Executioner By Joshua Lacey The chapel was silent, the constant low hum of the ships’ engine being heard far off in the sacred space. The Retribution voyaged through the turbulent warp, the ships Gellar field sparking above the domed skylight. How the ship had survived so long was a miracle. It had survived the Tyranids, horrors of the Eye of Terror, traitors from within and without, warp spawn to traitor boarding parties. Yet it remained with a skeleton crew, along with the remains of the outcast 4th company. Kneeling before the relief of the Emperor, before the long flowing standards of the chapter and company, the ruins of pews used as barricades, before the statue of Azariah Vidya himself, knelt a Space Marine. A sergeant who should have died many times, who bore the livery of the Blood Ravens. He knelt where he shouldn’t have, a warrior who should’ve been killed a hundred times over. He should not be here. Not because he should be dead, but because someone else shouldn’t be. From the shadows, Sigmund was watching bare headed. The death had been hard on them all, but the sergeant had felt it the most. He was still young for a space marine, even after the Penance Crusade. And now, when given the opportunity to lead, the sergeant declared himself unworthy. Sigmund knew otherwise. “Do you truly believe yourself lesser brother?” the chaplain spoke, emerging from the shadows to kneel with his brother. “You are as much of a hero of the chapter as he was.” As he got closer, Sigmund saw the dents, the scraps and blackened marks on the red armour of his battle brother. The sergeants face was scarred, a patchwork of bionics keeping the right side of his face together. Sigmund looked up to Vidya as he kneeled. He whispered his thanks to the Great Father and praised the Emperor. He recited the Litany of Woe, the Litany of Knowledge and the Litany of Fury. He spoke them with reverence, the litanies that defined a millennium of anguish for the chapter, that defined their future. No response. He then turned to the sergeant, taking in his features, no longer the boy he had once set eyes on Meridian. “Why do you still kneel here? For forgiveness or death? Does his sacrifice mean nothing to you or do their deaths weigh heavy on your soul?” The sergeant remained silent, but his body was tense. Sigmund had trouble getting the boy to realise death was inevitable, especially for their kind. He hung onto hope too much, formed strong bonds with his fellow battle brothers. It was how he had damned himself; too much trust, a veil of ignorance blinding him to his commanders’ orders. Even after the several decades of penance, some of those ideals had remained. He only had a few hours to purge the rest of them. A few hours to have the boy turn into a man, a battle brother, a captain. Sigmund waited a while, slowly turning away to continue his prayers. He prayed for forgiveness from the Emperor, to lead the chapter into a new age guided by his light, all in hoping the sergeant would respond. But after the prayers, he still had nothing, the air still undisturbed by any sound other than the sparking of the Gellar field and the hum of engines. The chaplain sighed, standing up to stare down at his battle brother, his commander, the man that should, that would, be captain. “We are meeting up with the elements of 6th and 7th companies soon in the Lithesh sector. We will need our force commander present to take command. You must remember, without his sacrifice we would not have been able to return to the chapter. Without him, we would be lost in the warp.” Sigmund began to walk out of the chapel when a husky voice, aged by centuries of war, from within and without, spoke out in a dark, dreary tone. “It is the duty of every space marine to die in battle, fighting for the Emperor, killing the xenos and the heretic.” Sigmund stopped, turning to his brother, curious as to where he was going. “The sacrifice of any marine in the line of service is a great honour.” The chaplain felt pride, that the sergeant had come to his sense. However, the final line provided evidence otherwise: “We fail when we fail to achieve such an honour. No retreat, no surrender.” The chaplain, in unbridled fury, turned heel to his commander. “No, brother, we fail if we give our lives needlessly! To die for the chapter, for the Emperor, is praise worthy, but not if it leaves us without the means to fight the battles to come! You know this, boy, just as he knew it. Thule’s teachings are not to be misused for justification of a suicide mission.” Sigmund sighed, calming himself before he continued. “He saw the potential in both of you all those years ago, just as I did. And in the end, both he and Thule sacrificed themselves for you, to make you who you are now. You are their legacy now.” Turning back around, he began to walk out, but turned back as he reached to arched doorway. “The chapter calls. And may none find you wanting.” Sigmund stormed out, the clang of his power armoured boots echoing throughout the room. The sergeant stayed still, taking it all in. He deserved this position, not him. He was the leader, just as Thule was. And slowly, the sergeants mind head back to the last days of the Penance Crusade, the war that had raged on for half a decade, a war on the Bloated World. Sergeant Aramus, Force Commander of the Penance Crusade, Hero of Typhon, stared out into the abyss in front of him. A green mist of coiling vapour made it impossible to see further than a few metres in front of him. But he could feel their eyes on him, their malevolent, hate filled eyes. They judged the man for what he was, a traitor, a commander that failed to lead his men. The one who, when desperate, skulked down to the level of the very demons that surrounded him. This was his fault. He turned from the battlements and back to the remains of his company. A hundred and fifty outcast battle brothers from the 2nd, 3rd and 4th companies once set out from sub sector Aurelia, but now only thirty remained. All the Dreadnoughts, Land Raiders and Predators were destroyed, either rotted by rusted or blasted by what few traitors they had found on this blighted world surface. Only a few Stormhawks and a battered Thunderhawk remained, just enough to carry what was left above the poisonous clouds, where the Retribution hung in orbit, a skeleton crew of servitors at its helm. Yet, retreat wasn’t an option for Aramus. This was penance; death was almost guaranteed. Aramus could feel the void that was the absence of Apothecary Aeneus, for half of those that remained were injured, with only Brother Marenus’ cybernetics to aid them. A space marines body is a durable vessel, able to heal itself from injuries no mere man could. But a century of destroying Chaos bastions, fighting off demons and surviving hells that would drive even the most grounded man mad can crack and even break the bravest of the battle brothers. Good men who could’ve fought in a war that actually mattered, not in a bloodbath that only appeased the dark gods of the warp. Aeneus knew that more than anyone, risking life and limb for his brothers, recovering the precious gene-seed of the fallen. Thanks to him, those that had died early on in the Crusade could serve once again. But once they were stuck on this world, once Aeneus fell soon after, no brother would feel the Emperors Grace. As Aramus reached the centre of the makeshift camp, Brother-Chaplain Sigmund approached him, wearing the bone and black armour of his station. His helm was cracked, the skull splintered from the right eye to the chin. His armour was similar fractured, but as was it for every battle brother that remained. “Brother-Librarian Anteas wishes to speak with you, commander. I believe he has word from the Chapter. Perhaps even Angelos himself” “That is good to hear, brother chaplain,” he replied, “What word of the shield brother Marenus has set up? Does it hold?” “The techmarine says the Gellar field he’s made would collapse sooner than expected. He estimates any defence of this position is tantalous at best, especially with such little equipment in working condition. He and I agree that we will have to evacuate soon.” “You know we do not have such a luxury, brother.” Sigmund placed his hand on Aramus’ shoulder. Sigmund was the only one of them to come by choice. His reasons were his own, which perplexed the commander, but nevertheless, he had been valuable to keep his brother moral high, to keep them focussed on the Emperors light. Slowly, Sigmund had turned these men from possible traitors, hearts turning black with heresy, to true sons the Emperor could be proud of. “I understand what you seek brother. Your deeds corrupted your brothers in the past, but now they have absolved themselves through your leadership. We are now champions of the Emperor once more!” Sigmund seemed to stare into his commanders’ soul with the depthless eyes of his helm. “It may not have been a century brother, but the Chapter needs us now, now more than ever.