C. Goto - Dawn of War

With an audible gasp, the Librarian drew back from the altar, pushing his staff into the ground to support himself. Prathios and Gabriel reached for their battle-brother, steadying him with their powerful arms, and watching the colour gradually return to his face.

“Brother Isador, you have one hour to study the altar. Document everything-let us see whether we can fill in some of the gaps in the history of this planet for ourselves.” With concern amounting to worry, Gabriel was watching the pale expression on his old friend’s face. “Then we will destroy it, lest its vile taint infect us all.”

The Librarian’s face was still white and his blue eyes were wide and icy. “Gabriel, we must not destroy this artefact. We are Blood Ravens, and we must not turn our backs on the search for knowledge, no matter how distasteful it may seem.”

“You had better not let Toth hear you saying such things, Isador. He views our Chapter with suspicion enough already, without you giving him the idea that we covet the knowledge of heretics.” Gabriel’s voice was only half mocking, for his point was serious. “Learn what you can, brother, but then we will destroy it. There are boundaries between research and complicity, and we must be careful to stay on the right side of them.”

With that, Gabriel turned and started to climb back up the earthworks towards Matiel and the Space Marines that stood sentry over the distasteful scene, leaving Isador and Prathios with the altar. “One hour, then we move on,” he called over his shoulder, as though worried that Isador might have already forgotten.

The carvings and etchings were buried beneath a thick treacle of congealed blood, and Isador struggled to make out the runes. He pulled his gauntlet off and pushed his fingers into the cracks in the stone, scooping out gobbets of viscous ichor and tracing the unfamiliar lines. His fingers scraped against the rough surface of the stone, catching on the pointed nicks and grooves, drawing tiny beads of his own blood into the mix. But he worked methodically, struggling to uncover the ancient engravings in time to give them the attention that they deserved.

The runes seemed dead under his touch, cold and hard like inanimate stone, and Isador lamented that he had been so hasty to rip the Guardsman from its diabolical embrace. Without the flow of new, rich blood, the altar was nothing more than a monument, albeit a monument covered with ancient, runic script.

Here and there, Isador could just about make out some of the words, but the language of the runes was old and unfamiliar to him, and many of the symbols were still obscured under a thick coating of blood. The characters seemed to tell a story about a quest, a heroic mission to uncover the key to salvation for Tartarus and the surrounding worlds. There was an icon representing a mountain and then the phonetic symbols for Korath. There was some mention of the Blood God and the appearance of his messengers, but Isador had seen enough of these artefacts before to know that all of them contained such slogans. He was unimpressed.

One rune struck his eyes and drew his attention, pulling him in with its own gravity. Treraum-storm. It was an ancient rune, and for a moment Isador did not recognise it. Not since his years in the Blood Ravens’ great librarium sanatorium had he seen this style of rune-ornate and twisted, as though it strove to hide its own meaning from the prying eyes of men. The characters next to it were even more obscure and intricate. They sounded little bells in Isador’s memory, but he could not quite place them. He had seen them before, he thought.

“Isador!” called Gabriel from the top of the earthworks. “Time to leave. Do you have what you need?”

The Librarian looked from the altar to his captain and then back again, thinking of what he could say to waylay their departure. But Gabriel saw his movements and assumed that he was shaking his head.

“Isador-I said one hour, and I meant it,” he said, waving his arm to Matiel. “Sergeant, rig that monstrosity for destruction, and then let’s get out of this Emperor-forsaken place.”

Matiel kicked in the burner on his jump pack and rose noisily, if gracefully, into the air. Behind him, two other members of his squad of Marines did the same, each carrying clusters of melta bombs. And the three of them descended rapidly into the pit, like red angels carrying the promise of redemption.

Isador turned back to the altar, a wave of desperation spilling into his mind. Those idiots were about to destroy one of the most valuable artefacts found in this sector in centuries. Gabriel was just too narrow-minded to see what he was doing. Cyrene had made him weak and paranoid. The path of the Blood Ravens was not supposed to be easy-the pursuit of knowledge required certain sacrifices, but its use could transform a Space Marine into a god. Who else but a god could command the lives of a planet’s entire population? Gabriel was too short-sighted, and his guilt threatened to wreck his judgment.

When Matiel touched down behind Isador, he found the Librarian muttering to himself, as though reading from a foreign text. He hardly seemed to notice the arrival of three Space Marines roaring down with their jump packs blazing.

“Librarian Akios, time’s up. The captain wants us to blow this place right now. And good riddance to it, I say,” said Matiel, gesturing for his men to fix their charges to the other side of the altar. “The stench of the xenos and the heretic is almost overpowering. It is an offence to the Emperor.”

“Just give me another minute,” hissed Isador, snapping his head round to face the sergeant and fixing him with narrowed, blue eyes. “I need just one more minute. Alone,” he added, as Matiel nodded but showed no signs of moving.

The sergeant nodded again and then turned smartly, walking round to the other side of the altar to check on the progress of his team. Turning his attention back to the runes, Isador produced a small combat knife from a holster on his belt. He muttered something inaudible as he ran his finger along its blade, and the sheen of the metal seemed to burst into effervescence. When he pressed the blade into the side of the altar, a trickle of blood seeped out of the stone, as though he were inflicting a wound. The blade hissed and vibrated under his touch as he cut through the altar, defining a neat rectangle around the constellation of runes that surrounded Treraum.

As Matiel came back round to set his mine on Isador’s side, the Librarian was tucking something into his belt and wiping blood off the blade of his knife on the grass.

“Matiel! Let’s blow this thing and get out of here,” yelled Gabriel, standing on the rim of the crater.

“Yes, captain,” replied Matiel. Then he dropped his voice and turned to Isador. “Time’s up, Librarian.” Isador was already on his feet. He nodded a quick acknowledgment, strode away from the altar, and started to climb up towards Gabriel.

What are you doing, Librarian! For a moment, Isador thought that the words were his own, swimming around inside his head as though they had always been there. But there was an unusual quality to them-something slippery and immaterial. Whenever he tried to grasp one of the thoughts, it eased clear of his mind, vacillating in and out of his memory like a ghost.

I know that you can hear me, Blood Raven, came the voiceless words again. What are you doing, hiding artefacts from the heroic captain… acting against his orders!

Isador did not break his stride as he climbed the banks of the crater. He doesn’t appreciate the value of this find, and I had no time to convince him. He will thank me for my vigilance, when the time comes.

I understand, Isador, just like you, said the voice, finding his name for the first time. And I am also able to thank you for your conscientiousness.