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A Brother’s Confession – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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A Brother’s Confession

Robbie MacNiven

Once, before it had been carved from its bedrock and cast adrift among the stars, the Chapel of the Dioskuri had been a high, cold place. Mountain raptors had called it their home as readily as the lonely pilgrims who had trekked through snow drifts and along knife-backed ridges to reach it. Stories were told among the Primaris Space Marines that fragile bones of birds and woven votive offerings left by worshippers could still be found in its darkest corners. Kastor, who frequented the chapel more than any of them, had certainly never come across such relics. They had long since crumbled to dust, for it had been ten thousand years since the Dioskuri had lain heaped beneath mountain snow, or moaned with the bitterness of a midwinter wind. Ten millennia had gone by since it had been uprooted and rebuilt, stone by stone, on board the battle-barge Spear of Macragge. Now its pilgrims were god-warriors of the former XIII Legion and its attendant, Kastor, wore the skull-helm of an Adeptus Astartes Chaplain.

He donned that helmet now, though there was no immediate threat of battle. The black armour and vestments of a Chaplain were as ceremonial as they were functional. They represented the wearer’s grave charge: to uphold the faith and purity of his battle-brothers, and act as both judge and executioner for those who failed. In that moment, as the Spear of Macragge traversed the currents of the warp on its way from combat operations in the Atari system, Kastor stood in judgement.

‘It is time, brother.’

The accused had surrendered himself of his own volition and now knelt before Kastor and the chapel’s altar, shrouded in the black cloth of judgement. His name was Polixis, and he was the Apothecary of the Fulminata – one of the strike forces of Primaris Marines who, a century earlier, had joined the Ultramarines Chapter. Light from the tallow candles set around the chamber flickered along the strong lines of his face and gave his blond hair a deeper, golden sheen.

‘Speak now, before the Emperor’s sight.’

The ritual words rang through the chamber, scraping from the vox vocaliser of Kastor’s helmet like an executioner’s blade across a whetstone.

Polixis was silent before answering, his head dipped, as though he was trying to find the words that would most succinctly convey his guilt.

‘I killed my battle-brother,’ he said eventually, his voice low but firm.

Kastor remained still.

Polixis raised his burning gaze to meet the Chaplain’s darkened visor. ‘I killed Artimaeus Tulio, of the Fulminata.’

Five Days Earlier

The de la Sario manor house shook with gunfire, screams and the fury of the Primaris Space Marines. The Fulminata rarely tasted defeat, and yet on this day, their objective was slipping away.

Polixis launched two shots from his bolt pistol. The hard rounds punched through the charging Tchari supplicator’s bare breast and burst open his chest cavity. The man, clad only in a white loincloth and a silver hook-nosed mask, dropped instantly. Two of his cult kindred threw themselves into adjacent doorways. A spray of las-fire whipped into the dark stonebark panels that lined the hallway as they attempted to keep the Primaris Apothecary at bay, forcing him to one side.

Polixis advanced, using speed to close the distance before either cultist could pin him. He slammed another shot into the doorframe that sheltered one of them. A hail of splinters ripped through the man’s torso. He dropped, screaming. His comrade managed to fire two last las-bolts into Polixis’ left greave and breastplate before his weapon’s power pack whined, its charge empty.

Neither shot penetrated the Space Marine’s white battle plate.

The Apothecary fired a double-tap at point-blank range into the man, shredding his muscled body and painting his blood up the walls. He turned to the other, who lay on the floor with several wooden stakes protruding from his abdomen. Polixis’ fingers wrapped around the struggling man’s throat, then twisted. There was a loud crack and the cultist became limp in his hands. He tossed him aside, then moved on down the corridor without pause, reloading as he went.

Time was running out.

The door at the far end of the corridor caved beneath his boot just as Intercessor Squad Nerva stormed the chamber beyond from the other side. The dining space resounded with the click-crash of auto bolt rifles and the shattering of glass. Polixis arrived in time to split another of the Tchari in two as he fumbled for a grenade from the bandolier strapped over his chest. The round blew half the cultist’s skull away and sent his broken silver grotesque spinning across the room.

‘The hall is ours,’ said Sergeant Nerva.

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A Black Library Publication

Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Mark Holmes.

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