name brother-sergeant Meleriex of the Raven Guard, brother-astartes Klair Shere of the Tigers Argent, brother-astartes Jeremiah of the Iron Snakes, Lord Inquisitor Rein Gustavus of the Inquisition, all of whom gave their lives to defeat the forces of chaos. I name INS Lieutenant Katrin Verstark, who destroyed her own ship to kill a hundred traitor astartes."
A pause. An indrawn breath from hundreds of throats.
Sigurd nodded, not without a certain anticipation for the pandemonium he was about to unleash, and went on, "And in this hallowed place I name as a true ally of the Wolves brother-sergeant Morgan Sedreth, who was saved by the Emperor from the heresy into which he had fallen and bears again the aquila as the last true astartes of the Emperor's Children."
a/n this is a slight break, a few internal drabbles which didn't really fit anywhere else, but aren't enough to make up a full chapter. For those paying attention, it also brings us more precise timeline; alert readers may note an interesting discrepancy, which I assure you is deliberate.