Two
Churches in the sky
The fetid stench of history
First time
i.
"Have you met other Astartes before us, Historitor Bhabli?" The Chaplain asked, taking them across the flagship through outer halls. Cathedral-like windows gave breath catching views of the void beyond, the assembled ships of the Spite Crusade, and the planet below.
"I have, lord. On Demeter IV, no less. The Excoriators were present in the manner of their 5th Company. They'd just put down a Chaos-induced rebellion when we arrived. My master afforded us a view of their departure march. An interesting Chapter, and one I am told, who shares your blood."
"They do." Agreed the Chaplain, one hand resting atop his mace, the other casually at his side. He was looking out of the window, the faint reflection of the red ocular lens just a tiny pinprick amongst the sea of black outside.
"Have you met other Astartes, lord? Those outside of your Chapter, of course." It had taken her several minutes to decide to ask, the very notion seeming childish, and saying it aloud even more so.
"I have not. Brother Altus has, in the manner of the Deathwatch. As has my Castellan, and our Champion." Turning and tilting his head, he looked down at her as they continued walking. "A curious question."
"I have been surrounded by Astartes for several years. At first, I was led to believe that you were all machine-stamped copies of something greater. But, with the few I've been granted a private audience with, you all seem painfully more rich in character." She did not make eye contact with him, but managed to look into the cavity of the skull helmet's "nose". There, she wouldn't shake under his seemingly bitter gaze.
"Interesting. No, Historitor Bhabli, I have not met other Astartes of other Chapters and other bloodlines. I've only known the Templars, and have fought at the very edge of the Imperium since I was taken as a boy-child." The words were not expanded on. So she pressed.
"You ask why? The galaxy is a large place, and when duty has you in the fine margins, well, it leaves little in the way of exploring the empire we are fighting for."
She made a face.
"That's a very boring answer, lord Chaplain."
"Spitewielder." Came the reply, gentle, but sure.
"As is that, lord Spitewielder."
"Yes, well, I am Astartes, Lady. My purpose is to be out there, killing, taking, dying if I must. I do not have the luxury of-"
"Not even the Feast of Blades?" She interrupted, looking up at him with a knowing grin.
"You know of our familial tradition?" The Chaplain had stopped, again, his head tilting just so as he looked at the mortal woman whose head barely came above his waist.
"The Excoriators were on their way to the Feast, the 5th Company was to be their Chapter's representative."
"I have not attended personally, nor have the members of my Crusade. I know not if we've attended since that same Chapter won against mine own. It is impressive, what you know, Historitor Bhabli, for one who supposedly only knows so much of my Chapter and our ways."
The Spitewielder had waited by one of the many viewing windows, watching as another ship lumbered into view. Turrets, gargoyles, castle walls, sword motifs, and much more adornment that Bhabli had expected to see on The Flail, passed by in silence. She drank in the scale of it, in awe at the might of humanity made in the form of floating iron and steel.
"What is that?" She asked quietly, playing witness to the warship anchoring.
"That is the Undaunted. Would you believe me if I said that it is one of the newest ships in the Imperium?" When she offered nothing but a blank expression, he continued. "The Undaunted was a gift from my liege, the High Marshal himself. It was forged upon my ascension, and bequeathed to our Champion as his personal chariot."
The name, gilded in pressed bronze and inlaid with millions of millions of etched golden script surrounding it, passed by. As Undaunted drifted past the window, she saw a pillar of silver sculpted in the shape of a rearing wolf. She stared at it until the white-blue heat of its engines became the new sun in the view of the armored window. She looked back to the Chaplain as he began to pace away from her, continuing down the hall.
"And this is an Emperor's Champion?" Again, the Chaplain looked down at her, nodding in agreement and what might have been approval.
"Aye, you will meet him on the world below. The ship is not delivering him, it is coming to its master's call. A fine captain, Shipmistress Aneshka Hos, commands it as the principle line-breaker of my fleet." He turned, moving away as the ship sailed on. "She has sailed for just under a decade, and has performed admirably in that short time. I have not seen something fight with that kind of tenacity outside of The Flail."
They came to a sealed door guarded by two armored serfs who bowed and opened it, squealing on hissing hydraulics and releasing air pressure. Several branching arteries cut off just past the door, but the Chaplain led them straight still. Less than a few meters, another hatch, this one an elevator platform, illuminated and waiting, rested at the floor.
They made no further conversation as they were conveyed to lower parts of the ship. Another hour's walk, this filled with spritzes of quick and mostly uninformative conversation. She had the sense that the Chaplain only had such a capacity to speak on things, and that she would need to "feel" out the best moments to engage with him.
They were in the bare bones of The Flail, gantries and industrial beams comprising the frame of the ship were more frequent and present here. Parchment with prayers and devout mantras hung from pipes, and candles littered corners and small perches along dozens of different places. Steam collected like fog in some of these areas, as well as pools of moisture.
She had been amongst two different fleets, but had not traversed their ships as extensively as she did now. To see an Astartes vessel like this opened up to her that most ships probably were like this, or worse. She knew The Flail was old, ancient even, but those that were in thrall to her were devoted to her upkeep. She was impressed that there were no stains, no creeping rust, not coughing or gurgling pipes or machinery draped across every meter of the ship.
Her experience so far had been a strange one. So much of what she was told to expect, and what she had built up in her mind, were instead replaced with stark mundanity and an almost utilitarian fashion, peppered with some of the Templar's more well known devotee practices.
They were in a main thoroughfare now, a great spacious gang-way that was meant to begin the mass of bodies heading toward the hangar and muster decks. Crew and serfs could be seen attending to duties or jogging to unknown destinations. Every one of them halted in their tasks and, curiously to Bhabli, bowed, but did not make the sign of the Aquila in his presence.
"I wish to remark upon an earlier statement you made. The one about the personalities of Astartes that you've engaged with." He did not look at her, instead committing to turning his death mask to face each soul they passed.
"Yes, you Space Mar-"
"Do not call us that." The Templar priest's voice cut through the almost solemn air. "At least in my presence. That particular pseudonym rings too poorly. 'Astartes', preferably. 'Angels', if you must. But anything sounds more noble and appropriate."
"Curious, but thank you for that insight. Was that…always your way?"
"Since my dawning of the Visage Eternal, I have learned that titles and names mean a great deal, and carry significant weight." He replied.
They passed through a great arch, shaped into a mighty gate. Carved into the stone to mimic that of a twin tongued banner, words gilded in gold addressed all those who passed beneath it.
'And still I must give more'
Seven braziers of black iron adorned each side of the portcullis leading to and from its mouth. Along its lip, gun boxes swiveled to track them. Armed and armored serfs stood in sizable numbers amongst it, defending its walls and watching those come and go.
"I can not comment on other Chapters, I have no knowledge nor experience as we've discussed, but the Templars are not exempt from fierce egos or mighty personalities.
"To become an Astartes is to suffer and triumph through pain and harm and endurance far beyond what a mere human is capable of. One can only succeed through that with discipline beyond measure, and a fiery spirit beneath. And what good is an Astartes without life in him? Does His empire believe soulless automatons fight for His people?" The oath parchments wax sealed to his legs fluttered in a sudden gust of air that ran through the corridor.
Bhabli wrote, glancing over at the hovering servo-skull that accompanied her, having been granted to her upon exiting the Solemn Archives. The machine clicked, a red light shining bright to indicate it was recording.
"I confess, lord, that I've only ever actually spoken to three other Astartes prior to meeting you." She pulled her shawl tighter, a current of air pressure had become stronger the further they got from the portcullis and to what she guessed were the Black Templar specific embarkation decks. "Maybe I'd rolled the dice and just happened upon three with some hints of their humanity in them."
"There is a lightness about you, Historitor Bhabli, that makes it more appealing to be open with you. Perchance it was that, or maybe you are correct. I, however, would like to believe the Emperor envisioned us to be more than simply a blunt instrument. A good sword has character to it. A ship has its own personality. A lasrifle does not fire the same as its ten thousand similarly stamped cousins.
"Just look to our founder. He was a man of singular focus, but of great passion, of a great humanity within him. I believe that to have made him the single greatest Astartes in history." His words were sincere.
Bhabli made notes, compounding her thoughts that the Chaplain's words did not come across as a boast, but something more similar to how her master discussed the histories with his fellow colleagues, or debates in one of his lectures.
"And you've modeled yourself in such a fashion?"
"Yes, Historitor Bhabli. And, as commander of this Crusade, I've fashioned my knights in such a manner. I prize fury, zeal, passion, intrigue, and above all, spite."
She grinned, even gave a soft chuckle.
"You are amused?" The Chaplain asked, again in a very direct, cold lash that reigned in her playfulness.
"Spite, lord. The name of the Crusade, your weapon, and one of the less virtuous qualities of man. But, as you mentioned earlier," She closed her data slate, recovering from the conversational stumble and focusing her thoughts, "Why this particular trait? How do you even know an aspiring boy has it?"
"Spite, Historitor Bhabli, has a particular flavor to it. It colors your face in a way no other emotion can. All souls can possess hatred, and this we look for too, but it takes a particular kind to have the capacity for spite. It's all consuming, it is brutal, it brooks no quarter. That is the essence of a Templar manifest."
They came to a final gate, it stood open, the yawning portal opening up to The Flail's main embarkation decks. Dozens of war vehicles sat in their cradles, or were arrayed in neat order, gravitically sealed to the deck through the massive plates their tracks sat on.
Above were docked avian-like gunships. Each of them painted in the color of the Templars, sporting the heraldic cross on their wings and bellies. Servitors and tech adepts of the Machine Cult of Mars were tending to them, or carrying crates to and from, here and there.
Dozens of menials, ratings, serfs, slaves, servitors, and tech adepts buzzed around the deck. Compared to the practically mournful ambience of the rest of the ship, here, the crew were visible, audibly, and active.
A lone gunship was sat at the edge of the deck, near the shimmering layer of atmospheric shielding protecting them from the vacuum of hard space beyond. Its ramp was lowered, and arranged before it were the knights she had met within the Archive, and several others she had not.
The Templars were in a loose semi circle, with brother Altus at its center, the pole of a furled banner grasped in the silver fist of his left arm. A stylized "I" was embossed in blood-red stone on that silver arm, bisected with three vertical gold bars.
These warriors, each of them, had a handwritten word etched in white paint above their left eye lenses. SPITE. These were the Spiteful, the retinue to the lord Spitewielder. The Chaplain's very own command squad, and those knights entrusted to the safety and protection of a Chapter's sacred artifact and holy relic.
Only the Castellan was absent. In the light of the embarkation deck, the Templar known to her as Malgur was clad in far different armor than she made out in the dim lighting of the Archives.
Where the other knights in the circle wore the black of their Chapter, this warrior was clad in Martian Red, four arms, each ending in different heads, jutted from his back. A black hood hid his helmet, and from it, the light of a single red light shown through a horizontal slit across what she guessed was the warrior's helmet.
In unison the Templar banged their fists to their chests and remained as such until the two came to rest before them.
"Board." Came the Spitewielder's reply once he returned the salute.
"Lord Kestian wished for me to convey his apologies." Altus said, boarding last and taking his place beside the Chaplain. As Bhabli ascended the ramp into the waiting gunship, she had a brief moment of vertigo.
"I've not been on an Astartes gunship before, lord Spitewielder." She stood at the mouth of the gunship, staring at the rows of empty harnesses meant to hold other knights Templar. Brother Kybert came to her, and fastened her near the pilot hatch, where eight human sized seats were bolted into the interior wall.
"Try not to talk, and keep your tongue curled, that'll also help with the ear pressure. But more importantly, you won't bite it off. Ardan is an excellent pilot, chosen personally by our lord himself. But he does have a pension for speed."
At this, Kybert slammed the restraints onto her and secured himself adjacently. "In the absence of the Spitewielder, I have been honored with your protection, Historitor Bhabli. Indeed, after tonight's events, I will be the one to escort you through The Flail to your personal quarters."
Bhabli nodded but was too caught up in clutching the servo-skull tightly in her lap as the ramp closed shut and a tremendous roar began to build in the cabin. The lights sank into a menacing, rich amber. The Templar's eye lenses were swallowed, giving their helmets a baleful glow that only seemed to accentuate the recesses in the crooks of their gorgets and faceplates.
The Chaplain's helmet turned towards her. His voice boomed from the cabin's vox emitters.
"Planetfall."
Her stomach was pulled into her lower gut and then sent slamming into her ribcage as the Thunderhawk burst out of The Flail with its engines flaring. It dove straight into the waiting planet's atmosphere and became a shooting star in the nighttime sky.
ii.
Rothusberg hung lonely within the gulf spanning the Crucis and Pandora Sectors, at the edge of the Segmentum Tempestus. One of three worlds, and one of the two habitable ones, it became the waypoint between trade of the two sectors.
Here, toeing the edge of the Galactic Meridian, there hadn't been so much as a visual sighting of xenos in the area for some two generations. In mortal span, the reality of the xenos took on more of a mythical, folktale fiction. A story to be told to young children to coerce them into proper behavior.
When the ships of the Black Templars sailed into its sky the people saw their arrival as a blessing. They did not appreciate the ill portent the coming of the Emperor's Angels of Death really were. In the comparatively short time they had been anchored, the Black Templars had been true to the heritage they came from.
The world was fortified, a monastery keep was built in the lone mountain chains that Rothusberg boasted from her northern cap. A minor simulacrum of a spaceport was erected near the planet's capital, Roth'ul. Walls were raised, towers and turrets buttressed along them, and the city's populace trained. A fine PDF regiment raised in its millions, trained by the knights who bade them muster. Two regiments, the 1st and 2nd Roth Janissaries were founded. Each regiment boasted a complement of no less than sixty thousand men, rigorously tutored in war by the black armored knights that accompanied their daily exercises.
And so, they became burdened by the harshest of the Emperor's Tithes. Entire generations were given over to the scalpels of the Templar Apothecaries. Young boys were harvested, taken from proud or miserable parents.
But in return, the world was made strong. Its people made proud, and their legacy forever carved into the annals of the Solemn Archive. More Black Templar would be sired here, and play host to a small skeleton force garrisoning its monastery.
Trade-skills flourished during this time. The Crusade would need to manufacture its war material, and furnish its newly found soldiers. Under the watchful, and oddly personal, eyes of the Black Templars commander, the Imperial Guard forces were outfitted and armed.
Not so populated that it would develop into a Hive World, not without substantial reinforcement from the Adeptus Adminstratum, it was still widely inhabited. Its capital city held nearly fifteen percent of the planet's population alone behind its newly constructed walls. Its people were held in thrall by a pseudo-feudal governance, ruled by a Duke chosen by way of a council vote of several richer, influential Houses.
Upon his arrival, it is said the Black Templars commander ordered them to show deference to the warriors of the Emperor, and had them retake their oaths of loyalty, service, and duty. To this, he demonstrated how little power they actually held, eviscerating a nobleman too proud to bend the knee. Indeed, his corpse could still be found hanging from the Cathedral of the Emperor and Lesser Saints's main communion chamber.
A knight was raised to the rank of Castellan, a sergeant Lykanstirr, and vowed his oath of protection in the ruling nobility's presence. They then gave similar oaths to the newly raised Castellan, vowing their patronage and support of the Templars monastery and Chapter.
From the void, the world shown in dark hues of blue and green, rich and almost gloomy. It sported a single desert, in its southern hemisphere, and fair tundra near the north. Its people were hardy, traditional, and largely privileged in the wider Imperium. Their galactic neighbors to the East were the mighty empires of Ultramar. Nearer still were active patrol fleets of the Fleet Segmentum.
But as was the way of the galaxy, war came to all. Bloodshed and hurt found everyone in their remote corners of the inky blackness that seemed to hate the very notion of life. And so they became people of the Black Templars, and played subservient to the Astartes that had drastically changed the course of their world's history forever.
For Bhabli, however, the world was an all consuming, present roar that filled her head fit to burst. The shaking of the gunship rocked her into her harness and the poor excuse for padding that made up the rest of the restraint chair. She simply focused her efforts on not severing her tongue, curled as it was instructed to by the knight Kybert.
They stayed in void for a little under seven minutes, before the brutal transition between the world's atmospheres hit. When that came, it felt like an eternity. In the scant moments she opened her eyes, all she could see was the blur of the red tinted cabin, and the knights motionless in their harnesses.
After seemingly forever, the flight smoothed out, but the speed increased. The engines screeched, and she was pushed further into her chair. The cabin light suddenly went to a sickly yellow, flickering incessantly.
As one, the Templar disengaged their harnesses, stomped into orderly ranks, and waited. Kybert stood, but remained near his harness, one hand gripping her right-most handrail.
"Three. Two…" A mechanical voice buzzed over the vox-emitters. There was a sickeningly fast, whip like spin, into a teeth crunching, but controlled thump as they came to rest. As the feet touched down, the light inside of the gunship turned green, and the ramp hissed open, letting in the overcast sky.
She made to release herself, but the Templar placed his hand on the restraint and offered her a respirator. Without waiting, he placed it over her mouth and nose.
"Breathe deeply, Historitor Bhabli. You've been on shift ships for several months. This is your first true atmosphere. You don't know it yet, but your legs are cramped and would fail you if you tried standing."
His voice came out of the grills of his helmet in an angry, mechanical snarl. She did not argue, taking in deep lungfuls from the mask.
The Astartes released her after several minutes. By now, they were alone, save for the pilot above, locked away in the cockpit. She tried standing, finding herself still caught lightheaded. She leaned on the towering Templar. He took her hand steadily, barely a single digit for her entire hand.
"Thank you, knight Kybert." She said, taking the time to reorient herself, adjust her shawl, and reactivate her servo-skull. The Templar nodded, then led her down the ramp slowly. The world had a gentle chill to it. It was mid-autumn, and the foliage on the trees had already begun to change into a deep red, like that of wine, flecked with orange and goldenrod.
The smell of rain saturated rockrete was everywhere. Puddles sat rippling in the unseen breeze of the late afternoon, reflecting thick, ugly gray clouds looming above. Hundreds of ships sat in smart, ordered rows along a runway that seemed to stretch beyond her sight's limits. There were dozens of similar gunships that she had come in on, outnumbered by the hundreds of Imperial Guard Valkyries, Arvus lifters, and personal Aquila fliers.
Fighter engines whirred overhead, guarding, patrolling. Great towers hovered above her, affixed with many barreled guns, cables, dishes, and antennae in equal measures. Guards with lasrifles and sabres at their hips walked the runway grounds in small, vigilant groups.
"Sir Kybert, why are measures of security in place? I was told there were no active war zones in this sector." As she asked, another wing of six Imperial Thunderbolts raced overhead, filling the air with a ballistic roar as they did.
"The lord Spitewielder demands consistency in all things. And more so, we Black Templars are the Crusaders Eternal, we are always in a zone mortalis, Lady." Kybert pointed to another Black Templars gunship resting near an archway. "That is the Castellan's Thunderhawk."
She looked over, seeing the red-winged profile of the Castellan's machine. Brutal, ugly, and durable, the gunship had a menacing quality to it in its avian features. The heraldic cross of the Chapter was decorated in red, similar to the Castellan's pauldron.
"The colors are significant, no?"
"Aye. The Castellan was once of the Sword Brethren. A high honor within our ranks. He earned the rights to the Marshal's Red." Kybert saluted the gunship as they walked past, his fist hammering to his tabard-covered cuirass.
They passed through the arch, a uniformed officer jogging over to greet them. The soldier clicked his heels, saluted, and pointed down the roadway to their left.
"Second right, then your first left, sir knight."
Bhabli blinked twice at the butchered Gothic. It was nasally, the 'sir' mashed in its non-rhotic chirping.
Kybert nodded, then continued down the path instructed.
"You come to appreciate the tongue. They've a pointed candidness that can be very refreshing, if not humorous." The Templar said, catching Bhabli's expression.
They passed by rockrete barracks, prefabricated mess halls, mesh wire gates, and pipes coiling over the ground. The place had a tang of engine smog in the air, and the whispers of techno-mechanical chanting could just be heard. When they'd wound their way into the final left hand turn, they were greeted with a wide promenade.
At its end was a large keep, built from stone, ferrocrete, and ceramite plating, its three towers stabbing into the sky. Spot lights from the ground were trained upwards, aiming directly along the wallskirt of its closed portcullis.
Filling the expansive gray slabbed path were tens of thousands of bodies arrayed in orderly ranks, with more still filing in and resting in neat order behind their compatriots. Banners stood in their hundreds amongst the sea of varying uniforms.
Cherubs floated over their heads, their infant hands gripping vox emitters in the form of trumpets, or carrying skulls with their jaws replaced by the boxy amplifiers.
A narrow path cut through the marshaled forces of the Spite Crusade, enough for a single tank to trundle down. Priests of the Ecclesiarchy, and Chapter serfs sworn to the Templars were carrying incense burners, or splashing blessed water onto the soldiers at rest, walking up and down the path. Others offered small blessings, anointing some, chastising others.
"Sir Kybert?" Bhabli asked, halting.
"Just Kybert is agreeable, Lady." He said, stopping as he looked over his shoulder to see her waiting.
"Can you get me higher up? I wish to detail the events more accurately."
The Astartes nodded, pointing to one of the dozens of small, raised observation platforms. Striding unimpeded, climbing the small ladder, Bhabli set her servo skull to passive/wander and pulled out her data slate.
She wrote furiously, ignoring the other occupants sharing the space with her. She gazed across the gathering mass of soldiers arrayed in their neat ranks, each regiment's uniform a clash to their neighbors'. She noted the way the sky sat like slate, and how the atmosphere gave everything in Rothusberg a subtle, navy tinge.
When she finished her notes, she slowed down to appreciate the scene, and her compatriots whom she'd ignored upon arriving on the observation platform.
A young man was sat in front of his easel, confidently and purposefully smearing paint with the edge of his spatula. He didn't pay any mind to her. Another man, this one much older, rake thin, and tall, clacked noisily away at the runes of a brass keyed stenograph.
The last occupant, this one a woman of middling years, stood still in the corner, leaning against one of the platform's support columns. The upper part of her face was hidden within a dome of pearl, sealing just above her philtrum. Her fingers were multi-jointed, and ended in six digits as opposed to five. They twitched at her unseen commands.
Bhabli turned back to her own slate, and looked out amongst the crowded palisade. She noted banners, names, sigils, emblems, coats of arms, the stylized words of regiments, and the way their uniforms stood out against the muted colorscape of the city they inhabited.
A great and terrible electric whine cut through the late afternoon air. She winced as it faded from its peak. Several figures stepped into the light of the illuminated wall top of the portcullis.
At their arrival, dozens of servo skulls floated amongst the gathered soldiers, and filled the empty space between the parade grounds with miniature images of the looming silhouettes. Others bobbed on idle gravitic pulses, gently hovering above their heads, their vox emitters tuned to full. A snarling voice carried over the promenade.
"Soldiers of the Imperium, warriors of the Spite Crusade, I bid you all welcome, and rejoice at the sight of you." The Spitewielder stepped forward from the gathering.
"Patiently, you have waited, and trained, and prayed as we've gathered our strengths here. See the heavens and see the unyielding iron that hangs above us. See the many guns and the might of our engines. We are now a mighty host, a sharpened blade ready to be unsheathed and thrust into the stars of the Pale Spiral."
A great roar of approval greeted his words. She saw troopers, captains, and even the tall peaked caps of the Commissariat punching their balled fists into the air. The other documentists around her picked up their pace, and in embarrassment, she did so too.
When all settled, the Spitewielder stepped back, allowing for a mortal to replace him. This, a stocky, broad, older gentleman wearing a fine coat of deep plum, white embroidery decorating its shoulders. She couldn't make out the details of his face from where she stood, but the voice that echoed over the promenade spoke of a well schooled man, his words clear and spoken knowing they would be followed to the letter.
"In two hours we will begin mass boarding. The morning after next, we will have left Rothusberg behind and to begin warp travel. Efficiency and speed are crucial in these coming hours. Commissars, see to the expediency of your commanders' efforts. Troopers, the word of your leaders is the word of the God Emperor!" The man held his arms to the sky, greeted by a chorus of Ave Imperator!
A final figure stepped forward. As one, the knights situated at the front of the gathering, so much taller than the figures behind them, raised their weapons in salute. The collective synchronicity of their movement sent a brief chill down Bhabli's spine. A cry was taken up by the Astartes.
"Imperator Vult!"
The figure raised a single hand. Almost like a madness had taken them, several mortal commanders stepped forward, kneeling at the portcullis. Commissars, clearly bristling, came forward with weapons drawn and ready. A single word echoed through every vox speaker, halting the harsh punishment impending on those bending the knee out of order.
"No."
Bhabli looked around, unsure, catching the eye of the older, taller man with the stenograph.
"He's very popular." He whispered, pointing with his chin to the distant figure.
"Who is he?" She asked, only able to make out that he was an Astartes.
"That is the Crusade's Champion, lord Wilhelt, affectionately known as "the Wolf"." The man turned back and added a few more lines to his work. "I understand he's trained a good portion of this world's newly founded regiments and-" The Champion's voice rang across the promenade, drowning the old man out.
"To the death!"
"TO THE DEATH!" Came the reply of tens of thousands of throats.
iii.
In neat order, the representatives of the host comprising the key fighting elements of the Spite Crusade, turned, and began marching away. The dignitaries and documentarians watched, some composing their fine work, others enjoying quiet conversation with their fellows.
Bhabli scribbled, not bothering to look down, and wrote as much about what she could see.
Here, closest to her, were the red-carapaced forms of the 62nd Jovich Grenadiers, their heraldry that of crossed swords and a skull embedded within a knight's visored helmet.
Across from them were the 119th Mastian Armored, a simple tunic of beige with cream trim, and a ballistic helmet with the Aquila stamped onto it. Their right arms, however, were decorated in overlapping plates of polished silver. These were the soldiers she had accompanied to get here.
The 8th Host of Rahm stood behind them, each in black trench coats and sporting half-masks of fire scorched brass sallets, each shaped into glaring eyes. Their standard was that of a flaming Aquila, the inverted body of a man crucified from its neck.
On and on they marched past, none bothering to look up at the observers above them. Bhabli made quick sketches of some of them, noted how individual companies marched, or how their officers addressed or moved them. She looked further back, to where the great gate stood, where the commanders of the Crusade had made their speeches.
The line of Astartes was much smaller than she had originally anticipated. Indeed, there were so few in comparison. The size of the Excoriator Company she had witnessed seemed massive, alongside their fighting vehicles and specialists. Here, she guessed the Black Templar were less than fifty knights in strength.
"That can't be right." She muttered out loud, not meaning to. The artist had left by then, and the older man was already partially down the steps. The dome headed woman looked right at her.
"Pardon, mamzel?" She asked, her voice surprisingly high, sounding almost childlike.
"None needed, miss, I simply said a thought aloud." Bhabli replied, staring where she thought the woman's eyes would be.
"A crown for your thoughts?" When Bhabli raised an eyebrow, the woman giggled. "An old man's saying. Go on, then, love. I'm curious."
She marched very evenly, one foot, literally, in front of the other.
"Really, mamzel, it's nothing. Just that I figured there would be more of them." Her left hand held out to the now vanishing sight of the Black Templars Astartes.
"The Black Templars are here in more strength than they let be seen."
At this, Bhabli raised her eyebrow. The halls of The Flail seemed barren enough, having witnessed a handful of mostly mortal crew.
"A curious bunch, the black crusaders. They've made quite a harvest of this world, planting their banner in the furthest, darkest, coldest, harshest region. But still, quite effective. Very effective."
When the pearl-headed woman stopped speaking, Bhabli began her question, then stopped, and followed it up with another instead.
"Who are you?"
"I am Carmine Estella, savant to my lordship, Lady Inquisitor Charlotte Maldese."