James Swallow - The Flight of the Eisenstein

'His hand lies upon all of us, and every one of us owes Him our devotion.'

Who spoke those words? Was it Garro or someone else? They seemed strange and new, echoing from a distance.

'He guides us, teaches us, exhorts us to become more than we are,' said the colourless voice, 'but most of all, the Emperor protects.'

The words disturbed Nathaniel. They made him turn and shift in the thick sea, his comfort fading. He sensed the pressure of dark storms brewing out in the impossible spaces around him, the visions of them coming to his mind through someone else's eyes;

through a soul not far from his, yes, bright like the distant watcher, but only a single candle against the greater light's burning sun; black clouds of churning emotion, seething and pushing at the warp and weft of space, looking for a weak point through which they could flow. The storm front was coming, inex­orable, unstoppable. Garro wanted to turn away but there was no place in the drifting fall where he did not find them. He wanted to rise up and fight it, but he had no hands, no face, no flesh.

There were shapes in the gloomy shifting coils that rose and fell, some resembling the spirals of symbols he had seen inside the dome on Isstvan Extremis, oth­ers he had glimpsed on the uncommon banners of the Lupercal's Court, and repeating, over and over, a three-fold icon that seemed to be seeking him out wherever his attention moved: a triad of skulls, a pyramid of screaming faces, three black discs, a trio of bleeding bullet wounds, and other variations, but always the same arrangement of shapes.

'The Emperor protects,' said a woman, and Garro felt her hands upon his cheek, the salt tang of her fallen tears on her lips. The sensations came to him from far, far away, drawing him to them and out of the haze of the threatening storms.

Nathaniel was rising now, faster and faster, the warmth turning chill upon him, the pain coiling around his legs and stomach. There was… there was a woman, a head of short hair framed in a penitent's hood and…

And agony, awakening.

'Eyes of Terra!' gasped Kaleb, 'he's alive! The captain lives!'

* * *

'I would like to see him,' said Temeter stiffly.

Sergeant Hakur frowned. 'Lord, my captain is in no state to-'

Temeter silenced him with an upraised hand. 'Hakur, old blade, out of respect to you for your ser­vice and record, I won't consider your obstreperous manner to be discourteous to my rank, but do not mistake what I just said for a request. Get out of my way, sergeant.'

Hakur gave a shallow bow. 'Of course, captain. I for­get myself

Temeter stepped around the veteran and strode purposefully into the Endurance's tertiary infirmary, throwing nods to men from his own company who were still healing from wounds taken on the jorgall world-ship. Most would not return to combat status, but would suffer the comparative ignominy of becoming permanently stationed as ship crew, or else return to Barbarus to live out their days as comman­dant-instructors to the noviciates. Ullis Temeter hoped that Garro would not share such a fate. The day that the battle-captain was forced to step off the battle line would be the day the man's spirit perished.

He entered a cordoned-off medicae cell and found his comrade there in a support throne, surrounded by brass technologies and glass jars of fluids piping gen­tly into the sockets of Garro's implanted carapace. The battle-captain's housecarl jumped as Temeter swept in and came to his feet in a jerk of shocked motion. Kaleb clutched a fist of inky papers to his chest and blinked with watery eyes. Temeter immedi­ately had the sense that he had caught the serf doing something wrong, but he decided not to press the matter.

'Has he said anything?'

Kaleb nodded, tucking the papers into an inner pocket in his tunic. 'Yes, sir. While the captain was healing, he spoke several times. I couldn't divine the meaning of it all, but I heard him speak names, the Emperor's chief among them.' The housecarl was anxious. 'He has not been in contact with anyone else beyond the medicae staff and myself since his healing coma concluded.'

Temeter looked at Garro and leaned closer. 'Nathaniel? Nathaniel, you old fool. If you're done sleeping, there's a crusade on, or haven't you noticed?' He kept a note of good humour, masking his own concern. His smile became genuine when Garro's eyes fluttered open and fixed on him.

'Ullis, can't you handle a fight without me?'

'Ha,' said Temeter. 'Your wounds haven't dulled that wit of yours, then.' He laid a hand on Garro's shoul­der. 'Word from that peacock Saul Tarvitz. He's back on the Andronius, but he wanted to thank you for soft­ening up the Warsinger for him.'

The captain grunted in amusement, but said noth­ing.

Your lads were concerned,' Temeter continued. 'I hear Hakur was afraid he might have to step up and take the eagle cuirass.'

'I can still carry it, if only these sawbones would let me go.' Garro winced as a wave of pain shocked through him. 'I heal better standing up.'

Temeter shot a look out into the infirmary proper where Voyen hovered silently. He took a breath. 'How's the leg, Nathaniel?'

Garro's face went a little grey as he looked down the chair. His right limb was misshapen and out of place. Instead of a form of strong, firm muscle and sinew, there was a skeletal construct of dense steel and plates

made of polished brass that mimicked the planes of a thigh and calf. The augmetic leg was of excellent qual­ity, but it was no less shocking to see it there. Conflicting thoughts warred over Garro's expression. 'It will suffice. The chirurgeons tell me that the nerve bonding went without incident. According to Brother Voyen, in time I will not even be aware of it.'

Temeter heard the thinly veiled disbelief in his comrade's voice, but chose not to respond to it. 'That's the battle-captain I know. What other man can leave a good cut of himself on the field and still come back for a rematch with teeth bared?'

Garro gave a wan smile, his voice strengthening. 'I hope that will be soon. Tell me, brother, what have I missed while I was healing? Did I sleep through Isstvan's pacification and the rest of the Great Cru­sade?'

'Hardly' Temeter worked at keeping a light tone, even as he saw where Nathaniel was taking the con­versation. 'Orders from the Warmaster have come down from Lord Mortarion. The fleet's at high anchor over Isstvan HI as we speak. All the turncoat's local orbitals have been taken down by the Raven squadrons and what system ships we encountered are wreckage. The skies belong to Horus.'

'And the attack on the Choral City? If you are here then I assume it's still to come.'

'Soon, brother. The Warmaster himself has chosen the men who will form the speartip against Vardus Praal's forces.'

Garro frowned slightly. 'Horus is picking the units? That is… atypical. That's usually a task for the Legion Master.'

'He is the Warmaster,' Temeter replied with a hint of pride. 'Atypical is his prerogative.'

Garro nodded. 'He chose your unit, didn't he? No wonder you're so happy about it.' The captain smiled. 'I look forward to fighting alongside you again so soon after the jorgall assault.'

And there it was. As much as Temeter didn't want to show a reaction, he knew he did, and he saw that Nathaniel caught it.

The ends of Garro's smile tightened. 'Or not?'

'Nathaniel/ he sighed, 'I thought I should be the one to tell you, before that dolt Grulgor made sport of it. The Apothecaries have not declared you fully healed and therefore you are deemed unfit for battle­field operations. Your command remains at a limited duty standing.'

'Limited.' Garro bit out the word and shot a savage, angry glare at Voyen, who hurriedly turned and walked away. 'Is that how I am considered, as limited7 .'