The aspirants stood in a ragged line, some silent, some weeping, all covered in blood. Chaplain Hezekyah prowled back and forth before them, a menacing figure clad in night-black armor, his fearsome skull-faced helmet locked in a perpetual snarl as he surveyed the survivors of the first trail. Fourteen victors – fourteen vicious feral-world whelps clad in animal hides, their skin painted with the sigils of their respective tribal groups, their hands gripping crude knives of knapped stone. The only reason they weren't still trying to kill one another was because he'd ordered them to stop fighting six minutes ago. Those who had fallen – over five score in all – lay strewn about the clearing; one lay directly in Hezekyah's path, without pausing he kicked the corpse aside; fragile ribs snapped like twigs as his ceramite boot made contact. Several boys flinched. Behind his helm the Chaplain bared his teeth in an unlovely smile.
"Such is the fate of the weak," he growled; the aspirants shivered at the sound of his unnatural vox-distorted voice. Hezekyah ceased pacing and panned his crozius arcanum across the remaining boys. "And what of the rest of you? Are you weak also? Do you deserve to die in this place as well?"
Despite their wounds and exhaustion the savages stood their ground, shouting their defiance and denial; some held up their bloodied blades as proof of their worthiness, others pointed at the bodies of rivals they had personally killed, though the Chaplain's eidetic memory enabled him to perfectly recall who had slain who.
One boy remained silent; he was crouched at the end of the line, uninterested in what the others were doing. He wore nothing except a deerskin loincloth and his body was unmarked by tribal sigils; he did not react as the Chaplain approached, continuing to clean the blood from a length of dried sinew he had used to garrote a larger aspirant by running it across his tongue; the taste of his opponent's vitae seemed to please to him.
"What is your name?" Hezekyah asked, intrigued by the boy's behavior.
The aspirant stared up at him with keen stormcloud-gray eyes. "I am Sigur."
"And why do you bare no tribe-markings, Sigur?"
"I washed them all away in a stream after I left my village," said the boy. "Someone who already belongs to a tribe would be considered a traitor if they suddenly abandoned it to seek out another. To join your tribe I must sever all ties to the one that bore me; our elders teach that no warrior can serve two chieftains, for he will be loyal and faithful to one and disloyal and faithless to the other. My loyalty now belongs to your chief, if he accepts me."
"And do you consider yourself worthy of acceptance?"
"I strangled the boy who tried to gut me," Sigur said, gesturing to a body lying in the blood-wet grass; there was no pride in his voice, nor any trace of humility. "He thought I would be easy prey because I was smaller. But anyone can become prey, no matter how big or strong they are." The boy stood, winding the garrote around one hand. "And if anyone else tries to kill me I will fight them all until I am dead. I'll never let myself be seen as prey – never."
"Step forwards," Hezekyah commanded. Sigur left the other aspirants and stood before him, craning back his head to meet the scarlet eye-lenzes of the Chaplain's skull helm. His face was free of fear. "Are you going to try to kill me?" he asked the Space Marine.
"No," said the Chaplain. He pressed the winged head of his crozius against the boy's chest were his single human heart still beat. "I am going to do everything in my power to break you."
Sigur's gaze did not waver. "And if I don't break?"
"Then one day I shall be proud to call you brother."
The boy smiled, his eyes brightening. "I always wanted to have a brother."
The ork nob's power-klaw punched through Hezekyah's chestplate, the four steel tines puncturing both birth lungs and his primary heart as the greenskin leader lifted him into the air. The Chaplain's crozius slipped from his grasp; he coughed, spraying the inside of his faceplate with blood. The ork grinned up at him, its oversized jaw crammed with yellow tusks; the creature was three times Hezekyah's size and already it had slain eight members of the assault squad, including Sergeant Ullric and Apothecary Silan. Only one lone life-rune still pulsed active on his visor-display. The greenskin bellowed something in its alien tongue and shook the Space Marine free of its klaw. Hezekyah landed at the beast's feet in a mangled heap; the nob raised a huge, armored foot and rested it upon the Chaplain's shattered chestplate, striking a conqueror's pose while its followers roared in triumph and clashed their weapons together.
"… anyone can become prey, no matter how big or strong they are."
The words of a boy long dead formed in the Chaplain's mind as the ork applied weight to its foot. The boy in that long-ago time had spoken a simple, undeniable truth: in a galaxy such as this there was always something bigger and stronger – anyone could become prey. The pressure increased. Hezekyah thrashed, choking on his own blood. Then the greenskins' exaltation abruptly morphed into fury as a solitary Space Marine slammed into the xenos, severing its leg at the knee with a savage sweep of his power-sword. The pressure vanished as the nob toppled sideways, roaring in pain; the lone Astartes collapsed beside the dying Chaplain, blood streaming from a dozen mortal wounds.
"Hezekyah…" the warrior rasped, raising his blade in defiance.
"Brother Sigur…" the Chaplain whispered as the orks fell upon them.