Chapter 194: The Duel Begins
The Dark Angels quickly reached the bridge.
"Our respects to you, Lord Romulus," the knights said, saluting the figure on the command throne with textbook precision. It was flawless.
Ezekiel, however, scanned the bridge. The Dawnlight's command deck was astonishingly spacious compared to other vessels. Its tiered platforms housed a multitude of departments. In addition to the military sections currently wrapping up the ground assault, there were administrative departments coordinating seamlessly with the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Ezekiel even saw a number of Astartes, sons of Guilliman, among them. They were busy, and from their words, Ezekiel could discern details of various governance projects.
The Chief Librarian of the Dark Angels nodded in approval. Conquest was always just the first step. To truly integrate a planet into the Imperium required decades of governance, and to make it an asset to the Imperium required centuries of development. The latter was the more important work. The Dark Angels knew this well. It was just that they could not devote too much of their own energy to such tasks. The purpose of their journey was far more important than overseeing the reconstruction of a single world.
"Greetings, Ezekiel. The sons of Russ have been waiting for you," Romulus said. He had no desire for excessive pleasantries with the legendary Dark Angels Librarian. He remained seated on his command throne, and after returning the nod of respect, he continued to work on the documents before him, maintaining a posture that was both majestic and appropriately distant. To say more was to risk a mistake, and he did not wish for an careless word to provoke these sensitive knights.
"..."
Ezekiel returned the salute, then turned his gaze to the sons of Russ. These cousins, after their refusal to accept the Codex Astartes, had always held a somewhat awkward position in the Imperium. Their maverick nature made them stand out wherever they went.
"Alm Iron-oath." The Wolf Guard twitched his nose, a bestial tic that made his wolf-tooth necklace sway gently. Under the undisguised disappointment of Ulvam Red-mane, Alm hammered a heavy fist against his chestplate. "I will be your opponent."
Ezekiel's gaze swept over the restless Blood Claws behind Alm. The eyes of the young warriors burned with an unconcealed desire for battle. He could smell the heat in the air—these newly augmented wolf-pups were like Fenrisian wolves in heat, desperate to prove themselves. He then looked back at the Wolf Guard, who was wielding a standard power axe and staring at him with a fervent intensity. A flicker of approval crossed Ezekiel's mind.
"Where is the designated ground?"
Alm turned and, with a gesture of his weapon, led the Dark Angels through the bridge. They finally stopped at a modified platform. It had once been an observation deck overlooking the production lines below, but was now fitted with polished steel plates. The railings had been replaced with pillars bearing the sigils of both Chapters, and the lighting array above illuminated the area like a stage.
"Come," the Wolf Guard said, stepping onto the dais and issuing the challenge. In the corner of his eye, he saw Red-mane grinding his teeth in frustration, and the other young Blood Claws pacing back and forth in the spectator area like leashed wolves.
Although Red-mane was always howling about winning honour for the Great Company, Alm did not want any accidents in such a serious affair. Over the millennia, the Space Wolves had, on more than one occasion, accidentally killed a Dark Angels' champion. Though they used barbarism as a mask, every Space Wolf, when they first joined the Legion, was a creature of pure instinct. Reckless and frenzied were their watchwords. Every Space Wolf went through the same transformation: from the pure fury of a Blood Claw, to a Grey Hunter who learned to temper that fury into a sharp blade, to a Long Fang who could perfectly balance instinct and reason.
This process was always soaked in blood. Some of it was their own. Most of it was others'. And the ones who caused these dueling scandals were usually the Blood Claws. Alm didn't know what the old wolves of the past were thinking, but he did not want such a disgrace to happen with his own pack, nor did he want to see another century-long feud born from a loss of control.
"My apologies, cousin," Ezekiel said, shaking his head from where he stood. "Your opponent is not I."
A member of the Consecrators stepped forward from the ranks. He shed his Chaplain's robes, revealing armour of an ancient pattern, so old that for a moment, Alm had the strange feeling he was looking at Gareth and his ten-thousand-year-old comrades.
Alm frowned slightly. The warrior's armour was covered in fine, intricate scrollwork. It was like the tattoos of the Wolves: the more complex the pattern, the more experienced, and thus the stronger, the warrior.
"I am Azrael, Supreme Grand Master of the Consecrators." The Dark Angel raised his sword, holding it vertically before his chest in a flawless salute to the Wolf Guard. As he moved, the tabard at his waist shifted, revealing a strange crozius hanging from his belt. Six black pearls were set into its ebony haft in a perfect hexagram.
Creak~
There it is again.
Ezekiel gripped the hilt of his own force sword, his hand unconsciously tightening as he scanned his surroundings, trying to figure out what was happening. That feeling of imminent death, as if a cold blade were pressed against his skull, had returned. But his psychic senses were being jammed, as if he were blindfolded, unable to see how events were unfolding.
"What a piece of work," Ramesses remarked to his companion. He, too, had already infiltrated the group, a psychic glamour flowing over his power armour, perfectly mimicking the dark green of the Dark Angels. The Alpha Legion's psychic disguise and personality-mimicry techniques were truly astonishing. Combined with the soul-projections of the replaced knights used as a cover, even a Chief Librarian like Ezekiel could not see through the deception. And the Dark Angels they had inserted would not betray themselves through their habits or a lack of knowledge of internal ciphers.
"Asmodai only has two of those," Ramesses continued. "This guy has six. As expected of the Consecrators. They really breed fanatics."
Arthur ignored him, his gaze fixed on the black pearls. For ten thousand years, the Dark Angels, based in The Rock, had been hunting the Fallen. These black pearls were the proof that a member of the Inner Circle had successfully made a 'Fallen Angel' repent. It was a cold fact that Asmodai, the infamous, bloodless, tearless Interrogator-Chaplain of the Dark Angels, had only ever earned two black pearls in his entire lifetime. One could only imagine the fanatical extent to which the Consecrators pursued the Fallen.
He couldn't say he didn't understand the feelings of Zahariel and the others. From his one-on-one conversations with them, from learning their personal histories, he knew just how fanatical the 40k-era Dark Angels could be. Ten thousand years ago, when Caliban was destroyed, there were at least fifty thousand Dark Angels on the planet. The thousand or so they had gathered now seemed like a lot, but what about the others? Over ten millennia, how many who knew nothing of the situation had been persecuted?
Arthur did not know. The Dark Angels' Inner Circle might have interrogation logs. He would try to investigate, but he could already imagine how bloody those records would be.
But what was he to do? Indiscriminately kill these 41st-millennium Dark Angels and replace them with their 31st-millennium counterparts? How would that make him any different from these fanatics?
'Judgment, or vengeance?'
Arthur shook his head, signalling for his own Dark Angels not to make a move. The answer was perhaps in those yet-to-be-decrypted archives. His job was to ensure that in their pursuit of the truth, the Dark Angels did not become another Asmodai.
Click~
In the Administratum section, Gareth, who was sorting through documents, suddenly froze. His long fingers shot out and pressed down on Cypher's hand. "Cypher, do nothing superfluous," he restrained him. "We are prepared, but we will not be the ones to draw first blood." Gareth's voice was as calm as a deep pool, but the force transmitted through his fingers made Cypher's vambrace creak.
Cypher turned to him, a dangerous red light glowing in his helmet's lenses. "He has killed at least six knights. Those pearls are the proof." Cypher's words were transmitted in a silent cipher, but even without sound, Gareth could feel the burning killing intent. Arthur's knowledge of the contemporary Dark Angels was extraordinary. They knew many of the Inner Circle's secrets, the identities of the Grand Masters, and the meaning of these black pearls.
Beneath his faceplate, the light and shadow played across Gareth's face, highlighting the tense line of his jaw.
"Yes," Gareth replied. "And so he will face judgment in the future. We will investigate. We will gather evidence. But before that, we cannot act on our own."
Beneath Cypher's vambrace, a servo-motor gave a soft click, but Gareth's hand did not move, as if it were a brace welded to the armour, suppressing even the slightest tremor. The administrative adepts continued to bustle around them, oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the corner.
"If we act as they do, making decisions without investigation, then what right do we have to call them Fallen?" Gareth's voice suddenly dropped. There were those among the Fallen who had truly turned. After their internal re-education on the nature of Chaos, they all agreed that those who had thrown in their lot with the Great Enemy deserved to die.
"The Prince would not wish to see us like this," Gareth continued his persuasion. "He has, with great difficulty, given us this chance for candor. Baseless suspicion and unverified killing—that is the true fall."
"..."
Cypher's armour system finally went silent, but his breathing under his faceplate was still as sharp as a knife. His voice came through the comms channel, thick with suppressed rage: "I will be waiting for them to show their claws."
CLANG!
The crisp sound of metal on metal shattered the tense atmosphere.
Under the gaze of all assembled, Romulus rose from his throne. With a sweep of his arm, a master-crafted power halberd flew through the air, spinning, and embedded itself in the center of the dueling platform.
The halberd was buried deep in the steel plate, its haft vibrating, the humming sound echoing through the bridge like a war drum.
Almost in the same instant—
The figures of Alm and Azrael blurred, the servos of their power armour screaming at their limits.
The Wolf Guard's axe and the Dark Angel's power sword met in mid-air. Sparks flew. The blue light of their disruption fields exploded on impact.
The duel had begun!
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