Garviel's Memory

[greyerrant]

Beyond the high hedge, an ornamental water garden lay in shadowy
ruin. The height of the hedge and the neighbouring trees, just now
becoming spiky black shapes against the rose sky, screened out
what was left of the direct sunlight. The gloom upon the gardens
was almost misty.
The garden had once been composed of rectangular ouslite slabs
laid like giant flagstones, surrounding a series of square, shallow
basins where lilies and bright water flowers had flourished in
pebbly sinks fed by some spring or water source. Frail ghost ferns
and weeping trees had edged the pools.
During the assault of the High City, shells or airborne munitions
had bracketed the area, felling many of the plants and shattering a
great number of the blocks. Many of the ouslite slabs had been
dislodged, and several of the pools greatly increased in breadth and
depth by the addition of deep, gouging craters.
But the hidden spring had continued to feed the place, filling the
shell holes, and pouring overflow between dislodged stones.
The whole garden was a shimmering, flat pool in the gloom, out
of which tangled branches, broken root balls and asymmetric shards
of rock stuck up in miniature archipelagos.
Some of the intact blocks, slabs two metres long and half a metre
thick, had been rearranged, and not randomly by the blasts. They
had been levered out to form a walkway into the pool area, a stone
jetty sunk almost flush with the water’s surface.
Loken stepped out onto the causeway and began to follow it. The
air smelled damp, and he could hear the clack of amphibians and
the hiss of evening flies. Water flowers, their fragile colours almost
lost in the closing darkness, drifted on the still water either side of
his path.
Loken felt no fear. He was not built to feel it, but he registered a
trepidation, an anticipation that made his hearts beat. He was, he
knew, about to pass a threshold in his life, and he held faith that
what lay beyond that threshold would be provident. It also felt right
that he was about to take a profound step forward in his career. His
world, his life, had changed greatly of late, with the rise of the
Warmaster and the consequent alteration of the crusade, and it was
only proper that he changed with it. A new phase. A new time.
He paused and looked up at the stars that were beginning to light
in the purpling sky. A new time, and a glorious new time at that.
Like him, mankind was on a threshold, about to step forward into
greatness.
He had gone deep into the ragged sprawl of the water garden, far
beyond the lamps of the landing zone behind the hedge, far beyond
the lights of the city. The sun had vanished. Blue shadows
surrounded him.
The causeway path came to an end. Water gleamed beyond.
Ahead, across thirty metres of still pond, a little bank of weeping
trees rose up like an atoll, silhouetted against the sky.
He wondered if he should wait. Then he saw a flicker of light
amongst the trees across the water, a flutter of yellow flame that
went as quickly as it came.
Loken stepped off the causeway into the water. It was shin deep.
Ripples, hard black circles, radiated out across the reflective pool.
He began to wade out towards the islet, hoping that his feet
wouldn’t suddenly encounter some unexpected depth of submerged
crater and so lend comedy to this solemn moment.
He reached the bank of trees and stood in the shallows, gazing up
into the tangled blackness.
‘Give us your name,’ a voice called out of the darkness. It spoke
the words in Cthonic, his home-tongue, the battle-argot of the Luna
Wolves.
‘Garviel Loken is my name to give.’
‘And what is your honour?’
‘I am Captain of the Tenth Company of the Sixteenth Legio
Astartes.’
‘And who is your sworn master?’
‘The Warmaster and the Emperor both.’
Silence followed, interrupted only by the splash of frogs and the
noise of insects in the waterlogged thickets.
The voice spoke again. Two words. ‘Illuminate him.’
There was a brief metallic scrape as the slot of a lantern was
pulled open, and yellow flame-light shone out across him. Three
figures stood on the tree-lined bank above him, one holding the
lantern up.
Aximand. Torgaddon, lifting the lantern. Abaddon.
Like him, they wore their warrior armour, the dancing light
catching bright off the curves of the plate. All were bareheaded,
their crested helmets hung at their waists.
‘Do you vouch that this soul is all he claims to be?’ Abaddon
asked. It seemed a strange question, as all three of them knew him
well enough. Loken understood it was part of the ceremony.
‘I so vouch,’ Torgaddon said. ‘Increase the light.’
Abaddon and Aximand stepped away, and began to open the slots
of a dozen other lanterns hanging from the surrounding boughs.
When they had finished, a golden light suffused them all.
Torgaddon set his own lamp on the ground.
The trio stepped forward into the water to face Loken. Tarik
Torgaddon was the tallest of them, his trickster grin never leaving
his face. ‘Loosen up, Garvi,’ he chuckled. ‘We don’t bite.’
Loken flashed a smile back, but he felt unnerved. Partly, it was
the high status of these three men, but he also hadn’t expected the
induction to be so ritualistic.
Horus Aximand, Captain of Fifth Company, was the youngest
and shortest of them, shorter than Loken. He was squat and robust,
like a guard dog. His head was shaved smooth, and oiled, so that
the lamp-light gleamed off it. Aximand, like many in the younger
generations of the Legion, had been named in honour of the
commander, but only he used the name openly. His noble face, with
wide-set eyes and firm, straight nose, uncannily resembled the
visage of the Warmaster, and this had earned him the affectionate
name ‘Little Horus’. Little Horus Aximand, the devil-dog in war,
the master strategist. He nodded greeting to Loken.
Ezekyle Abaddon, First Captain of the Legion, was a towering
brute. Somewhere between Loken’s height and Torgaddon’s, he
seemed greater than both due to the cresting top-knot adorning his
otherwise shaved scalp. When his helm was off, Abaddon bound
his mane of black hair up in a silver sleeve that made it stand proud
like a palm tree or a fetish switch on his crown. He, like
Torgaddon, had been in the Mournival from its inception. He, like
Torgaddon and Aximand both, shared the same aspect of straight
nose and wide-spaced eyes so reminiscent of the Warmaster,
though only in Aximand were the features an actual likeness. They
might have been brothers, actual womb brothers, if they had been
sired in the old way. As it was, they were brothers in terms of genesource and martial fraternity.
Now Loken was to be their brother too.
There was a curious incidence in the Luna Wolves Legion of
Astartes bearing a facial resemblance to their primarch. This had
been put down to conformities in the gene-seed, but still, those who
echoed Horus in their features were considered especially lucky,
and were known by all the men as ‘the Sons of Horus’. It was a
mark of honour, and it often seemed the case that ‘Sons’ rose faster
and found better favour than the rest. Certainly, Loken knew for a
fact, all the previous members of the Mournival had been ‘Sons of
Horus’. In this respect, he was unique. Loken owed his looks to an
inheritance of the pale, craggy bloodline of Cthonia. He was the
first non-‘Son’ to be elected to this elite inner circle.
Though he knew it couldn’t be the case, he felt as if he had
achieved this eminence through simple merit, rather than the
atavistic whim of physiognomy.
‘This is a simple act,’ Abaddon said, regarding Loken. ‘You have
been vouched for here, and proposed by great men before that. Our
lord, and the Lord Dorn have both put your name forward.’
‘As have you, sir, so I understand,’ Loken said.
Abaddon smiled. ‘Few match you in soldiering, Garviel. I’ve had
my eye on you, and you proved my interest when you took the
palace ahead of me.’
‘Luck.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ said Aximand gruffly.
‘He only says that because he never has any,’ Torgaddon
grinned.
‘I only say that because there’s no such thing,’ Aximand
objected. ‘Science has shown us this. There is no luck. There is
only success or the lack of it.’
‘Luck,’ said Abaddon. ‘Isn’t that just a word for modesty?
Garviel is too modest to say “Yes, Ezekyle, I bested you, I won the
palace, and triumphed where you did not,” for he feels that would
not become him. And I admire modestyin a man, but the truth is,
Garviel, you are here because you are a warrior of superlative
talent. We welcome you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Loken said.
‘A first lesson, then,’ Abaddon said. ‘In the Mournival, we are
equals. There is no rank. Before the men, you may refer to me as
“sir” or “First Captain”, but between us, there is no ceremony. I am
Ezekyle.’
‘Horus,’ said Aximand.
‘Tarik,’ said Torgaddon.
‘I understand,’ Loken answered, ‘Ezekyle.’
‘The rules of our confraternity are simple,’ Aximand said, ‘and
we will get to them, but there is no structure to the duties expected
of you. You should prepare yourself to spend more time with the
command staff, and function at the Warmaster’s side. Have you a
proxy in mind to oversee the Tenth in your absence?’
‘Yes, Horus,’ Loken said.
‘Vipus?’ Torgaddon smiled.
‘I would,’ Loken said, ‘but the honour should be Jubal’s.
Seniority and rank.’
Aximand shook his head. ‘Second lesson. Go with your heart. If
you trust Vipus, make it Vipus. Never compromise. Jubal’s a big
boy. He’ll get over it.’
‘There will be other duties and obligations, special duties…’
Abaddon said. ‘Escorts, ceremonies, embassies, planning meetings.
Are you sanguine about that? Your life will change.’
‘I am sanguine,’ Loken nodded.
‘Then we should mark you in,’ Abaddon said. He stepped past
Loken and waded forward into the shallow lake, away from the
light of the lamps. Aximand followed him. Torgaddon touched
Loken on the arm and ushered him along as well.
They strode out into the black water and formed a ring. Abaddon
bade them stand stock-still until the water ceased to lap and ripple.
It became mirror-smooth. The bright reflection of the rising moon
wavered on the water between them.
‘The one fixture that has always witnessed an induction,’
Abaddon said. ‘The moon. Symbolic of our Legion name. No one
has ever entered the Mournival, except by the light of a moon.’
Loken nodded.
‘This seems a poor, false one,’ Aximand muttered, looking up at
the sky, ‘but it will do. The image of the moon must also always be
reflected. In the first days of the Mournival, close on two hundred
years ago, it was favoured to have the chosen moon’s image
captured in a scrying dish or polished mirror. We make do now.
Water suffices.’
Loken nodded again. His feeling of being unnerved had returned,
sharp and unwelcome. This was a ritual, and it smacked
dangerously of the practices of corpse-whisperers and spiritualists.
The entire process seemed shot through with superstition and
arcane worship, the sort of spiritual unreason Sindermann had
taught him to rail against.
He felt he had to say something before it was too late. ‘I am a
man of faith,’ he said softly, ‘and that faith is the truth of the
Imperium. I will not bow to any fane or acknowledge any spirit. I
own only the empirical clarity of Imperial Truth.’
The other three looked at him.
‘I told you he was straight up and down,’ Torgaddon said.
Abaddon and Aximand laughed.
‘There are no spirits here, Garviel,’ Abaddon said, resting a hand
reassuringly against Loken’s arm.
‘We’re not trying to ensorcel you,’ Aximand chuckled.
‘This is just an old habit, a practice. The way it has always been
done,’ Torgaddon said. ‘We keep it up for no other reason than it
seems to make it matter. It’s… pantomime, I suppose.’
‘Yes, pantomime,’ agreed Abaddon.
‘We want this moment to be special to you, Garviel,’ Aximand
said. ‘We want you to remember it. We believe it’s important to
mark an induction with a sense of ceremony and occasion, so we
use the old ways. Perhaps that’s just theatrical of us, but we find it
reassuring.’
‘I understand,’ Loken said.
‘Do you?’ Abaddon asked. ‘You’re going to make a pledge to us.
An oath as firm as any oath of moment you have ever undertaken.
Man to man. Cold and clear and very, very secular. An oath of
brothership, not some occult pact. We stand together in the light of
a moon, and swear a bond that only death will break.’
‘I understand,’ Loken repeated. He felt foolish. ‘I want to take
the oath.’
Abaddon nodded. ‘Let’s mark you, then. Say the names of the
others.’
Torgaddon bowed his head and recited nine names. Since the
foundation of the Mournival, only twelve men had held the unofficial rank, and three of those were present. Loken would be the
thirteenth.
‘Keyshen. Minos. Berabaddon. Litus. Syrakul. Deradaeddon.
Karaddon. Janipur. Sejanus.’
‘Lost in glory,’ Aximand and Abaddon said as one voice.
‘Mourned by the Mournival. Only in death does duty end.’
A bond that only death will break. Loken thought about
Abaddon’s words. Death was the single expectation of each and
every Astartes. Violent death. It was not an if, it was a when. In the
service of the Imperium, each of them would eventually sacrifice
his life. They were phlegmatic about it. It would happen, it was that
simple. One day, tomorrow, next year. It would happen.
There was an irony, of course. To all intents and purposes, and by
every measurement known to the gene-scientists and
gerontologists, the Astartes, like the primarchs, were immortals.
Age would not wither them, nor bring them down. They would live
forever… five thousand years, ten thousand, beyond even that into
some unimaginable millennium. Except for the scythe of war.
Immortal, but not invulnerable. Yes, they might live forever, but
they would never get the chance. Immortality was a by-product of
their Astartes strengths, but those strengths had been gene-built for
combat. They had been born immortal only to die in war. That was
the way of it. Brief, bright lives. Like Hastur Sejanus, the warrior
Loken was replacing. Only the beloved Emperor, who had left the
warring behind, would truly live forever.
Loken tried to imagine the future, but the image would not form.
Death would wipe them all from history. Not even the great First
Captain Ezekyle Abaddon would survive forever. There would be a
time when Abaddon no longer waged bloody war across the
territories of humanity.
Loken sighed. That would be a sad day indeed. Men would cry
out for Abaddon’s return, but he would never come.
He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Fabled,
imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He imagined himself
at the Emperor’s side, fighting some great, last stand against an
unknown foe. Primarch Horus would be there, of course. He had to
be. It wouldn’t be the same without him. Loken would battle, and
die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the
last.
Glory. Glory, like he’d never known. Such an hour would
become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the
cornerstone of all that came after. A great battle, upon which
human culture would be based.
Then, briefly, he imagined another death. Alone, far away from
his comrades and his Legion, dying from cruel wounds on some
nameless rock, his passing as memorable as smoke.
Loken swallowed hard. Either way, his service was to the
Emperor, and his service would be true to the end.
‘The names are said,’ Abaddon intoned, ‘and of them, we hail
Sejanus, latest to fall.’
‘Hail, Sejanus!’ Torgaddon and Aximand cried.
‘Garviel Loken,’ Abaddon said, looking at Loken. ‘We ask you
to take Sejanus’s place. How say you?’
‘I will do this thing gladly.’
‘Will you swear an oath to uphold the confraternity of the
Mournival?’
‘I will,’ said Loken.
‘Will you accept our brothership and give it back as a brother?’
‘I will.’
‘Will you be true to the Mournival to the end of your life?’
‘I will.’
‘Will you serve the Luna Wolves for as long as they bear that
proud name?’
‘I will,’ said Loken.
‘Do you pledge to the commander, who is primarch over us all?’
asked Aximand.
‘I so pledge.’
‘And to the Emperor above all primarchs, everlasting?’
‘I so pledge.’
‘Do you swear to uphold the truth of the Imperium of Mankind,
no matter what evil may assail it?’ Torgaddon asked.
‘I swear,’ said Loken.
‘Do you swear to stand firm against all enemies, alien and
domestic?’
‘This I swear.’
‘And in war, kill for the living and kill for the dead?’
‘Kill for the living! Kill for the dead!’ Abaddon and Aximand
echoed.
‘I swear.’
‘As the moon lights us,’ Abaddon said, ‘will you be a true
brother to your brother Astartes?’
‘I will.’
‘No matter the cost?’
‘No matter the cost.’
‘Your oath is taken, Garviel. Welcome into the Mournival.
Tarik? Illuminate us.’
Torgaddon pulled a vapour flare from his belt and fired it off into
the night sky. It burst in a bright umbrella of light, white and harsh.
As the sparks of it rained slowly down onto the waters, the four
warriors hugged and whooped, clasping hands and slapping backs.
Torgaddon, Aximand and Abaddon took turns to embrace Loken.
‘You’re one of us now,’ Torgaddon whispered as he drew Loken
close.
‘I am,’ said Loken.
Later, on the islet, by the light of the lanterns, they branded
Loken’s helm above the right eye with the crescent mark of the new
moon. This was his badge of office. Aximand’s helm bore the
brand of the half moon, Torgaddon’s the gibbous, and Abaddon’s
the full. The four stage cycle of a moon was shared between their
wargear. So the Mournival was denoted.
They sat on the islet, talking and joking, until the sun rose again.