James Swallow - The Flight of the Eisenstein

'Our tactical approach at the bottle-world was not meant to be one of close combat, Solun/ he noted, 'you carry a bolter for good reason.'

'If it pleases my captain, I have heard this lecture already today from Brother Sendek. He informed me,

at great length and in intricate detail, of exactly how I had failed to adhere to the rules of engagement.'

'I see.' Garro took a seat on the bench next to Decius. And what was your response?'

The young warrior smiled. 'I told him that we were both still alive, rules or no, and that victory is the only true measure of success.'

'Indeed?'

'Of course!' Decius worked at the power fist with great care. 'What matters in war above all other things is the final result. If there is no victory…' He broke off, finding his words. 'Then there is no point.'

From nearby, Andus Hakur rubbed a hand over his stubbly grey chin. 'Such tactical genius from the mouth of a whelp. I fear I may become giddy with surprise.'

Decius's eyes flashed at the old veteran's jibe, but Garro caught the moment and laughed softly, defus­ing it. 'You must forgive Andus, Solun. At his age, his sharp tongue is the only blade he can wield with skill any more.'

Hakur clutched at his chest in mock pain. 'Oh. An arrow to my heart, from my own captain. Such tragedy'

Garro maintained an even smile, but in truth he could detect the weariness, the pain in his old friend's forced jocularity. Hakur had lost men from his squad on the world-ship, and the pain of it was just below the surface. 'We all fought well this day,' said the cap­tain, the words coming of their own accord. 'Once more the Death Guard have been the tools that carve the Emperor's will into the galaxy.'

None of the other Astartes spoke. Each of them had fallen silent, faces turned over Garro's shoulder. As he cast around to learn why, as one, the men of the Sev­enth Company came to their knees.

'My battle-captain.'

It perturbed Garro to realise that he had not even heard the approach of his primarch. As in the assem­bly hall before the assault, Mortarion made issue of his presence only when it suited him to do so.

Garro bowed low to the master of the Death Guard, dimly aware of Typhon at his lord's side, and a servi­tor lurking behind the first captain's cloak.

'My lord,' he replied.

Mortarion's face shifted in a cool smile, visible even behind the breath collar around his throat and lips. The Sisterhood has taken leave of us. They spoke highly of the Seventh.'

Garro dared to raise his gaze a little. Like him, the primarch was no longer clad in his brass and steel power armour, but instead in common duty robes over a set of more utilitarian gear. Still, even in such simple garb, there was no mistaking his presence. High and gaunt, a man spun from whipcord steel muscle, he was as tall in his deck boots as Typhon was in the First Company's Terminator armour.

And of course, there was the manreaper. Sheathed across his back, the arc of the heavy black blade curved behind his head in a lightless sweep. 'Stand, Nathaniel, please. It becomes tiresome to look down upon my men.'

Garro drew himself up to his full height, looking into the primarch's deep amber eyes and steeling himself not to draw back. In turn, Mortarion's gaze burned deep into him, and the captain felt as if his heart were held in the primarch's long, slender fin­gers, being weighed and considered.

'You ought to watch your step, Typhon/ said the Death Lord. This one, he'll have your job one day'

Typhon, ever sullen, only grimaced. Before the first captain, the primarch, and at the edges of his sight,

the twin guards of the Deathshroud, Garro felt as if he was at the bottom of a well. The nerve of a com­mon man would probably have broken beneath such scrutiny.

'Lord,' he asked, 'what service may the Seventh Company do for you?'

Mortarion beckoned him. 'Their captain may step forward, Garro. He has earned a reward.'

Nathaniel did as he was told, darting a quick look towards Hakur. His words at the lakeside echoed in his mind. We don't seek accolades and honours. Garro had no doubt that the veteran was keenly amused by this turn of events. 'Sir,' he began, 'I deserve no special-'

That is not a refusal forming upon your lips, is it, captain?' warned Typhon. 'Such false modesty is unwelcome.'

'I am merely a servant of the Emperor/ Garro man­aged. That is honour enough.'

Mortarion gestured the servitor forward, and the captain saw that it carried a tray of goblets and bowls. Then instead, Nathaniel, might you honour me by sharing my drink?'

He stiffened, recognising the ornate cups and the liquid in them. 'Of… of course, lord.'

It was said that there was no toxin too strong, no poison so powerful and no contagion of such lethal­ity that a Death Guard could not resist it. From their inception, the XIV Legion had always been the Emperor's warriors in the most hostile of environ­ments, fighting through chem-clouds or acidic atmospheres that no normal human could survive in. Barbarus, the Legion's base, the adoptive home planet of Mortarion himself, moulded this characteristic. As with their primarch, so with his Astartes: the Death Guard were a resilient, invincible breed.

They hardened themselves through stringent train­ing regimens as neophyte Astartes, willingly exposing themselves to,chemical agents, contaminants, mortal viral strains and venoms of a thousand different shades. They could resist them all. It was how they had found victory amid the blight-fungus of Urssa, how they had weathered the hornet swarms on Ogre IV, the reason why they had been sent to fight the chlorine-breathing jorgall.

The servitor deftly mixed and poured dark liquids into the cups, and Garro's nostrils sensed the odour of chemicals: a distillate of the agent magenta nerve bane, some variety of sword beetle venom, and other, less identifiable compounds. No Astartes in Mortar-ion's service would ever have dared to call this practice a ritual. The word conjured up thoughts of primitive idolatry, anathema to the clean, impious logic of Imperial truth. This was simply their way, a Death Guard tradition that survived despite the intentions of men like Ignatius Grulgor. The cups were Mortarion's, and in each battle where the Death Lord took the field in person, he would select a war­rior in the aftermath and share with that man a draught of poison. They would drink and they would live, cementing the unbreakable strength of the Legion they embodied.

The servitor presented the tray to the primarch and he took a cup for himself, then handed one to Garro and a third to Typhon. Mortarion raised his goblet in salute. Against death.' With a smooth tip of his wrist, the primarch drained the cup to its dregs. Typhon showed a feral half-smile and did the same, complet­ing the toast and drinking deep.

Garro saw a flush of crimson on the first captain's face, but Typhon gave no other outward sign of

distress. He sniffed at the liquid before him and his senses resisted, his implanted neuroglottis and preomnor organs rebelling at the mere smell of the poisonous brew; but to refuse the cup would be seen as weakness, and Nathaniel Garro would never allow himself to be accused of such a thing.

Against death/ he said.

With a steady motion, the captain drank it all and placed the upturned goblet back on the tray. A ripple of approval drifted through the men of the Seventh Company, but Garro barely heard it. His blood was rumbling in his ears as punishing heat seared his throat and gullet, the powerful engines of his Astartes physiology racing to fight down the toxins he had ingested. Decius was watching him in awe, without doubt dreaming of a day when it might be his hand, not Garro's, holding the goblet.

Mortarion's chill smile grew wider. 'A rare and fine vintage, would you not agree?'