A breeze stirred Azrael. Stronger than a breeze. Cloth lightly touching his face.
He opened his eyes and saw the hem of a robe, dark green. The Grand Master thought it a Watcher in the Dark, but as his senses returned and he looked up, he found himself looking at a tapestry depicting the Angel of Death.
A quick glance around revealed more of the same, twelve in total, hanging by golden ropes from hooks on the plain plastered walls of a chamber a dozen metres across.
There was no sign of the Watchers.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
The question came from every direction, an assault on his hearing. He caught movement in the corner of his eye and spun, but there was nothing to see, only a gently undulating hanging.
‘I am a Space Marine. I know no fear. You cannot intimidate me.’
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
He shuddered at the force of the demanding voice. Azrael’s hearing buzzed for several seconds after, though he was sure there was no echo despite the spacious dimensions of the chamber.
More movement on the edge of vision. This time he turned more slowly, alert to any change. He saw nothing.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
He was about to give an answer but instinct threw him aside; only a moment later his conscious mind registered the whisper of a blade cutting the air. He turned as he rolled, whipping the Sword of Secrets from its scabbard.
Coming to his feet, he confronted empty air, his blade raised to a guard position. A second later, he turned again in anticipation of a fresh attack, slashing with the sword at throat height.
The meteoric metal crashed against another blade. Azrael stepped back, reeling from the spectral sight before him.
One of the Angels of Death loomed large in the centre of the chamber, its ornately hilted sword gripped in two skeletal hands, a yawning black emptiness beneath the rippling hood of its dark green robe. White wings quivered behind it.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE? it demanded, cutting its sword towards Azrael’s midriff.
He parried without thought, turning the blade past his thigh. The counter-attack was equally instinctual, the tip of his blade thrust towards the chest of his adversary. With impossible speed the Angel of Death blocked the attack and whipped its own sword at his shoulder.
Though he parried this latest assault, Azrael gasped as the pain of his recent wounds flared through the muscle of his arm and chest.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
‘The Emperor!’ Azrael shouted back, stepping aside to avoid an incoming stroke towards his aching chest. ‘I serve the Emperor!’
Leaping out of reach, Azrael saw another Angel of Death flow from a second tapestry. It was as if the threads came to life, unravelling and bulging from the canvas, reknitting as a towering apparition.
The Grand Master dived between the two wraith-like figures, cutting his sword through the robe of the one on his right, where knees should have been. The Sword of Secrets parted cloth, slicing effortlessly through the thick fabric, but passed on through the robe without meeting resistance.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
The pair of angels spoke in unison, their wings fluttering with agitation as they turned on the Grand Master and assumed identical poses with swords pointed at his face.
‘Mankind,’ he gasped. ‘The Space Marines serve mankind.’
Azrael managed to block one of the swords, but the other struck him in the arm. The long blade left no mortal injury, but at its touch a numbing chill spread along the limb, deadening it between elbow and fingers. He tried to flex his hand, to regain life, backstepping rapidly as a third Angel of Death manifested itself in the chamber.
With the Sword of Secrets in one hand, he stayed in motion, jabbing and feinting, using short and quick steps to keep himself out of harm’s way, not allowing the three apparitions to surround him.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
‘The Imperium?’ Azrael was tiring quickly despite his superhuman physiology. The slightest graze of a ghostly blade sent a shiver through him, leeching his strength, wearing down his resolve.
The fourth Angel of Death came at him directly from behind. Azrael threw himself at one of the others to avoid being speared in the back, shoulder-charging the spectre with a roar.
Cloth fluttered around him, its touch oddly delicate amidst the fury of battle, and then he slammed into the wall behind, meeting hard stone at full speed. He rebounded and turned, lifted up his weapon in a wild defence to catch the crossguard of a descending blade.
WHOM DO YOU SERVE?
Sword locked with the apparition of the Angel of Death, he stared directly into the fathomless depths beneath its cowl, seeking some light, some indication of what it was. What it wanted of him.
‘The Dark Angels.’ He pushed with all of his strength, dragging his blade free from the entanglement of the ghost sword. ‘I serve the Dark Angels.’
As swiftly as they had manifested, the Angels of Death retreated to their banners, becoming one with the woven cloth in seconds. Panting, Azrael regarded them warily, flexing his fingers as life returned. The pain in his shoulder subsided and his hearts slowed from their frantic thrashing.
Something had changed, and it took a moment until he saw what it was. Where before the embroidered figures had held their blades with the point to the ground, they were now upraised.
The Angels of Death saluted him.