"I will not kneel to Remmeig," Amaleth says, "The traitors forced me to kneel before their twisted lord and I will not bend the knee to any man again until I stand before the throne of my own Chapter Master; if Remmeig demands my complete capitulation I will refuse, regardless of the consequences."
"You are not an Iron Knight," I remind him, "no-one will expect you to bend the knee to Remmeig – but he may put questions to you, and insist upon a public oath of moment to secure your fealty; you cannot come strutting into his presence expecting to treat with him on equal terms, Amaleth. It is fully within his power to have you executed at the slightest provocation; you are at his mercy, just as we are. Humility and prudence must guide your words and actions, not willfulness or misplaced pride. "
Amaleth growls in frustration and submerges himself once more beneath the surface of the heated cleansing pool; the upcoming audience with the Iron Knights has put him on edge and not even a proper soaking in the restorative milky-white mineral water can lull him into relaxing. I stand by the pool's alabaster marble steps, still armored, immune to the humid steam-fogged air of the high-arched bath-chamber, beads of condensation running down my warplate. We are alone except for five gray-robed serfs who dutifully wait to attend upon him, bearing fresh towels and cleansing ointments. I cannot yet risk leaving Amaleth alone with unenhanced humans – his sudden mood-swings and his past state of uncontrolled aggression stand in stark contrast to the reserved and stoic Iron Knights the serfs are accustomed to serving and as Amaleth's keeper I must ensure no harm befalls them as they go about their appointed tasks.
"Be thorough but do not dally," I say to them, "the Lord Remmeig is expecting him."
"By your will, Lord Sor'ken," replies the lead serf, a lean, balding man with a crude bionic right hand named Lerne.
After a few minutes Amaleth resurfaces and steps dripping up from the pool, his genhanced muscles now fully expunged of the sweat and dried blood left over from the latest bouts of savage black-to-back sparring matches against my brothers, though numerous bruises still remain visible, standing out dark and livid against his fair skin. Lerne bows low and wordlessly offers the Space Marine a towel as before backing away, ill at ease despite his training. Amaleth shakes his hair about him like a dog and makes a show of scenting the air.
"So, do I still smell of pigshit and rotting corpses, Sor'ken?" he asks as he wraps the towel about his waist. I cannot tell if he is being serious or not so I simply shake my head.
"Good, then the Iron Knights will have no cause for complaint." Amaleth wipes his face dry and seats himself on a low bench so the serfs can polish the steel rims of his interface ports. One attendant – a young dusky-skinned woman with close-cropped dark hair – kneels down to anoint the neural ports studding his left leg; Amaleth notes her condition immediately and looks upon her with the frank curiosity of a child.
"Is it a boy or a girl?" he asks with surprising gentleness in cultured Low Gothic.
The female serf pauses in her ministrations, but does not raise her head. "My lord?" her voice is hushed and nervous, as if she is unused to being addressed by Space Marines despite attending to them in such an intimate fashion. Lerne and the others remain silent.
"I know you are carrying a child, young one," Amaleth says, "I can hear its heartbeat within you, alongside your own. Is it a boy or a girl?"
The serf almost looks up, then remembers her place and drops her gaze. "I…I do not know yet, lord. I…I want it to be a surprise."
Amaleth seems to find this peculiar. "When is the child due to be born?"
The woman swallows, uncertain of where this line of questioning is leading. "Three months from now, lord, give or take a week or so."
"Is it your first child?"
"Yes…but I can still perform my duties, lord; please do not dismiss me. I live but to serve."
"What is your name?"
The serf finally glances up, her brown eyes wide. Amaleth gives her an encouraging smile but the scars make a ruin of the expression and she quickly averts her eyes. "Sharli, my lord."
"That is a beautiful name," Amaleth remarks reflectively, "and although your voice is soft it is quite pleasant to listen to. Do you sing, Sharli?"
"No, lord, I am sorry; our masters have little interest in songs or music. They do not expect us to learn such things."
"A pity," says Amaleth, "you would have been a fine singer." Sharli smiles uncertainly, unsure how to respond. "If you say so, lord."
"The Space Marines of my Chapter have always sought solace in the arts, forever seeking to assuage the great grief that dwells within their souls," Amaleth continues, "especially in the composition of music; every one of my battle-brothers has mastered at least one musical instrument, for our songs are our lamentations for the father who was taken from us by darkness and treachery – sometimes we can even harness our sorrow and utilize it as a weapon against those whose hearts have become hardened and whose hunger for power and control threatens the stability of their worlds and the prosperity of their peoples."
"Really?" Sharli's voice is a breathless near-whisper; all the serfs are listening intently now.
"Yes. Once, during the pacification of Auderulan Secundus, Brother-Epistolary Asirion stood upon the gateway of the Imperial governor's palace and played upon his ocarina in full view of the advancing rebel host; the Librarian's song affected the uprising's leader so profoundly that he threw down his weapons, fell to his knees, and announced his unconditional surrender with tears running down his face. Following his execution and the mass purgings of his followers, the governor's daughter offered Asirion a large sum of gold to remain for a time and instruct her court musicians in his arts, but he refused, for he was grieved by the ruling family's callous disregard for the common folk, and instead shook the dust of their city from the hem of his cloak the day our gunships departed the capital."
Amaleth sighs, lost in the recollections of better days spent campaigning alongside his true brethren. Sharli and the other serfs are all staring at him in mute awe, their tasks momentarily forgotten. From their reactions it is clear no other Astartes has ever spoken to them in such a way before. Emboldened, Sharli rests a comforting hand upon the Space Marine's massive knee.
"You…you must miss your brothers terribly," she says gently. Amaleth blinks. His eyes are wet. "Yes. I do. Yet my hearts are filled with foreboding and I fear I will never see any of them again until we stand together before the Emperor's Throne at the end of days. Only in death can duty end."
Something colder than ice and sharper than a razor twists deep within my hearts and I close my eyes against the pain, thankful I am helmed. As thin and fragile as his hope may be there is still a chance for Amaleth to return to his Chapter and be welcomed back by joyous brothers who had believed him lost – yet I can never return to Nocturne; the fellowship of the Salamanders is forever denied to me: the gates are barred, the doors stand forever shut, and no amount of atonement can ever undo the sins of the past.
"Enough talk," I say, more harshly then I intend. The serfs quickly drop their heads and return to their tasks. Amaleth glares at me. "Is there a law aboard this vessel decreeing that mortals may not converse with Space Marines?" he demands, reverting back to High Gothic.
"Why would there be?" I say, "There is no reason to converse with them; the Iron Knights themselves hardly ever speak to their own personal serfs; you are distracting them and if you continue to be overly friendly with them they may grow lax and negligent in their duties."
Amaleth bares his teeth. "You are certainly one to speak, as there is nothing for us to do until the next engagement except bash each-other bloody in the dueling cages and tend to our weapons. You renegades have no structure to your lives; there are no training regimens or rituals to fortify our spirits and bind us together as a cohesive fighting force. Alessian told me earlier I could take eight hours of true-sleep if I wanted and no-one would give a damn. I though he was joking. He wasn't. Yet the Iron Knights still cleave to the culture and traditions of their Chapter even in exile; they have not allowed their Imperial identities to wither or become perverted. So do not speak to me of duty or laxity, Salamander, for you have turned your face from the former and embraced the latter without shame."
My vox-emitters turn my grunt of bemusement at his naivety into a harsh growl. "The warrior-band does not share the common unity Remmeig and his brothers enjoy. We were all born on different worlds, forged by different Chapters, trained by different masters and are the scions of different gene-lines. What ecumenical ceremonies exist for us to partake in together as equals? What manner of culture could a brotherhood such as ours ever hope to create? I told you in the beginning that we have strayed far from the Emperor's Light – the structured, rigid, regimented existence you have taken for granted is seldom found amongst renegade Astartes warbands. Get used to it. There are no Chaplains to monitor your piety or castigate you for failing to recite your prayers at the appointed hours. You are now free to do as you wish, when you wish, save for when Remmeig summons us to battle."
I expect him to grow belligerent again, to voice his disgust at my brothers' undisciplined ways; instead he manages another smile and gazes at the serfs clustered about him with evident fondness. "Then I shall assert my new status as a lawless renegade by conversing with those whose duty it is to minister to me as much as I want, whenever I want." He reaches down and gently places a hand upon Sharli's shoulder. The woman flinches in alarm and her heartbeat quickens in response to a jolt of adrenaline. Being touched by a Space Marine is a disquieting experience for most mortals, even when no harm is intended. "I would tell you more stories of my Chapter-brothers and their valiant struggles," Amaleth tells her, "if it helps to pass the time."
Sharli's eyes brighten with wonder and eagerness, despite her fear. "I…I would be most honored, Lord Amaleth."
"Amaleth –" I say.
"Leave me, Salamander." Amaleth's sharp dismissal brooks no dissent; he has not yet forgiven me for placing him at Remmeig's mercy. "The humans will not be harmed. I shall join you and the others in the armourium within the hour."
He is asking me to trust him, seeking to step from the shadow of my constant vigilance. I could easily refuse him; he cannot force me to leave, not without instigating another physical confrontation. Lerne and the other serfs cast surreptitious glances in my direction – already Amaleth has secured their servile devotion: a devotion that has remained tellingly absent from their dealings with the rest of my brother-in-exile.
"Do not attempt to try anything, Amaleth," I warn, "This is the reality of your existence now and the sooner you make peace with your situation the less discord and violence will exist between you and the others."
Resignation clouds Amaleth's face. "I am in no true position to try anything, brother – not without disgracing my Chapter or dishonoring myself in the eyes of the Iron Knights. The traitors bound my body to an excruciation rack with unbreakable chains of warp-wrought adamantium and tormented me for weeks on end without respite, yet they were unable to destroy my loyalty to the Emperor or subvert my will to their own ruinous purposes. But you…you have bound me in the unseen, inescapable fetters of obligation and honor; you have won with your 'mercy' what the traitors failed to secure out of sheer malice: my compliance. You have nothing to fear from me. Your master will receive his due; the life-debt shall be paid in full, even if I am fated to die attempting to fulfill it."
I nod my helm and depart the bath-chamber, knowing better then to say anything more. Berothec had accused me of 'misplaced compassion' after Remmeig opted to spare Amaleth's life, and, for the first time since that fateful gathering, I finding myself wondering if the Hammer of Dorn was right.
Perhaps death would have been the more merciful choice.
"I… I cannot wear this. It would be a blasphemy; how can such a thing be tolerated? This…this is utter sacrilege."
Amaleth is not merely incredulous – he is in a state of dumbfounded horror. Dressed in a fresh black bodyglove, his hair now combed, oiled and tied back in a single long braid, he circles about the display stand upon which the artificer-serfs have mounted the ceramite plates of Cletus' power-armor, his shock plain for all to see. Syvrith and Laemach are already clad in their own warplate, having chosen to accompany us to the Iron Knights' judicial chamber; Alessian and Vargus have gone to the firing ranges to recalibrate their bolters while the questioning is in progress. Berothec still remains in obstinate seclusion. The armourium is a minor one, with a skeleton crew of work-worn artificers and decrepit arming servitors that is rarely utilized by the Iron Knights. The humans present linger in the shadows, keeping well away from the armor-display, fearful of Amaleth's displeasure.
"There is nothing wrong Cletus's wargear," Syvrith says as he examines the honed blades of his lightning claws, eyes hunting for nicks or flaws in the lethal adamantine tines. "The serfs have spent all these long weeks laboring to patch it up; Throne, they even managed to get it void-sealed again. You should have seen the absolute state of Harkkon's armor; it was completely unsalvageable after the battle, not that the bastard ever bothered to keep it in good repair. You should consider yourself lucky we have a spare suit to give you, let alone a functional one."
"It has been profaned!" snarls Amaleth in revulsion, placing an outspread hand upon the suit's chestplate. The winged skull symbol has been deliberately defiled with a jagged 'X' deeply carved with a knife across the death's-head motif; the Chapter emblem on the left pauldron was defaced long ago, along with all traces of company designation and decorative trim; nothing remains to betray Cletus' origins, not even the plate's original color-scheme. Not knowing Amaleth's own Chapter-colors, the artificers did not attempt to repaint it. The mongrelized of suit of mismatched marks remains a tarnished dirty bronze and somehow still manages to appear soiled by old bloodstains despite having been thoroughly cleaned and polished.
"Cletus was an outcast, brother," Laemach reminds Amaleth as he comes to stand beside the incised Space Marine, "and it is a sad truth that many outcasts often alter their armor's appearance and colors, usually for personal or symbolic reasons. Neither Cletus nor Harkkon ever revealed the identities of their Chapters, whether out of shame or loathing I do not know. But the suit is yours now, and even in its dishonored state it is not a gift to turn away from lightly."
"I will restore it," Amaleth vows, speaking more to the wargear's dormant machine-spirit then to us. "Once I have pledged my blade to Remmeig I will labor without rest alongside the mortal artificers until each plate has been returned to its former glory. I am no outcast; I am no traitor – when the time comes for me to enter into battle once more I will face the Gorehounds adorned in the emblems and colors of my Chapter. My brothers will not be ashamed. My primarch will not be ashamed. This I swear, by the bloody tears of Sanguinius."
Satisfied with his examination, Syvrith retracts his claws. "You will not go before Remmeig armored, then?" he asks, curious.
In answer, Amaleth motions one of the lurking artificers forward; a hunched sallow-faced man approaches hesitantly. "Your will, my lord?"
"Fetch me a suitable over-robe," Amaleth commands, "the rest of you will prep Cletus' warplate for a complete overhaul; when I return we shall begin restoration immediately." The man salutes the Astartes briskly and obediently scurries off while the other artificers and their menial assistants begin hauling the heavy ceramite pieces over to a nearby work-table.
"You do not have a weapon of your own with which to make your pledge," says Laemach, "Cletus wielded an outsized power-power and Harkkon slaughtered with a battered old chainaxe he refused to part with – which would you prefer?"
Amaleth turns to me, his blue eyes still flinty and unforgiving. "Brother Sor'ken will provide me with a blade. It is only fitting, as this is the fruition of his machinations."
I feel my own choler beginning to rise, then I consider the position I have placed him in and suppress my anger. These are the consequences of my compassion and I must face up to them regardless of my injured pride. I draw my custom-forged gladius and present the short sword to him hilt-first.
"Keep it," I tell him, "I can always make another."
"No need," he says coldly, "the chainaxe of a dead outcast will suit me far better then the blade of a breathing betrayer."
"I grow weary of this discord festering between us," I growl softly. "I did not betray you, Amaleth. I saved you when any other Astartes would have shot you or left you to rot in the dungeons of Gargathul Keep; I pleaded with Remmeig to be allowed to rehabilitate you and lost the respect of Vargus and Berothec as a result; I held you to my chest and comforted you when your rage and madness were at their zenith. So go on: hate me, revile me, but do not ever call me a betrayer again – I will not tolerate that word coming from your lips, not after all the sacrifices I have made on your behalf."
Amaleth is silent. Syvrith and Laemach watch us keenly, poised to come to my aid if the need arises. I wait, resolute and unmoving before him once more, just as I had when resisting his attacks in the holding cell. I am prepared to kill him now, if I must. Perhaps that is what he wants. I have never encountered a Space Marine as emotionally burdened and conflicted as he is, and can only hope the rest of his Chapter-brothers do not also suffer from similar debilitative afflictions.
"So be it," he says at last. "I acknowledge my error and shall endeavor to correct it."
The tension in the air bleeds away at the ritual words. The armourium's bustle continues. Amaleth takes the gladius and turns it over in his hands. "It is beautiful," he admits with begrudging admiration. "I think you for the gift."
"If you are an admirer of beauty you should allow Laemach to join you in restoring Cletus' battle-plate," Syvrith says encouragingly, "He is quite a skilled artesian and the work will progress far more quickly with two Space Marines plying their skills in harmony. The artificers would certainly be glad of the help."
"Perhaps," Amaleth says, not quite yet willing to engage in any other activities with other members of the warrior-band beyond the bloodletting in the dueling cages.
"Sor'ken tells us you have taken a personal interest in the serfs assigned to attend upon you," says Laemach casually as he readjusts the shaggy brown pelt of some huge ursid-type creature he had slain in the gladiator-arenas of Carsmar about his pauldrons. "He says you converse with them freely and even share stories with them concerning your former battle-brothers. Are you attempting to establish ties of friendship with them, even though they are your mortal servants? I find it peculiar you find it easer to confide in them more than –"
"They are not my 'former' battle-brothers," Amaleth interjects sharply, silencing the Flesh Eagle before he can finish. "My battle-brothers are still my battle-brothers even now, and they shall forever remain my battle-brothers, cherished and longed-for, regardless of what may transpire between myself and the Iron Knights."
"Speak of the daemon," Syvrith whispers just as my helmet's auto-senses register a third and a forth suit of active power-armor in my vicinity. I turn to the armourium's entrance. Two Iron Knights Space Marines stand upon the threshold, fully armored, their polished boltguns held across their chestplates, the emerald eye-lenzes of their Phobos-pattern helms piercing the armourium's gloomy interior like sinister green swamplights. Two ident-runes appear at the corner of my visor-display, listing their names and company designations: they are battle-brothers Hygilac and Dremmnar, formally of the Iron Knights 5th Company and there can be only one reason why they have come down to our deck.
"We are here to escort the Astartes known as Amaleth to the Hall of Truth and Judgment," proclaims Dremmnar in an emotionless, metallic vox-voice. "Whereupon Captain Fedis Remmeig, our lord-in-exile, will question him face-to-face in the presence of his brethren and make the final, irrevocable decision regarding his fate."
"Ah, the stoic stiff-backed sons of Rogal Dorn – blunt and to the point as ever," says Laemach in amusement over a private vox-link, "Then again, they could rightly accuse us of being overly talkative and treacherously idle due to ill-discipline and all the time we have on our hands."
"Are you prepared, Amaleth?" I ask quietly as the Space Marine pulls the gray hooded over-robe the artificers have provided over his broad shoulders and thrusts the gladius into its corded belt.
"Yes," he says, his eyes bright with grim defiance and determination. "It is high time I presented myself to my new commander – come, brothers; let's get this over with."
"He called us 'brothers' like he actually meant it this time," says Laemach over the private link as we stride from the armourium together, the Iron Knights leading the way. "Relations are beginning to improve between us, I think. There is still hope for a unified brotherhood, Sor'ken."
I do not respond.
I am not so sure.