Legion of the Damned

‘Perhaps there was an error with the procedure…’

‘Gideon said that you would try something like this.’

‘I see the impossible.’

‘Seeing is believing, Kersh. Make the impossible happen here and we might just have a chance.’

‘I am still afflicted, Apothecary!’

Serfs, who usually had their eyes directed to the floor in the presence of an Adeptus Astartes, looked up at the tormented Excoriator.

Ezrachi ground to a halt and turned. ‘I’ve reviewed the procedure and already made a thorough medical examination of your person. The procedure was a success.’

‘An occulobular defect?’

‘Impossible.’

‘Suprahormonal imbalance.’

‘Would have other symptoms.’

‘Cerebral damage.’

‘I was wrong, Kersh.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Back on the Scarifica, I ordered rest and recuperation. I was wrong. All of your wounds, those sustained at the hands of the Alpha Legion and the catalepseal procedure that followed, are all but healed. We are the Emperor’s Angels and we are made in his image, but we are not the same. I underestimated your powers of recovery. You are gifted, Scourge, and I need you to use that gift now. Your brothers expect this of you. It is a matter of honour and you must answer your Chapter’s call. This above all other considerations. Do you hear me, Kersh? The time is now. Two minutes – or the Excoriators forfeit the contest and their honour.’

The Scourge’s shoulders sagged. ‘Then I am simply losing my sanity.’

‘A mortal condition – I assure you. Follow me,’ Ezrachi instructed and ducked through an archway. Inside, Kersh found a small chamber. Each Chapter had been set aside a small area close to the arena known as the Cage to use for their preparations martial, medical and spiritual. ‘Assist Brother Hadrach,’ Ezrachi ordered Kersh’s serfs as the Scourge came to stand on a central stone bearing the Excoriators’ seal. The young Techmarine Hadrach had forgone his ceremonial plate and had settled instead for forge-robes. He worked feverishly over an adamantium anvil with an assortment of calibrated hammers, but paused long enough to give Kersh a stare of positive dislike.

‘As you were, brother,’ Ezrachi said, and the Techmarine returned to his work. Old Enoch and Oren started walking pieces of armour from Hadrach’s workspace to their Excoriator lord. Bethesda disrobed the Scourge. As her two compatriots began decorating their master’s muscular form she got to work on the belts, clips and seals that held the ceramite plates together.

‘What is this?’ Kersh asked looking down at the deep yellow of the battered breastplate the absterge was harnessing to his chest.

‘All combatants wear the old Legion’s colours in the Cage,’ Ezrachi told him. He peered out of the chamber and down the corridor before turning back to the Scourge. ‘A sign of symbolic unity.’

Hadrach handed Old Enoch and Oren a shoulder plate each. The first was the allegiant yellow of the Imperial Fists. The second bore the Chapter marking of the Excoriators. It had been this plate that the Techmarine had been working on. It was crumpled and badly damaged.

‘That will have to do. Usachar took a real beating.’

‘Ezrachi…’

‘The contest had already begun when you were awoken. You therefore did not attend the opening rites.’ The Apothecary peered into the corridor once more, anxious about the time. ‘What do you know about the Feast of Blades?’

‘I know that it’s a diplomatic waste of time to have brothers fight one another when we have a galaxy of enemies more worthy of our blades.’

‘The Feast of Blades commemorates our Lord Primarch’s decision to break up his Legion as the Codex Astartes instructed. Dorn chose the Iron Warriors fortress known as the Eternal Fortress on Sebastus IV as the instrument upon which to break us.’

‘And make us,’ Kersh acknowledged. ‘I know the saga of the Iron Cage.’

‘We entered the Eternal Fortress as a Legion,’ Ezrachi said. ‘We left as a multitude of Chapters. It pained the primarch to do this, but he knew it was necessary. Dorn himself presided over the first of the centenary Feasts. He wished successor Chapters to maintain good relations and a cult brotherhood. This commitment was re-honoured following the Daedalus Crusade. Our brothers from participating progenitor Chapters were invited to attend, and many of the Feast’s present rites and rituals were established. We know that Rogal Dorn broke the blade he’d used on Horus’s barge, after it had failed to protect his Emperor. His second sword, the weapon to which we refer as the “Sword of Sebastus” or the Dornsblade, emerged with the primarch from the Iron Cage. It is one of our most revered artefacts, a weapon carried and used by mighty Dorn himself. The Chapter that wins the Feast has the honour of retaining the blade and the solemn duty of presenting it at the next Feast – the contest they will host, at most, one hundred years later.’

‘Thanks for the history lesson. You sound like Santiarch Balshazar.’

‘You should know what you are fighting for.’

Kersh watched Bethesda fasten his shoulder plates in place. ‘I haven’t worn carapace since I served in the Tenth Company.’ Kersh wore a simple sparring arrangement. Upon a tunic and plated skirt sat an aquila-adorned chestplate, codpiece and ceramite shoulder-guards. Plated gauntlets and boots completed the armour. He wore no helmet and both his forearms and muscular thighs were exposed.

Ezrachi led Kersh from the chamber. ‘The rules are simple. Each round consists of a knock-out. Two champions enter. The one that walks from the Cage is declared the winner. Contestations last as long as they have to. The Cage is a ceremonial arena but is no dusty amphitheatre. It is an architectural interpretation of the Iron Cage as far as accounts allow, but the layout is changed between and within each round.’

‘Within?’

‘Within.’

Ezrachi took the Scourge through a sequence of gates and drome-barbica. The iron portcullis and stone of each entrance was decorated with sculpted scenes depicting Imperial Fists at their primarch’s side – a reminder to all who came to fight at the Feast that the Fists above all were Dorn’s chosen. The first among equals. Those deemed worthy to wear the primarch’s plate and colours. It sent a powerful message of martial and cultural superiority to other Chapter champions.

The Apothecary directed the serfs up to the tiered gallery. Old Enoch mumbled a blessing and Oren gave a moody nod of subservience.

‘Fight well, my lord,’ Bethesda said and lingered before disappearing after her father.

‘Talk to me about weapons,’ Kersh said. Ezrachi nodded. Kersh – ever the pragmatist and warrior.

‘You are only permitted two weapons within the Cage,’ the Apothecary told him. ‘This,’ he said, slapping the Scourge across the back. ‘Use it as you will. The second is a gladius secreted about the Cage. There are two: one for you and one for your opponent. The tips and edges of both blades have been smeared with a powerful paralytic toxin, engineered by the Adeptus Mechanicus especially for the Feast. The more you are cut, the more likely that you will go down. Your opponent will, of course, walk away victorious.’

The pair of Excoriators stood at the gate to the Cage. A single bell chimed, indicating the beginning of the contest.

‘Ezrachi?’

‘Yes?’

‘What if it’s not the procedure? What if it’s not my mind? What if it’s a further manifestation of the Darkness?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if these things I’m witnessing are… real?’

The Apothecary paused. ‘That would be a spiritual matter. Why don’t you discuss it with a Chaplain? As fortune would have it, you’re about to meet one.’