A/N: I made a small editing mistake in Chapter One in which Sor'ken says there are six other Iron Knights voyaging with Remmeig when the true number is actually twenty-six. All told there are thirty-four Space Marines currently aboard the Adamant Sword.
"What is your name?" I ask. For the past nine day-cycles it is the only question I have put to him, for it is the one question he must answer before any others can be asked.
"Come, brother," I continue, keeping my tone cordial and undemanding to mask my growing frustration, "I have told you mine – is it only fitting I should know yours in return."
He glances up at me briefly, his wary gaze flickering across my unhelmed face, before his attention returns to his food. My hearts sink, for although he has not attempted to attack me again his behavior remains animalistic and devoid of any higher human graces. Crouching possessively over a pail of nutrigruel, he rapidly scoops the colorless sludge into his mouth with his bare hands, as if fearful I will try to take the pail away before he can finish. The fresh pair of combat fatigues and the extra water and washcloths I have brought to him so he might cleanse and clothe himself remain untouched and ignored, just as I am now being ignored.
I think I preferred it when he was trying to kill me. Our interactions were much more direct and stimulating.
As it is, my lack of meaningful progress has not gone unnoticed by Remmeig and the rest of the Iron Knights and my brothers-in-exile are still divided by my actions – Vargus has taken to snidely calling me the 'nursemaid' behind my back and Berothec is not speaking to me at all. Syvrith, Alessian and Laemach continue to be supportive, yet until some breakthrough is made there is little they can do except wait and speculate as the Adamant Sword journeys onwards through the madness of the warp towards a destination known only to the Iron Knights.
Things cannot continue as they now stand; my tactics need to change. Passivity and polite questions are getting me nowhere. I wait until he is licking his fingers clean before trying a different approach. Perhaps I have been lenient with him for too long or perhaps I have been going about this the wrong way since the beginning; regardless, it is time to apply some pressure.
"Wild animals take better care of themselves then you do," this time I allow a trace of scorn to enter my voice. I take a step towards him, deliberately invading his personal space; a low growl rumbles in his chest and his scarified lips peel back from his ruined teeth.
"You are Adeptus Astartes," I say coldly, stepping still closer. "You are one of the Emperor's Chosen; the blood of a primarch runs through your veins. Where is your honor? Where is your dignity? Is this how you want to live – locked up and disregarded as a worthless weakling?" I sneer openly at him, favoring him with a warrior's contempt. "I might be a disgraced renegade but at least I still know how to comport myself as a man; but you…you seem to have forgotten what it even means to be one."
He springs to his feet with a guttural snarl and hurls the empty food-pail at my head. I catch it in mid-air and crush it in my gauntlet. I take another step and jab an armored forefinger at his chest, forcing him to confront me.
"Do you like being a beast?" I challenge. "Do you like being a prisoner? Will the Traitor Marines claim this victory over you even in death?" His fists clench, yet he manages to hold himself in check – a welcome display of self-control in the face of insult and aggression. Satisfied, I step back, creating a space between us once more, my eyes never leaving his. "I did not rescue you from that stinking hellhole so you could live like this. Your battle-brothers would be ashamed. Your primarch would be ashamed."
He flinches as if struck and his face contorts in the throes of some silent inner turmoil; he wants reach out, to speak, to connect with me in some way that does not involve violence – I can see the desire in his eyes, warring with his innate hatred and mistrust. I nod encouragingly and extend a reconciliatory hand. "Come – I am not your enemy. Let me help you. War calls us. There is much work for our swords to do, many traitors still to slay. Let us bring an end to them together as brothers, you and I. We are Space Marines. We are the Emperor's Angels of Death and there is nothing we cannot overcome when we are united as one in the spirit of true brotherhood."
He advances on me, still growling deep and low in his throat. I remain stolid and calm. His haunted eyes search mine, seeking in vain for some sign of deception or malice. I bear none. He takes a long strained breath and looks down at my proffered hand. Look well, brother, I silently implore him. Look and see the truth. I extend it to you in trust; I extend it to you in friendship. See, it does not hold a blade. It does not hold a brand. Take it – take it, and accept this chance to take the fight to the true Enemy once more. I do not want to have to kill you…
Our eyes meet once more and then he extends his right hand, clasping my wrist in a proper warrior's embrace. His grasp is firm – even through my vambrace I can feel the steely strength of his fingers. We grip one another's wrists in mutual affirmation and my hearts soar with joy as if on the wings of an eagle.
"My name…is Amaleth…" he says hoarsely, his voice roughened with disuse, "…and my primarch…will not be ashamed…"
His name…he has told me his name at last. We are now known to one another. I am still grinning in idiot delight when he punches me in the face.
"I am glad you are finally going to meet the others," I say as we pause at the entrance of the training hall the Iron Knights have set aside for my warrior-band's exclusive use. Amaleth glances at me with a dubious expression, one hand plucking irritably at his synthwool tunic as if the feel of fabric against his skin has become a foreign sensation. A simple loincloth would have suited him better, but the horrific scars and brandings that tell of the traitors' blasphemies against his flesh are cruel and stomach-turning to look upon and it is better for such defilements to remain obscured from the staring eyes of others.
"Yet not all of them will be glad to meet me," he says grimly and I detect a minor spike in his primary heart-rate as he considers the prospect of immanent conflict.
"No, not Vargus and Berothec," I admit, "but Fedis Remmeig is our master now and he sided with those of us who desired that you be spared the Emperor's Mercy; we will not harm you, Amaleth…not unless you give us just cause."
Amaleth snorts. "I am still a prisoner – expect now I am allowed to leave my cell as long as I am kept under guard and do exactly as I am told like a good little neophyte."
"This is a battle-frigate of the Iron Knights Chapter, brother," I remind him patiently, "and you must abide by their decrees even if you find them objectionable. My brothers and I are duty-bound to serve Remmeig; our blades – our very lives – are his to command now."
"I see little difference between the path of the renegade and the path of the mercenary," Amaleth says, making no attempt to hide his disdain. I do not begrudge him his scorn, for it is a sure sign his warrior-pride is returning. "It is better to be a sellsword then a heretic," I say. "Our sins and regrets are many, yet now we strive to atone for our past wrongdoings. The road we have walked together has been hard, bitter and bloody; nevertheless, our brotherhood has endured despite our many trials and though you might distrust us we are still willing to offer you a place amongst our ranks."
"We shall see." Amaleth lifts his head and strides purposefully into the training hall. Syvrith and Laemach are sparring with practice swords in one of the dueling cages; Alessian is seated at a work table meticulously cleaning and anointing the component pieces of his disassembled boltgun and Vargus is performing a series of complex hand-to-hand combat maneuvers against a plethora of imaginary opponents within the confines of a wrestling mat. Berothec, fortunately, is absent, likely meditating or self-flagellating in an isolation cell. Only I am fully armored; the rest are bare-chested, clad in baggy exercise trousers. As Amaleth enters they immediately turn from their various pursuits and regard him with a studied, wary interest.
"My name is Amaleth," the Space Marine announces as he comes to a halt in the center of the hall, "I am a scion of Sanguinius and a loyal servant of the Emperor of Mankind." His voice is stronger now, his words rational and concise. He does not name his Chapter. The eyes of my comrades fixate upon him, instinctively searching for some flaw or weakness in his form or bearing. Amaleth endures their collective appraisal unflinchingly and scrutinizes them with the same intensity in turn.
Syvrith, my staunchest ally and closest friend, approaches and introduces himself first. "I am Syvrith, formally of the Storm Wings Chapter, a son of Corax the Deliverer," he says, holding out a pale scarred hand. To my relief Amaleth takes it and the two Astartes grip wrists.
"Sor'ken has spoken quite well of you," Amaleth replies, "He says there is no warrior in the galaxy whose blade he trusts to guard his back more then yours."
Syvrith smiles despite himself, obviously pleased by the complement. "My blades will watch over your back just as readily, Amaleth – if you are willing."
Alessian greets Amaleth next. "My name is Alessian; once I was a Novamarine, now I am merely a son of Guilliman seeking to find a worthy purpose once more." Amaleth nods. "Sor'ken tells me you are an exceptional marksmen and very handy to have in a firefight."
Alessian shrugs, indifferent to the praise. "Every warrior should endeavor to excel at some aspect of warfare; I am always seeking to improve my marksmanship skills – at least when the Iron Knights aren't hogging the firing ranges all to themselves, that is."
Laemach, the tallest among us, does not offer Amaleth his hand; instead, to my surprise, he inclines his head respectfully and makes the sign of the aquila across his chest. "Well met, brother of the Blood; my comrades know me as Laemach. I, too, am a son of Sanguinius. My Chapter was the Flesh Eagles, an ancient and esteemed brotherhood that traced its origins back to the Forth Founding – yet there are none now left to mourn or curse my fall from the Emperor's grace, for I am the last Astartes of my gene-line."
There is a stunned silence following Laemach's revelation. I had not known this, and judging by the incredulous expressions of the others none of them had known either. We had assumed he was a disgraced outcast like ourselves when we recruited him from the gladiatorial arenas on the pirate-controlled asteroid-fortress of Carsmar. To be the sole survivor of an extinct Chapter must have plunged his soul into the blackest depths of despair; no wonder he had lost himself in senseless butchery for the entertainment of Carsmar's bloodthirsty pirate-kings and corsair-queens.
Amaleth appears genuinely stricken by this unexpected news. "I shall lament the Flesh Eagles' passing and pray for the safe gathering of their souls at the Emperor's side," he says, also making the sign of the aquila; he then turns to Vargus. The Libator is standing apart from the rest of us, his arms folded, his expression one of undisguised animosity.
"You are Vargus, once of the Libators Chapter," Amaleth's voice is guarded as he regards the Astartes through narrowed eyes, "and you advocated for my death in the presence of the leader of the Iron Knights."
"True enough," the Libator answers without a trace of remorse, "though I was not the only one, in case Sor'ken neglected to tell you. When he and Syvrith first brought you aboard you were a deranged animal who wanted nothing more then to slaughter anything with a pulse with your bare hands. Your own Chapter-brothers would have not have hesitated in putting you down. It is only due to Sor'ken's bleeding hearts and the Iron Knights' need for warriors that you still draw breath – you now owe Remmeig a life-debt, and his brothers will kill you if you prove unwilling to honor it."
Amaleth rounds on me, his eyes ablaze with hurt and outrage. "Is this the true reason you saved me, Salamander?" he snarls, "So I would be indebted to your new master's mercy? So I would be obligated to serve as your warband's sword-slave instead of returning to my brothers?" The Space Marine's fingers curl into claws and his secondary heart begins to beat as he struggles to retain his composure, "I should have known better then to trust you – you or any other Astartes not clad in the colors of my Chapter."
"Our brotherhood needed fresh blood following the loss of Cletus and Harkkon," Syvrith interjects quickly before I can respond; the Storm Wing keeps the point of his practice sword peaceably lowered despite the mounting homicidal tension. "It was an act borne of pure necessity, not malicious intent."
"Besides, we felt you deserved a chance to avenge your honor in righteous slaughter," Laemach says; he steps closer to Amaleth and reaches out, seeking to assuage the newcomer's rising anger. "Think of the countless traitors and Chaos degenerates we shall slay together, brother – think of the great crimson foe-tally we could reap in our gene-sire's name!"
Amaleth shies away from the Flesh Eagle's placating hand, his teeth bared. "Don't touch me," he hisses, "I will tear out your throat if you touch me."
"Amaleth, we are not –" I begin.
"No," Amaleth turns from me in disgust, "your words are meaningless to me now. You took the choice out of my hands. You placed me in an impossible position without my knowledge or consent."
"You were not in your right mind –"
"I was not given a choice!" he roars.
"But you have a choice now," Vargus says unexpectedly. "You can choose to join in Remmeig's doomed Death-Oath quest and pledge your blade to his service – or you can choose to spit upon his magnanimity and die a death as pointless as the one you would have suffered had we never come to Gargathul Keep. Better to be a 'sword-slave' then a traitors' plaything – not that I expect a warrior who managed to get himself captured alive by the Archenemy to amount to much."
Amaleth emits a bestial growl and starts towards the Libator, every genhanced muscle in his superhuman frame primed to unleash a storm of unspeakable violence. Vargus stands his ground, silently daring him to attack with a contemptuous sneer.
"None of us have any say concerning the Adamant Sword's destination, brother," Alessian says calmly as he interposes himself between the two hostile Space Marines, "the Iron Knights voyage wherever the trail of their quarry takes them. Remmeig is not going to break off his pursuit of the Gorehounds just to return you to your Chapter – however, if you prove your worth to him, as we have, he may be willing to make the journey once he has fulfilled his quest. Set aside your anger and join his cause; fight to avenge your honor, and when the last Gorehound lies dead you will be able to return to your brothers with the life-debt expunged and your head held high. Imagine what a triumph that would be. I know I would give anything to…to experience such a homecoming."
Amaleth takes a forceful breath and collects himself, then gazes at each of us in turn, his face now stony and cold. To my shame I cannot meet his eyes. "Very well," he says bitterly, "You claim I have a choice in this when it should be obvious even to a halfwit child that no such choice exists." He strides to a nearby weapon rack and takes down a plain unassuming short sword. "If I am to become a mercenary in order to regain my freedom then I must first test the caliber of the men I am to fight beside." He levels the blade directly at Vargus in open challenge, "You first, Libator. To third blood."
"Ah," Vargus smiles in fiendish satisfaction as he selects a similar sword and tests its balance. "So you think you can prove your worth by besting us all in single combat? I am quite unsurprised: the gene-sons of the Great Angel have always been arrogant and overly-proud of their heritage. I will enjoy putting you in your proper place."
The two Space Marines enter the nearest dueling cage while the rest of us gather around, our anticipation palpable. Laemach, Syvrith and Alessian are just as eager to pit themselves against Amaleth as Vargus is, for there is no quicker, surer method for one Space Marine to gain the measure of another. Amaleth paces about the circumference of the cage with a predator's easy grace as he and Vargus circle each other, the sword held loosely in his right hand. Gone is the feral, deranged beast who had tried to claw and head-butt his way through my armor in his desire to kill me. A disciplined, self-assured Astartes now stands in his stead, ready to carve out a place amongst our brotherhood with his own skill and tenacity.
Pride is the most deadly and insidious of all the sins – I know this truism better then most; yet, in this moment, as I bare witness to the vindication of my once-derided, seemingly hopeless labors, I am proud – Amaleth has chosen to fight.
Vargus attacks first; the Libator is not the greatest swordsmen among us – that distinction belongs to Laemach – but he is among the most ruthless and driven. Amaleth is quickly put on the defensive as he struggles to defect a flurry of blows directed at his face and chest, his opponent's sword a silvery blur of angry steel. Unequipped with disrupter-fields the two blades throw off bright sparks as they clash nakedly at speeds too swift for the human eye to track. Both Space Marines fight with a perfect economy of motion – there is no embellishing or showing off. Twenty-three seconds in and first blood goes to Vargus when he breaks through Amaleth's guard and scores a shallow cut across his chest; Amaleth's Larraman cells immediately cause the wound to scab over, yet the scent of his own blood seems to goad him to greater efforts and three seconds later Vargus is the next to bleed when the edge of Amaleth's sword slices into his right bicep.
"First blood to both combatants," Laemach announces, his words lending a measure of formality to the proceedings.
The duel continues for another two full minutes without either Astartes landing a strike. By mutual consent they both disengage and begin to circle each other once more, each seeking to exploit a fresh opening in the other's defenses. "You still smell like you've been wallowing in a sty filled with pigshit and rotting corpses," the Libator says, attempting to goad his opponent into making a rash move. Amaleth does not rise to the bait. With a snarl Vargus attacks again, putting more weight and speed behind his blows. Then, without betraying his intentions, Amaleth abruptly drops to one knee; Vargus' sword cuts through the empty air above the former captive's head a heartbeat before the Libator realizes he has overextended himself. Now inside his guard, Amaleth surges upright, throwing his free arm about the Libator's neck as if to embrace him, and instead sinks his broken, jagged teeth into Vargus' throat as he pulls the other Astartes against him.
"Throne," Syvrith breathes.
"Second blood to Amaleth," Laemach says dispassionately.
Vargus utters a wet gargling cry of rage and tries to break away; Amaleth releases him only to then drive his sword straight into the Libator's stomach before he can retaliate; Vargus staggers backwards, half the blade now protruding grotesquely from his thickly-muscled midriff.
"Third blood to Amaleth."
"Stand down!" barks Alessian in shocked dismay, "this has gone too far!"
Vargus' sword clatters to the bloodspattered plasteel floor. "Bastard…" he chokes out furiously, clamping a hand to his mangled throat, the other grasping for the protruding sword-hilt; he drops to one knee, clotting blood dribbling thickly between his gritted teeth. Amaleth picks up the Libator's fallen blade and salutes the defeated Space Marine in the time-honored manner of a duelist. "You fought well," he says, his voice perfectly neutral, "I shall look forward to sparring with you again once you have recovered."
"Whoreson," Vargus spits as he pulls the sword free; he clambers to his feet and exits the dueling cage, the front of his gray trousers now darkly stained with vitae. Amaleth turns to regard the rest of us, his eyes glittering with a feverish intensity borne of victory and combat-euphoria.
"I can fight back," he says aloud to himself, raking his tangled hair from his sweat-streaked face. "At last I can finally fight back." With that he pans the tip of his sword across us, moving it from one Astartes to another in open challenge once more. A ferocious smile splits his crimsoned features and he licks at the blood coating his lips.
"So, 'brothers' – who's next?" he asks.