Chapter 25: The End and the Choice
Petros and Antonius stood on the beach, the chronometer in their helmets counting down the last moments. It was dusk on the final day. He would not accept late-comers.
The trial was this bloody and this strict for a reason: the Warband's supply of gene-seed was finite. It had to be reserved for the best.
Even after the brutal selection process of the Odyssey, over 100 aspirants had managed to reach the still-under-construction Fortress-Monastery on this island. But they had only 40 gene-seeds. More than half of these survivors were doomed to fail this final stage. The Apothecary would make the selection. The best of the failures would become high-level thralls. The rest would become servitors.
Now, Petros waited for the last team—the only one to have survived the storm.
Antonius's synthesized voice was tinged with something like admiration. "It is remarkable, Captain. The Lacedaemonians... less than 300,000 people, and they provided over a third of the successful aspirants. Their population is barely 3% of this continent's total, even counting their slaves."
"It is not surprising," Petros replied, his voice flat. "Superior training and a code of mutual trust saw them through. How many other teams tore each other apart over food? How many broke and ran when faced with a fight? How many simply gave up and turned back? The Lacedaemonians did not."
Through his occulobe implants, Petros's vision pierced the sunset's glare. He could see it: a tiny speck, a makeshift raft, fighting the tide. His enhanced vision, which allowed him to stare directly into the setting sun without flinching, saw three figures.
"Half an hour left, Captain," Antonius noted. "Unless they set foot on this beach before the deadline, they are late. Unlucky, to be caught in the storm... or perhaps, lucky, to have survived it."
"The time is not yet up," Petros said. Though it was very, very close.
The two Astartes stood as silent as statues, watching the three boys frantically paddling, fighting the surf. The raft drew closer, inch by agonizing inch.
Twenty minutes. Their arms were surely screaming in agony.
Ten minutes. Their muscles must have felt like they were on fire.
One minute.
With a final, desperate lurch, the raft grounded on the sand. The three boys, their limbs trembling with exhaustion, collapsed onto the beach, gasping for air. A moment later, the heavy thud of ceramite boots approached.
Petros loomed over them, his external vox-grille distorting his voice into a cold, metallic rumble. "You are late. Two minutes late."
The three aspirants looked up. All they could see was a giant of iron, his grey armor gilded by the setting sun.
Alexios, the leader, used his oar to push himself to his knees. "My Lord Angel," he panted, "we... we were hit by the storm..."
"That is not an excuse," Petros cut him off.
Gorgias, the skinny one, was trembling. "Does this mean... we have lost our chance?"
Petros looked down at the three survivors. He thought of his Primarch. He thought of Captain Crassus. In truth, they were only 1 minute and 31 seconds late. If they had simply jumped off the raft and waded to shore, they would have made it.
He made his decision.
"I will give you a chance," Petros said. "But there is a price for failure. A life. Two of you may kill the third. His place... will be yours."
The three boys froze. The two brothers, Alexios and Lykurgos, instantly locked eyes. They were blood. They would never kill each other.
Gorgias, lying on the sand, felt his hand slide to the hilt of the small skinning knife at his belt. He knew he was dead. They were two, he was one. They were Lacedaemonian warriors. He had to defend himself.
But Alexios staggered to his feet, his voice raw with disbelief and rage. "We are comrades! We are brothers! How... how could you ask us to do that?"
"You failed," Petros's voice was merciless. "There must be a penalty."
"No! Not like this!" Alexios shouted, his exhaustion forgotten, replaced by fury. "The Angels I was told of are glorious and proud! They are warriors, not traitors who stab their brothers in the back!"
His parents, his kings, his culture... they had taught him to be brutal to his enemies, but to be loyal to his shield-wall. It was why the Lacedaemonians, despite their small numbers and pagan faith, had survived.
Petros could see the unshakeable bond between the brothers. The only variable was the third. "And you?" he said, turning his helmet to Gorgias. "What is your choice?"
Gorgias's hand slowly moved away from his knife. He took a shaky breath. "The... the Tech-Priests are building iron ships," he said, his voice quiet. "If I have failed this... then I choose to be a sailor on one of their iron ships."
Petros nodded. This one was clever. He had prepared for the trial, adapted when his team died, and now, at the very moment of his ultimate failure, he was still planning his next move. He was far sharper than the big-axe aspirant who had left days ago.
"Good," Petros said. "You have all passed the trial."
"What!?" the three boys said in unison.
"Our Warband is named The Forged Steel Brotherhood. Our cry is 'To the Forge, and We are Forged to Steel.' I did not choose this name because I see my brothers as tools. I chose it because we are ore, thrown into the furnace together, to emerge as one. We have no grand fleet, no endless supply lines. We have only each other."
Petros's voice was a low growl. "I will never allow a man who would abandon his comrade into our ranks. My former Legion was full of such men. And because of it, countless warriors died."
Alexios was stunned. "Legion? Countless warriors? You mean... there are more of you? Hundreds? Thousands?" His mind couldn't even comprehend such a thing.
"Millions," Petros said, the single word heavy with a dark history. "Millions of Astartes. An ocean of the dead, whose great deeds are all forgotten."
Gorgias stared, his fear replaced by awe. "What kind of war... what game of the Gods... would require a million warriors like you?"
"A war for the stars," Petros said. "A war for the fate of all Mankind."
Lykurgos and Gorgias spoke the only exclamations their minds could summon.
"By Athena's Owl..."
"My... my Emperor..."