"We should kill him," Vargus says as he runs a whetstone along the length of a battle-worn combat knife that needs no sharpening; the former Libator does not look at the rest of us. "Why are we debating this? There is no other practical recourse."
Beside me, Syvrith of the Storm Wings stirs from some inner reverie as he continues to protract and retract the blades of his lighting claw gauntlets in idle restlessness. "I do not think so," he says, his dolorous voice a dry rasp, "We must be realistic about our situation – Harkkon and Cletus are dead and their loss has dealt our fighting strength a cruel blow. We need new blood. He might make a fine line-breaker, if we can tame him. His berserker fury could be a considerable asset, if directed against the right foes."
"He is tainted," Berothec insists, his words laden with cold condemnation; the disgraced Hammer of Dorn is fresh from the dueling cages and stands before Remmeig unarmored and stripped to the waist, the shaft of his great power-axe resting over one shoulder, his craggy features harsh and unyielding. "He has been in Archenemy hands for too long. Even if he never swore allegiance to the Dark Gods he could still harbor corruption in some form. It is a risk we cannot afford to take. Kill him."
"Granting him the Emperor's Peace would be a mercy," says Alessian in quiet agreement; the rogue Novamarine rests a gauntlet on the butt of the bolt-pistol maglocked to his thigh-plate. "He may still be loyal and free of taint, yet he has suffered much and his mind is clearly broken. We all saw the scars: the traitors extracted his progenoids, stole his genetic legacy. What Space Marine would want to live with such shame? It would be cruel to allow his pain to continue. Give me the command and I will end his misery."
"No, slaying him out of hand would be wasteful – he can still serve," objects Laemach, a tall long-haired Astartes clad in tarnished crimson power-armor who has yet to divulge his Chapter of origin. "Give him Cletus' wargear and allow him to die fighting as a true warrior should. Why should we deny him the vengeance his soul must doubtlessly crave? Let him live so he might lend us his strength in some future battle; he should be permitted the chance to avenge himself, at least."
Remmeig taps his armored fingers on the arm-rests of his command throne, his pale gray eyes expressionless as he considers his cousins' conflicting counsels. The Iron Knight's heavily-scarred face is likewise unreadable, making it difficult to discern if he favors one course of action over the other – yet the decision rests with him and we all must defer to his judgment. A warrior-band of disparate Astartes outcasts and exiles makes for a fractious, often volatile brotherhood; nonetheless, Remmeig has given us sanctuary aboard his ancient Gladius-class frigate and his word is law to the seven thousand human serfs, ratings and armsmen who crew and maintain the vessel.
"You have not yet spoken, Sor'ken," he says at length, fixing his gaze upon me. "I am surprised. You and Syvrith were the first to storm the dungeons after the inner walls of Gargathul Keep were breached; you were the one who found him locked away in an isolation cell, chained and starved like some unruly beast. Do you not care now whether he lives or dies? Or have you come to regret the choice you made in freeing him?"
"No, Remmeig, I do not regret my choice," I say, stepping forward to stand next to Berothec's hulking form. "I, too, advocate that he be spared, and not simply so we might utilize his fighting strength. I wish to rehabilitate him and restore some measure of his sanity and dignity. He is –"
"Rehabilitate him?" Vargus barks a scornful laugh, a jackal's vapid mockery. "Is that a joke, Salamander? Do not be a fool. He is incapable of distinguishing between enemy and ally and attacks any who dare approach him. He is far too damaged – a lost cause. He will try to kill you and if he succeeds your death will only serve to weaken us further. You should have shot him in his cell and spared us all this tedious inconvenience."
"Nonetheless I would attempt it, by your leave," I say to Remmeig. The Iron Knight is silent as he weighs his options. Angered, I round on the sneering Libator, resisting the temptation to dash him to the deck with my thunderhammer. "And who are you, Vargas, to pass judgment so readily upon him? Or you, Berothec? We are all lost causes; each of us is damaged in some way, dishonored by some past crime or failing, otherwise we would have never been cast out by the Chapters that forged us. I know my sins, just as you know yours, and like you I have pledged myself to Remmeig's cause in hope of finding redemption in the eyes of the Emperor." I turn back to the Iron Knight. "Let me at least try, Remmeig. If I cannot get through to him, if I cannot make him see reason, then I will grant him the Emperor's Peace myself – you have my word."
"The word of a reformed renegade carries precious little weight, Sor'ken," Remmeig says; then, upon seeing my stricken expression, he smiles thinly. "But as you have proved your worth to me in blood, I am willing to indulge you. Yet be forewarned: from this moment onwards the captive becomes your responsibility. If he cannot be tamed or reasoned with, if he jeopardizes my ship in any way or harms a single one of my thralls, I will slay him myself and banish you from the Adamant. He must be convinced to fight alongside us – otherwise there can be no place for him amongst our brotherhood. Additionally, you will provide me with regular reports detailing any progress you make with him. These are my terms, Salamander – do you accept them?"
I meet his penetrating gaze without hesitation, "I accept." Syvrith paces silently to my side and places a hand on my pauldron in a gesture of solidarity. "I will aid Sor'ken in this endeavor," the Storm Wing rasps, "But know this, Remmeig: if we fail and you banish my brother, you must banish me also, for whenever he goes, I go."
"So be it." Remmeig settles back in his throne and nods a curt dismissal, bringing the impromptu gathering to an end. Ignored by the human bridge-crew we exit the Adamant's command deck together in silence. The armored blast-doors have barely finished shutting behind us when Berothec rounds on me, his face twisted in fury.
"You are mad, Sor'ken," he snarls through clenched teeth. "You are so blinded by your misplaced compassion that you are willing to overlook the threat he poses to every living man, woman and child aboard this ship. A vile daemon-thing could be lurking within his flesh and you would be none the wiser as there are no Librarians amongst us who can psychically examine him. You court not only with death but with damnation. I want no part in this – keep him away from me or I will kill him."
Before I can respond he turns his back on me and storms down the corridor leading to the dueling cages, forcing armsmen and menials to move swiftly from his path. With a withering look of contempt Vargus follows him, equally incised. Laemach shakes his head, his disappointment evident. "And just when we were all starting to get along…"
"The captive is not possessed," Syvrith retorts, glaring after the retreating pair with icy disdain. "We examined his cell and fetters closely; there were no containment wards inscribed upon the walls or floor and both his body and his bonds were free of binding sigils. Those who consort with the Ruinous Powers would never risk imprisoning a potential daemonic threat without the proper safeguards in place. He is likely a prisoner of war taken from some far-flung battlefield for interrogation or sport. He may be mad, but he is not corrupted; of that I am certain."
"And that presents us with another problem," says Alessian as we make our way to the holding cells located deep in the frigate's brig. "Perhaps his loyalty remains intact and you are able to get him to see reason – what then? We are renegades in all but name, Sor'ken. What can we offer him in terms of camaraderie or fellowship? He might be disgusted at the notion of fighting alongside outcasts and exiles; Throne, we can barely keep from each other's throats as it is, and regardless Berothec and Vargus will never accept him. What will you do if he spits upon your offer of brotherhood? Have you even considered the possibility?"
I come to a halt before a reinforced bulkhead. Beyond is the penitentiary-deck with its neat rows of soundproofed holding cells, all empty save for one. I turn and face my brothers-in-exile. Doubt grips them. Only Syvrith truly believes I can do this. "I will tell him the truth," I say. "I will not hide what we are. I will give him an opportunity to make his choice. Perhaps I am a fool. Perhaps putting a bolt-round through his skull is the only practical solution; I am not as naive as Berothec likes to presume. But I must try – for trying and failing and trying yet again has been the whole sorry struggle of mankind since the beginning."
I enter the deserted dimly-lit penitentiary. Syvrith, Alessian and Laemach follow me in and take up defensive positions on either side of the occupied cell. "May Corax's wings shield you, Sor'ken," Syvrith says solemnly, his alabaster features glowing specter-like in the gloom; he extends his lighting claws once more and kindles their disrupter fields. Laemach draws his elegant power-sword. "We will give you as much time as you need," he promises, "and we will not interfere unless you give the order, but if he kills you we will cut him to pieces."
I nod in acknowledgment and hand Alessian my bolt-pistol, combat knife and thunderhammer; then I key in the combination-code on the rune-pad adjacent to the door. Internal mechanisms shift and well-oiled adamantium bolts slide back. I swiftly don my helmet. The cell door opens and I immediately step over the threshold. The door shuts behind me, sealing me within a rectangular room bare save for a built-in sleeping bench and a small ablutions station. A single lumen bulb flickers in its caged ceiling mounting, casting uncertain shadows across the gray plasteel walls. There is nowhere he can hide. I hold out my empty hands, my palms facing upwards in a gesture of peace.
"Well met, brother," I say, hoping he is rational enough to see that I mean him no harm. "I am –"
He attacks without hesitation. One second he is crouched low, every muscle taut, like a lurking beast waiting to spring upon its prey, in the next he is fully upright and swinging a fist at my head, his other hand grasping at my gorget as his fingers quest for my throat. He has no real chance of killing me, not unless some warp-spawned taint has indeed taken root within him. I easily deflect his oncoming fist and drive a gauntlet into his chest, slamming him back against the wall, my armor-augmented strength proving more then equal to the task.
"Stop. I am not here to hurt you," I say calmly, raising my hands and opening them once more. "I am the one who freed you. I am not your enemy –"
He bares his broken teeth at me like a cornered canine, a seething hatred burning in his cobalt-blue eyes, his filth-matted blond hair spilling over his shoulders like a lion's bedraggled mane; his naked flesh is marred by the hideous scars and brands of excruciation, yet his form still retains a cold sculptural beauty that brings to my mind recollections of the noble Blood Angels my former battle-brothers and I had once served alongside centuries ago during the Corlexian Castigations. Inexplicably, tears are streaming down his cheeks, utterly at odds with his feral behavior, yet the sight of them gives me cause to hope there is something left of him worth salvaging.
"Wait – listen! My name is Uthor Sor'ken, formally of the Salamanders –"
With an animalistic snarl he lunges at me again and the contest of wills begins. I remain stationary, refusing to advance or to give ground, standing instead like an immovable rock he is doomed to break himself against unless I can find a way to break through the hate and madness clouding his mind.
"We are journeying through the warp aboard the Adamant Sword under the command of Fedis Remmeig of the Iron Knights Chapter –"
He is heedless of what I am telling him, heedless of anything save his own agony and anguish. I take only those actions necessary to defend myself from his frenzied assaults and nothing more. Even so, my gauntlets are soon bloodied despite my best efforts. How easy it would be for me to drive him against the wall and snap his neck; how swiftly I could regain the regard of Berothec and Vargus simply by crushing his skull with my armored fists – yet I resist the urge to strike back, to kill him as my conditioning demands. Instead, I speak calmly and simply as if to a panicked child, refusing to goad him to greater levels of violence by retaliating.
"Remmeig is under the sentence of a Death Oath – he and twenty-six of his battle-brothers have been charged by the lords of their Chapter to never return to their brotherhood until they have hunted down and slain every Chaos Space Marine of the Gorehounds warband. The traitors holding you captive had allied themselves with the Gorehounds on several occasions; we came to their stronghold seeking information on their whereabouts, and to deprive the Gorehounds of valuable allies. Afterwards, I entered the dungeons hoping to free what captives I could find –"
He is relentless, unyielding. So am I. Yet one of us must yield in the end – this cannot go on indefinitely. He is focused on my head, trying to blind me by driving his fingers through my helm's eye-lenzes. He does not spit acid at me, for in addition to extracting his gene-seed the traitors must have also removed his Betcher's Gland, otherwise iron chains and plasteel doors would not have held him for long. The defilements he has been subjected to are horrific, yet still he resists, his spirit unbroken despite the madness poisoning his mind.
"I will not deceive you – I am a renegade. My companions are renegades. We have been renegades for a long time, and we have strayed far from the Emperor's Light. By joining in Remmeig's quest and submitting to his authority we hope to find some measure of atonement before we die. We live aboard the Adamant at his sufferance, as do you. We lost two of our number storming Gargathul Keep and are in need of new blood –"
My words are meaningless to him – yet how can I expect him to believe my story when my Chapter's firedrake emblem was scoured from my left pauldron decades ago, along with all signifiers of my former company and rank? How can I prove to him I am not just another degenerate intent on abusing him? The answer comes like a flash of lightening momentarily illuminating a black sky and I do not pause to consider whether I am being compassionate or foolish or merely desperate – I simply reach out and seize him. He claws uselessly at my armor as I hug him to my chestplate, snarling and gnashing his teeth as he struggles to free himself.
"I am sorry you have been reduced to this state, brother," I say softly. He tries to head-butt me and succeeds only in gashing his forehead open against my visor. Blood runs into his hate-filled eyes and he roars in abject frustration.
"I am sorry you have been held captive for so long," I continue calmly as he rages impotently against me. "I am sorry your Chapter-brothers were unable to rescue you. I am sorry you can no longer trust anyone, or believe that you are now free and among Astartes who are willing to befriend you…"
He roars again and pushes against my armored bulk, seeking to unbalance me. I dare not relax my grip. Holding him close I begin to chant softly in Nocturnian, not the ancient prayers and litanies of the Chapter I failed, but the simple soothing lullabies my mother used to sing when I was a small boy plagued by nightmares. It has been a long time since I had spoken in my own native tongue. Emotions long buried and ignored threaten to usurp my restraint, yet I manage to remain focused, refusing to allow the pain of the past to intrude upon the present. After a while I switch to High Gothic and for the first time in decades the Emperor receives praise from my lips.
Slowly – ever so slowly – he begins to grow calm. He ceases snarling and his struggles gradually abate. I keep chanting, alternating between Nocturnian and Gothic. At last he goes limp in my arms and I kneel down on one knee as I gently lower him to the floor. He crawls away and crouches against the far wall, panting and shuddering, his breathing ragged. Tears are still running down his face, yet the anger has faded from his eyes. I cannot determine how much he understands or if I have truly brought about a lasting change, but a start has been made. In our contest of wills I have emerged as the victor – a truth he knows on a subconscious level. Calmly I rise and step backwards towards the door.
"I will bring you food and clothing soon," I say. He makes no response; instead, he turns from me and lies down on the bare decking, curling in on himself. The sight of the mutilating scars crisscrossing his back set my teeth on edge. "They are all dead," I tell him, "the traitors who took you and tormented you. I killed them – my brothers-in-exile killed them. They will never touch you again."
Still, he does not answer – not that I am expecting him to express any gratitude. I exit the cell. According to my visor display's chrono-counter I have been alone with him for two hours and eighteen minutes. It felt so much longer then that. Syvrith's obsidian eyes narrow when he sees the fresh blood flecking my gauntlets and faceplate. "Did you end up beating him into submission, then?" he asks tersely.
"No, I merely defended myself as needed," I say, unwilling to divulge precisely how I had quieted his raging, "Yet I have made him understand that I am not an enemy. I do not think he will try to attack me again."
"That's it?" Alessian scowls as he hands back my weapons, unimpressed, "You did not even learn his name or which Chapter he belongs to? Corvo's oath, you were with him for over two hours and he said nothing to you?"
"That is because I did not attempt to interrogate him," I say as I grip my thunderhammer once again, savoring its familiar hefty weight. "In order to learn about him I must first gain his trust; I must befriend him, become his brother, his ally. It is my hope he will come to confide in me in his own time and on his own terms."
"Do you think he will be willing to fight alongside us?" asks Laemach eagerly.
"It is still too soon to know for certain," I say, wearying of their impatience. "I told him we are renegades, and that we are subordinate to Remmeig. It meant nothing to him. I have a strong suspicion he was psychically questioned or tormented at length at some point during his captivity – mere physical torture would not have damaged his mind to such an extent."
"So he might be truly insane, then," Alessian says, shaking his head. "If some unsanctioned witchbreed or Chaos sorcerer mentally violated him at leisure then there is a strong chance he has no memories of who he is or how can to be at Gargathol Keep. How do you plan on winning the trust of a warrior without a past or an identity?"
"With compassion and respect," I say, "with patience and understanding." Even as I say the words I envision Vargus and Berothec sneering at me in disgust, their eyes radiating hostility and contempt. I quickly banish the intrusive image. "This is not something that is going to happen overnight, brothers. I will need time. He will need time. His rehabilitation must be gradual; such things cannot be rushed or forced."
"Yet we all know Remmeig is not going to wait forever, Sor'ken," Syvrith reminds me gravely. "The Iron Knights have no use for weaklings or combat-ineffective warriors, and these have a Death-Oath to fulfill. Eventually you will have to give the captive an ultimatum: either fight for Remmeig's cause or be slain."
"Then he will either fight…or he will die," I say, and the words are as ashes in my mouth.