THE THUNDER OF DRUMS
1
Amadeus deployed battle-ready, bolter up, panning for threats. Rain drummed against his helm and shoulder guards as he tracked across his field of vision, targeting reticule twitching this way and that in alignment with his pupils. I saw what he saw, the fresh data spilling down my retinal display: temperature, gravitic pull, ammunition count, Amadeus’ vital signs, the daily prayer-thought… I absorbed all of it with ingrained familiarity while Amadeus focused on his surroundings. As he tracked for targets, the falling rain sheened him silver.
The landing pad barely deserved the name. We had touched down in a forest clearing with the earth scraped bare and blackened by flame weapons. Behind Amadeus, we waited in the shadow of our Thunderhawk gunship.
Ahead stood a single figure, one that matched Amadeus in height and bulk. A Space Marine, though he wore no helm. Red tattoos serpentined across the warrior’s shorn scalp. He’d inked three crimson trails running from his lower lip, as though salivating blood. I saw no obvious sign of rank in the inked symbols, though the helm magnetically clamped to his belt had a high officer’s crest matching ancient pictorial evidence of the Grecka-Romanus warrior caste. His war-plate, polished by the rain, was marked by campaign badges and runic symbols that meant nothing to me. I knew nothing of the wars this Chapter had fought in the last century. The ceramite, however, matched a shade of pale blue I could see by looking up at the breaks in the cloud cover. The Emperor’s Spears wore armour cast in the same azure hue as the rings of Nemeton.
He appeared to be alone. I active-scanned him. He was unarmed.
‘You should lower your weapon,’ he said to my master. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’
Amadeus lowered his boltgun and saluted, one hand forming a half-wing aquila against his breastplate. ‘I am Lieutenant Commander Amadeus Kaias Incarius of the Mentor Legion. I was sent by my master, Nisk Ran-Thawll, as an emissary to the Adeptus Vaelarii.’
The Spear bared his teeth in a knowing and mirthless smile. ‘And you say you sailed the Straits of Epona.’
Amadeus nodded. ‘That is so.’
‘We’ve sent ships into the Straits. Many times. None have returned. Did they reach the Imperium?’
‘I have seen no records that spoke of an Emperor’s Spears craft in the last century. Nor have we seen any of the other Adeptus Vaelarii vessels in the century since the birth of the Great Rift.’
Something flickered across the Spear’s face. As trained as I was in reading the nuances of Space Marines’ inhumanity, I couldn’t discern his emotion from the expression.
‘You wouldn’t see any other vessels,’ the figure replied. ‘The Lions make no effort to cross back into the Imperium, and as for the Scorpions? Well. I wager you already know of their fate, Mentor.’
Those words laid bare one of the Chapter’s oldest wounds. My master rose to the bait with passionless clarity.
‘The Mentor Legion honours the memory of its predecessors. We–’
‘No. None of that now,’ the Spear interrupted, shaking his head. ‘Spare me your reasons for daring to wear those colours in Elara’s Veil. It’s an insult to us, and it’s an insult to the warriors who died wearing that heraldry before you were even born.’
I heard Amadeus breathe a little deeper over the vox. His vital signs accelerated, but he mastered himself before betraying any emotion.
‘Regardless,’ my lord said, ‘I come to you as an emissary.’
‘An emissary, is it? Promoting unity. Judging us. Very noble. The first soul we’ve seen from Imperial space in over a century, aye, and a bastard Mentor at that. What really brings you here, Amadeus Kaias Incarius? Did the Emperor’s false son truly send you, or is this some new ploy of the Exilarchy, seeking to see us bleed?’
We had come expecting a certain degree of suspicion, and perhaps even hostility. My master had relayed his concerns already, that the most primitive Chapters were often the most defiant, the most misguidedly proud. It seemed his wisdom was bearing out. He tried a new avenue of exchange.
‘I know nothing of the Exilarchy. May I know your name and rank, brother?’
Instantly, I knew he’d said the wrong thing. The Spear jerked his tattooed head towards Amadeus, showing his teeth. Scorn filled his tone.
‘With the colours you wear, it’ll be better for you if you don’t throw the word brother around so lightly in our presence.’
The servos in the jointed armour at Amadeus’ neck purred as he inclined his head. ‘As you wish,’ he replied, stoic as ever.
The warrior regarded him in silence. Weighing. Deciding. I watched my master’s heart beat seven times on my retinal display.
‘Take your helmet off,’ said the Spear. ‘At least let me see your face, if you’re coming to us and asking for hospitality.’
My master complied, disengaging the seals at his collar with a hiss of vented air. Although my perceptions were enhanced for my helot duties, his senses were far keener than mine. I wondered what he made of his first breath of Nemeton’s air in the greasy chill of the heavy rain. For my part, I was struck first by the saltwater scent of the world’s oceans, the hydraulic fluid in the Thunderhawk’s machine parts and the charcoal reek of the gunship’s cooling engines. Together, it overcame even Kartash’s pious odour.
The tattooed warrior stepped forward, meeting Amadeus’ eyes. He banged his knuckles against his cloaked chest in a tribal greeting.
‘I am Brêac of the Vargantes, Lord of the Third Warhost, and I grant you permission to walk the soil of Nemeton.’
In return, Amadeus slung his bolter and made a full sign of the aquila, gauntlets scraping against his chest-plate. ‘I accept and appreciate your welcome.’
Brêac closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting the cold rain wash over his features. When he looked at Amadeus again, I saw disgust in his gaze, illuminated by a flash of lightning. Or was it pity? The dark amusement in the barbarian’s eyes made it difficult to be sure.
I think back now to everything I didn’t know, then. The scars on Brêac’s face and armour were just that: a soldier’s scars, no different, no more personal, than reading about a hundred other battles on dry parchment. They weren’t yet the wounds taken in sacrificing blood and sweat and flesh and bone in order to stop the relentless Exilarchy. The concern on his tattooed features was surely just a symptom of my master’s presence, for I had no way of knowing the bloody beating the Third Warhost had sustained at the Battle of Thayren’s Reach just weeks before.
The precious naivety of it all.
Brêac gestured over Amadeus’ shoulder, to where we stood out of the rain. ‘I have storm cloaks for your vassals. Send them forward.’
My master didn’t even consider it. ‘They are sufficiently protected against the weather.’
‘Is that so? And what are their names?’
Amadeus blinked, taken aback. ‘What?’
‘Their names.’ Brêac spoke as if addressing a child or a fool. ‘You let your servants have names, don’t you?’
Amadeus looked blandly mystified in response to the Spear’s derisive tone. ‘Exactly why should their names matter?’
But he received no answer. Brêac beckoned to the three of us, where we waited on the gunship’s crew ramp. ‘You there. I am Brêac of the Vargantes. Name yourselves, so I may welcome you to this world.’
We looked to our master. He inclined his head, granting permission to speak.
Tyberia spoke first, talking over me. She made the sign of the aquila in greeting, her wrists crossing over her chest, her fingers splayed and her thumbs curved to represent the two-headed Imperial eagle.
‘I am Tyberia Volos, lifebound thrall of the most noble Mentor Legion, assigned as Helot Tertius to Lieutenant Commander Incarius.’
‘I am Brêac of the Vargantes. I bid you welcome to Nemeton, Tyberia. And you?’
With rank order abandoned, I spoke next. ‘I am Anuradha Daaz, lifebound thrall of the most noble Mentor Legion, assigned as Helot Secundus to Lieutenant Commander Incarius.’
Brêac repeated his welcome and turned to Kartash. ‘And you?’
Kartash didn’t answer. He remained in the shelter of the Thunderhawk’s bulk, clutching his white robes closer against the air’s chill.
Brêac glanced at my master. ‘Did you cut out his tongue, or is this a monastic vow of silence?’
‘You may speak,’ Amadeus prompted my fellow helot.
Kartash pulled back. Amadeus witnessed the slave’s cringing withdrawal, as did I, with no small surprise. I saw the tremble of Kartash’s shoulders and the tightness of his pressed lips. Only then did I catch the scent of copper on his breath and the tang of adrenaline in his blood. He reeked of an animal’s biochemical fight or flight response.
I could scarcely believe it. He was scared.
My master sensed it, too. ‘What is this moronic cowardice?’ Amadeus demanded. ‘What are you afraid of?’
Kartash peered from beneath his hood. He tried to speak, but no words came forth from his trembling lips.
Amadeus grunted, betraying the irritation he’d masked so well so far. Had he been human, I would have suspected he was embarrassed to be shamed by his slaves before the Spear barbarian. Amadeus was beyond such considerations, though. He was more likely appalled at a flaw discovered in his one of his tools.
‘What ails you, Helot Primus?’
I delved through my memorised archives for this mission. Did anything in Kartash’s past render him in some way unsuitable for the Nemeton Deployment? Surely the Chapter would have anticipated any such failing.
And there it was. Not a physical flaw, not even something specifically noted. Not a failing at all. Merely an unexpected inexperience.
The Spear reacted first. Armoured in his pale blue ceramite, Brêac towered above the hunchback. Above all of us, excepting my master. The Spear leaned down, coming closer to Kartash’s height.
‘Is this your first planetfall?’ he asked, lowering his avalanche of a voice.
‘Yes, great lord,’ Kartash managed to say.
‘You’re compressing your lungs. Spread your arms, to extend your ribcage. Breathe deep and slow. You command your own body. Focus on that fact.’
Brêac gestured for Kartash to mimic his movements. The slave obeyed, and as his breathing deepened, his trembling began to subside.
I watched my master as the realisation of his own error crept through. Kartash’s records stated that he’d been born in the void, like a notable percentage of the Chapter’s thralls. That night was the first time the hunchback felt wind against his skin, instead of filtrated air from ventilation ducts; the first time he had ever stood in the rain of a world, instead of the recycled chem-rich water of a warship’s ablution chamber.
And the trembling. His muscles were cramping in rebellious spasm. For the first time in his life, he was feeling the powerful drag of natural gravity. He was in pain.
We looked on as Brêac guided him though the acclimatisation. At last Kartash lowered his hood, revealing features four decades old: clean-shaven, light-eyed, casting his gaze downwards after a moment.
‘I am Kartash Avik, Lord Brêac. Lifebound thrall to the most noble Mentor Legion. Assigned as Helot Primus to Lieutenant Commander Incarius.’
Brêac nodded. ‘I grant you the Chapter’s welcome to walk the earth of Nemeton, Kartash.’
‘I was remiss in my focus,’ said Amadeus. If there was regret in his voice, it was for his own ignorance of the details, not sympathy for Kartash. ‘I had not considered all aspects of your service record, Helot Primus.’
‘All is well, my lord,’ Kartash assured him in a quivery tone, without meeting our master’s eyes.
Brêac turned away from Kartash. ‘Come, Amadeus Kaius Incarius. We attend a ceremony here this night.’
‘I require no such honour,’ my master replied, and the Spear gave a harsh shotcannon bark of a laugh.
‘If there’s honour in any of this, it’s not for you, Mentor. Attend us and learn what you will. There is only one law – wear your helm at all times when you’re around the humans. Do not let our people see your face.’
Amadeus nodded, replacing his helmet and saying no more. Brêac did the same, slamming his crested helm in place.
Thunder rolled, and I looked skywards. A storm, black and swollen, was building in the east.
2
The drums beat in a ceaseless rhythm, through the ground, through our bones. Even all these years later, in the moments when my thoughts go quiet, I hear the drums of Nemeton rolling like thunder.
The clearing in which we stood was lit by flickering torch-spears thrust into the earth, surrounding a central bonfire that blazed in defiance of the rainfall. I had studied celebrations like those in texts of primitive societies on other Imperial worlds, and at that stage of Mentor Legion relations, the proper conduct was to heed a Chapter’s customs, no matter how irrational or inconvenient they might be.
We were far above the tempestuous seas. Like all of Nemeton’s landmasses, this realm was thrust up from the planetary ocean, borne on a tectonic seam. The forest in which we found ourselves was scarcely beneath the sky. Clouds clashed, black and grey, just above our heads. The storm felt close enough to touch. Kartash flinched with every flash of lightning.
The revel was well underway by the time we arrived, though we soon saw that a Nemetese revel was closer to a funeral by the standards of other cultures. The air was mournful, the chanting songs were a chorus of overlapping dirges. The twin scents of distilled fruit-sourced alcohol and burning wood enriched the breezy air. Men and women beat the beast-hide drums and performed fire-jumping ritual dances. Every physical feat was a test, with the dancers and ritualists dripping sweat from their bare skin, even in the rain. The drums could have been the solemn pulse of the world itself. Little about it felt like a celebration, but there was a dignified ferocity to it all, something that spoke of racing hearts and revered tradition.
My master waited by the edge of the festivities and we stood with him, at a respectful distance. The seven servitors stood guard at our Thunderhawk, rather than wasting their time hauling our armoury chests through the forest for three hours to the revel. We three helots wore grey-blue storm cloaks, as did the barbarians that populated the revel. Something in the weave repelled rain rather than absorbing it. Kartash huddled in his, looking desperately unhappy. Tyberia wore hers the way an officer would wear a cape, thrown carelessly over one shoulder, introducing self-conscious elegance to the unfamiliar garment. She stood as if expecting everyone to pay attention to her.
We watched the primitives speaking, trading and chanting in the rain. Infrequent, harsh laughter scudded out from packs of tribesmen, swallowed by the drums or pulled away into the rising wind. A section of the cleared woodland had been given over to both male and female barbarians fighting mock battles, most likely over mating rights or the minutiae of clan honour. Blood marked even the victors of these battles. More than one of the losers lay on the sodden earth, storm cloaks wrapping them as burial shrouds. Other defeated combatants were dragged away and hurled onto the funeral pyres.
Most of the tribespeople wore leather or hide harvested from various beasts. The bones they wore as talismanic trinkets were similarly taken from any number of variant creatures. Some were human.
Passive-scanning revealed that six hundred and ninety-seven people were present. Two hundred and eighteen were children in the years of pre-adolescence. Few of these youths clustered around their elders; most ran free in packs or emulated the older tribespeople by recreating the games, prayers and fights. Only twenty-three men and women were of an advanced age, bordering on dotage. These gathered together in an informal court of sorts, surrounded by those who would hear their stories and receive their blessings.
The Spears stood amidst these tribal rituals, yet apart from them. Guarded parents kept their children at a distance from the warriors, and made no effort to speak with the Space Marines themselves. I’d seen humans flee in terror of the Adeptus Astartes before, and I’d seen them dumbstruck with reverential awe, but never had I witnessed a human culture display this distant, cautious fear. At my side, Kartash and Tyberia had noticed the atmosphere as well. We all watched, fascinated by the strange contrast inherent in the Spears’ presence. Our hoods were up, our faces in shadow. We hadn’t spoken a single word since arriving at the bleak revel.
Yet my master, in his armour of white and green, attracted more attention than the Spears.
I heard the child approaching. She had been watching us for several minutes and finally gathered the courage to approach. Now she stood a short distance away, just beyond arm’s reach. It would be a lie to say she showed no fear of Amadeus, but where boy-children cringed and hid from the Space Marines in their midst, the girl-children showed something closer to apprehension. This one was no exception.
She stood, and she stared.
Amadeus turned a slow glare upon her. His armour joints grumbled. His eye-lenses glittered in the rainfall.
She remained there, trembling now.
Amadeus stared at the child with weaponised disinterest. Dew drops of rain alighted on his helm, trailing down his faceplate.
‘Begone,’ he said to her.
She fled, shrieking, drawing the gazes of nearby barbarians. Amadeus didn’t watch her leave. He had already returned his gaze to the cold revel.
‘Scout the area,’ he commanded us. ‘Return to me when I summon you.’
Tyberia licked the rain from her lips. ‘Is there anything you wish us to observe, lord?’
Our master didn’t even spare us a glance. ‘Everything. Go.’