James Swallow - The Flight of the Eisenstein

'Don't be petulant,' snapped Temeter, heading off his friend's anger as quickly as he could, 'and don't take it out on Voyen. He's only doing his duty to the Legion, and to you. If you tried to lead the Seventh Company now, you'd risk failing them and that's a chance the Death Guard can't take. You're not going down to Isstvan III, Nathaniel. Those orders come direct from First Captain Typhon.'

'Calas Typhon can kiss my sword-hilt,' growled Garro, and Temeter saw his housecarl blink in shock at the normally stoic captain's insult. 'Get this cage of ornaments off me,' he continued, forcing away the medicae monitors and philtre vials.

'Nathaniel, wait.'

With a grunt of effort, Garro shoved himself off the support throne and on to his flesh and metal feet. He took a few firm steps forward. 'If I can move then I can fight. I'll go to Typhon and tell him that in

person.' Garro pushed away and paced out of the cell, fighting off a hobble in his walk with each angry step.

Kaleb watched his master rise from his sickbed and stride away, the steel and brass of his new limb as much a part of him as his iron will to survive. Alone again for a moment in the small chamber, he pulled out the sheaf of papers tucked in his pocket and spread them smooth on the rough matting of the support throne. With furtive care, from a chain around his neck the housecarl drew a small metal fetish carved out of a bolt shell case. It was a rudi­mentary thing, rough in form but cut with the sort of care that only devotion could bring. Held to the light, thin lines of etching and patterns of pinholes showed the outline of a towering figure haloed by rays from a sun. Kaleb put the small icon down on the top of the papers and ran his palms over one another.

Now he was convinced, as ridiculous as the idea was that he might have required further proof for his faith. As his honoured master had dallied between death and life there before him, Kaleb had stood sen­tinel over Captain Garro and read in hushed whispers the words that traced across the dog-eared leaflets. 'His hand lies upon all of us, and every one of us owes Him our devotion. He guides us, teaches us and exhorts us to become more than we are, but most of all, the Emperor protects.'

Indeed, the Emperor had protected Nathaniel Garro. He had answered Kaleb's entreaty to save the life of his master, and shown the Death Guard the way back from the brink. Now the housecarl fully understood what he had only suspected before. Garro is of purpose. The Astartes lived, not through chance or caprice of action, but because the Lord of Mankind

wished it to be so. There would come a moment, and the housecarl instinctively knew it would be soon, when Garro would be set to a task that only he could fulfil. When that time came, Kaleb's role would be to light the man's way.

Kaleb knew that to speak of this to his master would be wrong. He had kept his quiet beliefs to himself for this long, and the moment was not yet right to speak openly of them. But he could see it. He was sure that Garro was gradually turning to the same path that he already walked, a path that led to Terra and to the only truly divine being in the cosmos, the God-Emperor Himself.

When he was sure he was not being observed, the housecarl began to pray, his hands spread wide across the pages of the Lectitio Divinitatus, the words of the Church of the Holy Emperor.

Garro's face was hard with chained anger, and he felt it surge each time the new leg made him limp. The minute gyroscopic mechanisms in the limb would take time to learn the motions and kinetics of his body movement, and until they did, he would be forced to walk as if lame. Still, he reflected, at least he could walk. The ignominy of relying on a cane or some other support would have been difficult to bear.

Temeter kept pace with him. The captain of the Fourth had given up trying to convince him to return to the infirmary, and followed warily at his side. The uncertainty on Temeter's face was clear. Garro's battle-brother had not seen him in such a foul humour before.

They reached the Endurance's commandery, the nexus of private chambers and sanctorum their pri-march took as his own while he was aboard, crossing

the small atrium to the entrance. Garro saw another Death Guard walking in front of him, intent on the same destination, and to his concern he realised it was Ignatius Grulgor. The commander of the Second Company turned at the sound of a steel foot on the marble tiles of the floor and gave Garro a disdainful, appraising look.

'Not dead, then.' Grulgor folded his arms and looked down his nose. He was still wearing his wargear, where Garro had only simple duty robes.

'I hope that's not too great a disappointment to you,' Garro retorted.

'Nothing could be further from the truth,' lied the commander, 'but tell me, in your invalid state, would it not be safer for you to keep to your sickbed? In such a weakened condition-'

'Oh, for once in your life be silent,' snapped Teme-ter.

Grulgor's face darkened. 'Watch your mouth, cap­tain.'

Garro waved the other Astartes away. 'I don't have time to spar with you, Grulgor. I will have the pri-march's ear' He continued on towards the doors.

'You're too late for that/ came the reply, 'not that the Death Lord would have deigned to spare his attention to a cripple. Mortarion is no longer aboard the Endurance. He's with the Warmaster once again, in conference on matters of the Crusade.'

'Then I'll talk to Typhon.'

Grulgor sneered. 'You can wait your turn. He sum­moned me here only moments ago.'

'We'll see who waits/ snapped Garro, and slammed the commandery doors wide open.

Inside, First Captain Typhon's head jerked up from the battle maps laid out on the chart table before

him. Typhon's hulking armoured form was framed by a tall stained-glass window that looked out over the length of the warship's dorsal hull. 'Garro?' He seemed genuinely surprised to see the battle-captain up and walking.

'Sir/ replied Nathaniel, 'Captain Temeter informs me that my combatant status has not been restored.'

Typhon gave Grulgor a slight sign with his hand, a command to wait. This is so. The Apothecaries say-'

'I care little for that at this moment/ Garro broke in, ignoring protocol. 'I request my command squad be immediately tasked to the Isstvan III assault!'

A quick, almost imperceptible look passed between Typhon and Grulgor before the first captain spoke again. 'Captain Temeter, why are you here?'

Temeter hesitated, wrong-footed by the question. 'Lord, I came with Captain Garro, in, uh, support.'

Typhon gestured to Garro with a wave of his hand. 'Does he need support, Temeter? He can stand on his own two feet.' He gave a sharp nod at the comman­dery doors. 'You are dismissed. Attend to your company and the preparations for the drop.'

The captain of the Fourth frowned and saluted, giv­ing Garro a last look before he exited the chamber. When the doors banged shut, Nathaniel met Typhon's gaze again. 'I'll have an answer from you, first captain.'

'Your request is denied.'

Why?' Garro demanded. 'I am fit to lead! Damn it, I stood and fought on Isstvan Extremis with a leg torn from me, and yet I cannot prosecute the Emperor's enemies with this tin prosthesis bolted to my torso?'

Typhon's hard amber eyes narrowed. 'If it were up to me, I would let you do this, Garro. I would be will­ing to let you stumble into that war zone and live or

die on your own stock of bravado, but the word comes from his lordship. Mortarion makes this com­mand, captain. Would you oppose the will of our primarch?'

'If he were here in this chamber, aye, I would.'

'Then you would hear the same words from his lips. If time enough had passed and your injury was fully healed, then perhaps, but not here and now.'