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The Eternal Crusader – Extract

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The Ghoul Stars Crusade was over.

From his personal sanctum aboard the Eternal Crusader, Helbrecht, High Marshal of the Black Templars, watched the bombing of the last world of the cythor fiends.

He stood in an armourglass cupola extending from traceried galleries. Glass glinted to his left and right in precise geometric procession. By cunning artifice, the heroes of his Chapter had been captured in the windows, forever to raise siliceous weapons against the eternal night. The effect within was gloomy, as starlight was dimmed from the glass – the shadows of the Galleria Astra behind were deep.

The cupola, though, was clear, intended for unobstructed viewing. The ribbed shutters that protected it in battle were withdrawn into the metal supports like the lids of some monstrous compound eye.

An arming servitor and three honoured neophytes removed the Chapter Master’s armour. The cupola was silent but for Helbrecht’s breathing and the whir of power tools, swift, soft footsteps behind him, the muted click of his brazen war-plate being replaced in its recess on the far side of the gallery, and the distant, constant rumbling of the vessel’s ordnance ravaging the unkillable planet.

The world had no name the Imperium knew of, but for Helbrecht it was 9836-18, the eighteenth planet subjugated in the 9836th Black Templar Crusade. They had dubbed it with the code-signum ‘Grave Core’. Neither name would outlast its attempted destruction.

A strange, blue world of gelid and toxic atmospheres – a mid-range gas giant as sour as Sol’s Neptune. No use to humanity at all, unfit for habitation. Too far from any human world to justify harvesting the useful elements of its dense air; too far, even, from any other of the galaxy’s vile races for them to make use of it. Helbrecht would have been justified in leaving it.

He refused to do this.

Helbrecht hated Grave Core with the fury of the zealot. He hated it because it was a world of the bizarre cythor. But mostly he hated it because it had been empty, a tomb abandoned before the Black Templars had come to pass the Emperor’s judgement upon its abhorrent inhabitants, seemingly desolate for thousands of years when that could not possibly be the case. This was where the cythor had fled – the Black Templars augurs had been clear. This was to have been the xenos’ last stand. Instead of glorious victory, the Black Templars had descended to the platforms anchored in the clouds to find… nothing.

Helbrecht’s slablike muscles tensed. One of his attendants flinched, interrupting the smoothness of his ministrations.

Cheated of his prey, Helbrecht had ordered Grave Core destroyed. The world was as unnatural as the fiends, and deserved to burn. But it would not die. By rights, the atmosphere should have ignited under the punishment of the orbital bombardment. Modified fusion bombs slammed down in regular patterns, silently exploding at predetermined depths in the world’s thick sheath of gas. Their orange effulgence was muted; the world-fire did not take. Rather, the clouds burned reluctantly, and weirdly. Looping curls of blue skittered across the stratosphere. No more devastating than high-altitude lightning effects, these phenomena sparked strange auroras in the planet’s radioactive corona. They danced, mocking Helbrecht with their vitality.

Why would it not burn?

No glorianas accompanied the crusade’s conclusion. Melancholy ruled Helbrecht’s flagship. His servants worked quietly, tugging at him as gently as they could to take away his plate. None dared address him. His cloak went, his pauldrons and heavy powerplant were borne away by the uncomplaining servitor, and his greaves and vambraces were unclasped, each carefully unscrewed from one another and unplugged from his body. With efficiency they rendered him naked. He did not want to be disrobed; he was vulnerable to his shame without his armour.

Forgive me, Emperor, for I have failed you, he thought. Strike me down now for my inadequacy.

No strike came. Helbrecht yearned to find another battle. He would have done so immediately had ritual not demanded his disarming, his prayer and his repentance.

Helbrecht moved his body with the ease of one long practised, lifting his arms or shifting his weight to aid his attendants. Otherwise he ignored them; he ignored too the sharp pains as interface spikes were withdrawn. He ignored everything but his anger and his shame. He could not hide from them.

In the windows of the cupola, reflections of his face were superimposed over the planet. A noble visage, but harsh, an unreadable stone crag weathered by the unkindnesses of the Adeptus Astartes transformation and unrelenting war. Few could gauge his thoughts from his features. Helbrecht was a guarded man.

For once, his anger was plain. It could not be seen, but it could be felt.

The last piece of his armour came away from his black carapace. The arming servitor trudged back to its station beside the armour’s recess, slotted itself into its coffin in the wall and deactivated. The neophytes bowed and departed for a while, returning minutes later with hot water and warmed oils. They whispered the benedictions of cleansing as they wiped his body with damp cloths. With this done, two of the three worked warmed, scented oils into his scarred skin, massaging carefully at knotted post-human muscle. Then they scraped away the ingrained filth and war-sweat with bronze strigils. The third knelt and attended to Helbrecht’s artificial right arm, a gleaming brass construct that erupted from the scarred stump of his elbow. The novitiate oiled and polished it, murmuring simple maintenance cantrips. Helbrecht ignored them and glared at the planet.

His doors chimed. The limbless servitor torso built into an alcove beside them announced his visitor, its beautiful voice at odds with the fleshless hideousness of its altered skull.

‘Master of Sanctity Theoderic requests ingress. Allowed, denied?’

Helbrecht stirred, turning from the planet for the first time. His attendants skilfully accommodated themselves to his movements.

‘Is he alone?’ he asked.

‘Negative. Master of Sanctity Theoderic is accompanied by Captain Naroosh of the Death Spectres Adeptus Astartes Chapter.’

‘Leave me and return to your knights.’ He dismissed his attendants. Helbrecht’s voice was deep, made gruff and resonant by centuries of yelled orders and screamed prayer. As his face was emotionless, so too was his voice: bland almost beneath its roughness.

The neophytes bowed. ‘As you wish, High Marshal,’ they said, and departed through a lesser entrance. Four Chapter-serfs, robes embroidered with the Templars cross and armed with pistol and sword, filed in as the young Space Marines filed out. They took their stations, ready to serve this most exalted son of Rogal Dorn.

‘Permit their entry,’ said Helbrecht. ‘Bid them welcome.’ He strode with sudden purpose from the cupola. His quarters were large, encompassing the Galleria Astra in which he currently stood, a private audience chamber, the Strategium Occultis, the High Marshal’s Librarius, his sleeping cell, armorium, armoury and other, more esoteric rooms. Situated at the peak of the Eternal Crusader’s central tower, many of the High Marshal’s chambers were capped by vaulted, armourglass ceilings that revealed the terrifying majesty of space.

These rooms had once belonged to Sigismund, founder of their order, and had almost certainly played host to Rogal Dorn himself. Such storied history, such honour, meant little to Helbrecht at that moment. He shrank from it, feeling unworthy.

The doors clanked back on giant cogs into the Eternal Crusader’s internal bulkheads. Master of Sanctity Theoderic walked into Helbrecht’s rooms. As tradition demanded, the Chaplain wore his battleplate and helmet. Captain Naroosh of the Death Spectres followed. He too wore his full armour.

‘My lord,’ said Theoderic. He waited until the doors were shut and removed his skull helm, exposing a face that was timeless in the Adeptus Astartes way, free of the signs of genes unwinding with age, but unmistakeably ancient. Leathery and hard, it was a face that was inexpressive because it had had time to try every permutation of expression and found them all inadequate. The single stripe of hair running down his skull was brilliant white. Five service studs were screwed into his forehead in the shape of a cross – two hundred and fifty years of service.

The serfs averted their eyes. Only the marshals, the Inner Circle knights and the others of the Chaplain brotherhood were permitted to look upon the unshielded face of a Black Templar warrior-priest.

Helbrecht’s face became stonier still that Theoderic should unmask before an outsider, but he did not voice his disapproval. Naroosh was a captain of a Chapter after all, albeit a foreign one, and worthy of the honour. The truth was that Helbrecht’s reaction was a personal one, and to comment on what he regarded as Theoderic’s lapse would be discourteous to his guest, unwelcome as he was.

Helbrecht picked up a towel offered by one of his body-serfs and wiped his face and chest with it. Another brought him his robes – many-layered priestly garb in bone-white. Over that went a thick, black woollen habit, embroidered with the fluted cross of their order. So dressed, he had the look of a great man grown weary and gone into a monastery. If, that is, one did not look into his eyes. These were dark, and burned with a warrior’s zeal, flashing with the light of gunfire remembered and anticipated. He exulted in battle and sang his praises to the Emperor hardest over the ringing of blades. There was a hunger for war around him that could be tasted on the air. Righteousness, certainty and, in his few unguarded moments, impatience for bloodshed could be glimpsed in his eyes, if one had the will to hold that gaze long enough.

His defeat had not dimmed the light in them at all. Far from it.

‘Brothers, what may I do for you?’ Helbrecht reached for a carafe, waving away the thrall that moved to pour it for him. He filled three fine pewter and glass goblets, their panelled sides as intricate as the windows, with thick blue Holschtian life-water and held one out to Theoderic. The older man placed his helmet on a table and walked forwards to accept it. Captain Naroosh stood aside. He did not remove his helmet. Not one of the Death Spectres had ever done so in any Black Templar’s presence. Helbrecht held out a second goblet to him for a moment, and replaced it upon the table without a word when the captain did not move to take it.

Theoderic perceived Helbrecht’s dourness and made his point quickly. ‘My liege, we should discuss plans for the victory ceremony,’ he said.

Helbrecht sipped lightly, a delicate gesture for so solid a man. ‘What ceremony? What victory? We do not celebrate.’

‘My liege…’

‘We do not celebrate,’ he said harshly. ‘My inaugural crusade as High Marshal has proved an abject failure. There is nothing to celebrate.’

‘Is that so, brother?’ said Theoderic. He used the mild tone the Chaplains employed when confronting a brother with doubts – kindly yet firm, it begged confession.

‘The world was empty. The fiends remain undefeated,’ explained Helbrecht, irritated he had to explain at all.

The Death Spectre spoke.

‘All has played out as we said it would, High Marshal.’ Naroosh’s voice was leaden, rasping through his vox-grille. Sorrow and regret could be the only emotions conveyed by such a voice. ‘There is no victory to be had over the cythor fiends. We can only watch and contain them, as has been my Chapter’s burden for millennia. You have committed your bold warriors to a fool’s errand.’

Helbrecht’s eyes flashed dangerously.

Theoderic spoke before Helbrecht could respond, holding up a hand in a silent plea for reason. ‘Perhaps you are both correct. Perhaps this empty world is a failure of sorts. Looked at another way, the High Marshal has won a great victory. Seventeen worlds scoured. No evidence of the ghouls remains anywhere in this segmentum. They will trouble no one again. Brother, they will have to rename the Ghoul Stars, thanks to you.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Helbrecht. ‘Captain Naroosh does not think so either. Do you, captain?’

‘We warned you,’ said Naroosh dolorously. ‘You were vainglorious to attempt the impossible. Your efforts have come to nought. All is as we warned.’

Helbrecht turned away from the captain. The Death Spectres were the guardians of this benighted stretch of space, posted beyond the bounds of the Imperium to ensure the inhabitants of the Ghoul Stars could never escape to threaten the wider galaxy. Helbrecht had thought them indolent, cowardly even, in that they obeyed their orders of containment and did not attempt to purge the aliens. He acquiesced to their demand that he take one of their ships along with him under great sufferance, and only after the production of Inquisitorial fiat.

‘Maybe, captain, if you had fought alongside us, the result would have been different.’

‘It would not,’ said the captain firmly. ‘We did not fight, because it was pointless to fight. This we said, and this you have discovered for yourselves. Our task is to watch. We are gaolers, not conquerors. Leave these worlds. They tolerate no masters but the fiends.’

Helbrecht’s eyes narrowed. ‘The crusade never ends. It should never end until every star in this galaxy shines under the benevolent rule of our lord Emperor. You betray our lord’s most cherished aims.’

Naroosh, who had not moved at all during their exchange, nor exhibited any sign of life beyond his speech and the tinny, near-silent thrum of his armour, pointed out of the windows. ‘This place is not for us. This place is not for any creature. We know, because we once tried what you have tried. We failed – we heard their taunts, as no doubt you have also. We lament our failure to this day.’ His black lenses looked deep into Helbrecht’s smouldering eyes. ‘You will leave this place, they will come crawling back through the gaps in the night, and nothing will have changed. You cannot sterilise their world. You cannot kill that which has never lived. They are beyond our arts of war. They can only be hindered, never subdued. Our shame you have willingly chosen to share. We are sorry that you decided to accept this burden. We are sorry that you did not listen.’

Theoderic and Helbrecht followed the Death Spectre’s pointing finger. The cythor home world had finally caught fire, burning a sickly green. The bombardment continued.

‘You cannot be sure of that, captain. Their dead burn in pyres the breadth of this sector, their world is finally ablaze,’ said Theoderic. ‘They have gone.’

‘Gone is not a synonym for destroyed, Chaplain,’ said Naroosh. ‘They will return, as they always have.’

‘He is right, Master of Sanctity.’ Helbrecht impulsively drained his cup, but one of his serfs refilled it instantly. A sudden thirst had gripped him.

Theoderic chose his next words carefully. ‘If your mood has been blackened by what you witnessed on the platforms, the sons of Terra can put no store in the words of…’

‘I do not wish to talk of it,’ said Helbrecht, and his tone brooked no disagreement. His fury became momentarily obvious on his face, his teeth clenched. ‘No, Chaplain, this crusade is a failure. We have not won. I will not celebrate.’

Theoderic dipped his head, letting the matter rest.

‘We will depart now,’ said Naroosh. ‘We return to our brothers and the Citadel of the Unsleeping Watch. We thank you that our task will be easier for a while, my lord.’ His thanks might have been sincere or they might have been outright derision, but Naroosh’s tone did not vary. There was no clue as to his intention. ‘We wish you all fortune in your next venture. May it bring you more honour.’

Naroosh made the aquila over his chest and bowed his head in salute.

Helbrecht placed his wine aside and made the Templars cross with his forearms. Theoderic did the same.

‘Then you have my permission to leave,’ said Helbrecht, with as much civility as he could manage.

‘The Emperor guide and protect you, captain,’ said Theoderic.

‘We are a long way from the Emperor’s light here, Chaplain,’ said Naroosh. ‘A very long way.’

Naroosh walked from the room, showing a heraldry as sombre as his voice upon his left pauldron as he turned away – a grim skull with crossed scythes.

Helbrecht stared at the closed door for a full half minute after Naroosh had gone, rolling his goblet back and forth in his hand.

Theoderic cleared his throat.

‘Other matters await you, High Marshal. Have you given any thought to the matter of Mordred the Avenger’s replacement? We wish to inter his remains within the Sepulcrum Ultimus. His soul deserves rest – he was a good man, and a bold warrior.’

‘No doubt you have ideas of your own as to who should be the next Reclusiarch,’ said Helbrecht.

‘Not at all, brother,’ said Theoderic, careful not to rise to Helbrecht’s insinuation. ‘The choice is yours and yours alone. You are the High Marshal of the Black Templars – the divine will of the Emperor works through you, not I. I will not make any suggestion as to who you should elevate. You will have my opinion in the Inner Circle as ritual demands, not before.’

‘Should it be you, perhaps, Theoderic?’

‘If that is the Emperor’s will, so be it. If not, then that is also the Emperor’s will.’ He paused. ‘You are in poor humour today, my liege. I will leave you, and prepare the Ceremony of Crusade’s End. A shriving is also called for. Victory or defeat, after facing such an unclean foe, every brother’s soul requires cleansing. A shining blade is of no use if the spirit wielding it is corrupted. May our next war be more to your liking. Praise be.’

‘Praise be,’ said Helbrecht under his breath.

Theoderic reached for his helmet. It had sat there on the table, a great death’s head grinning at Helbrecht. For an insane moment, he felt it was the Emperor’s own corpselike visage, staring in disapproval.

Helbrecht sighed, some of the tension passing out of him with the breath. His voice came close to betraying his anguish, but he was his heart’s master, and would not allow his emotions to be known. ‘Brother!’ he called. ‘I am sorry. You are correct. I allow my disappointment to rule my head. This is my first crusade as High Marshal, and I cannot in all good conscience enter it as completed into the record.’

‘I understand, my brother.’

‘And I have considered the matter of Mordred’s successor,’ Helbrecht went on. ‘I am not yet decided, but I am minded to honour Mordred’s wishes.’

‘Grimaldus,’ said Theoderic. ‘Mordred knew his vocation. It is a worthy nomination. The Avenger has been preparing him for the best part of two centuries.’

‘There are those who do not believe Grimaldus to be ready to take on the mantle of Reclusiarch,’ said Helbrecht.

‘I know, brother.’

‘Nevertheless,’ went on the High Marshal, ‘it is towards Grimaldus that I lean. I will reveal my decision to the Inner Circle once I am certain. First we must do penance for our failure, and cast off our shame. Say nothing to the others.’

Theoderic favoured his lord with an understanding look, and dipped his head. ‘As you command, my liege.’ He replaced his helm, and left Helbrecht alone with his servants.

Helbrecht turned to watch the world roasting in the breath of its own winds. The issue of Grimaldus slipped easily from his mind, and his thoughts returned to what the Death Spectres grim Chapter Master had warned him of several months before, and what he had witnessed there below in the ghouls’ nests of spun glass and acid-etched palladium. A million ossified corpses, calmly staring. And that voice…

His impassive face twitched, his hand tightening on the goblet. With a sudden, explosive cry of rage, he hurled it at the wall. His serfs rushed to clear the mess as he stalked from the room.

He went deep into his sanctuary, coming quickly to the Strategium Occultis, where only he might go, a huge, spherical space at the centre of the spire. He walked up steps cantilevered out over the room’s depths to a lectern. He activated it, sending it whirring on tracks around the room. At the base of the pit, a vast holo projector sprang into life, painting a galaxy on the air big enough to lose oneself in. Upon it were described billions of stars: a million human systems and countless others unknown, unvisited, lost or infested by xenos breeds. A hundred thousand wars were picked out in bloody red. Gothic crosses denoted the positions of the other Black Templars crusades. Taking in the endless assaults upon his beloved lord’s domains, his resolve steadied. His gaze travelled to where his knights sought to expand the rule of man. Only he was privy to that information, no one else. Only he had been chosen by the Emperor. If he must know defeat, so be it. A test, nothing more. Let him go on to the next test and pass that.

He stood there a long while, staring into the false galaxy of light, seeking a worthy victory to wash away the sickly taste of failure.

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