when the Angels of Death, the Emperor's own warriors, shall be brought to trial before their peers, and I
saw the part we were to play therein. The sin I confess is that I have known since that night that this time
would come, and that the Blind Retribution must be there not only to observe that justice be done, but to
enact a most crucial and terrible act that is the Emperor's will. I have kept it secret, locked up in my soul.
Knowing that the day would come everything I saw will come true. That is my confession. Who will
follow mine with the excision of their own sin? Who?'
For a few moments, there was silence. Then one of the pilgrims raised a hand - Brother Sennon, one
of the younger brethren who had been with the Blind Retribution only a few years. 'I drank of the
chalice,' he said, his voice wavering. 'I saw… I saw the Phalanx. I thought it was a gilded eagle, a
symbol of the Emperor's presence but… but when I looked upon this ship, I understood that whatever is
to befall us must happen here. And it will be most dreadful. I saw flame, and blood, and torn bodies.
Astartes battling one another. There was a terrible injustice, I am sure, which by this violence might be
averted. And… Father Gyranar, I am sure that I must die.'
'Brother Sennon,' said Gyranar, 'your courage is that of one far beyond your years and wisdom. To
have made this confession here, before your brothers, is an act of great bravery. Who here can show
such valour? For he is not the only one with something to confess.'
'I, too,' said Sister Solace, 'have seen what I must do. It is indeed a terrible thing. But it was brought
to me while at prayer. There was a searing pain about my temples and when my senses returned my mind
was full of visions. I saw the Phalanx, and all that you have spoken of. I have hidden this for so long
because I was afraid. I thought I was the only one. I thought that if I spoke of it I would be accused of
corruption, and so I pushed it down to the depths of my soul. Only now am I able to acknowledge it
within myself.'
More voices spoke out. Many had drunk of the chalice offered to them. Others had been struck by
sudden visions while ill with a fever or at prayer. Some had been granted prophetic dreams. All of them
had hidden what they had seen, and all of them had seen the same thing. The Phalanx. Fire and warfare.
Destruction. And all had the same absolute certainty that what they saw was the Emperor's will. Every
pilgrim cried out his own confession, finally unburdening himself of the dark thoughts that had been inside
him since the days of his novicehood in the Blind Retribution.
Gyranar held up a hand to silence them. 'Now our confession is finished,' he said, 'is any of you in
doubt as to what he must do? Does any fail to understand his own task in this, our final act of devotion?'
This time, there was silence again.
'Good,' said Gyranar. 'Then the Emperor's will must be done, dreadful though it is. And true, many of
you will die, though the fear of death has no hold on you, I see.'
'Rather death,' said Brother Akulsan, 'than to live on with this task undone.'
'Good,' said Gyranar. 'Then we are all of the same mind. And now, let us pray.'
IF ARCHMAGOS VOAR could have truly admired anything, he would have admired the Crucible of Ages.
Page 94
The complex angles of its construction, wrought in iron and bronze to form a great segmented dome,
were lit from beneath by the molten metal running in channels between the four great forges in which
blades and armour segments were being heated by crewmen in heavy protective suits. The sound of steel
on steel rang like the falling of a metallic rain. The work was overseen by the Techmarines of the Fourth,
Seventh and Eighth Companies of the Imperial Fists, those companies present on the Phalanx for the
trial. The Techmarines checked each piece for flaws after its cooling in the huge vat of water in the centre
of the dome, throwing those pieces that failed back into the streams of molten metal.
Voar did not really like anything in the traditional human sense, since he had lost much of his
emotional centre over the course of his various augmentations. But as much as he could, he liked this
place. It was a place of both industry and wisdom. The exacting standards of the Techmarines were
something to admire, as was the devotion the crewmen had to the orders of their Imperial Fists masters.
The Crucible of Ages could have been lifted straight out of an Adeptus Mechanicus forge world, which
was as high a compliment as a magos of the Mechanicus could pay.
Archmagos Voar had been summoned here. Ordinarily one did not summon an archmagos, but he
was a guest here on the Phalanx and his datamedia still contained enough matters of etiquette to suggest
he should accept the request to come to the Crucible.
In the centre of the Crucible stood an Astartes who was not a Techmarine. He wore Terminator
armour, its yellow ceramite panels lit red and orange by the molten streams. He was testing the weight
and balance of several hammers recently forged and left by the cooling pool. Each hammer was as long
as a man was tall but the Imperial Fist swung them as if they weighed nothing. He swung each in turn a
few times, running through a simple weapons drill, then scowled and placed each one back in the pile.
None of them seemed to please him very much. None of them, presumably, was the equal of the thunder
hammer he carried strapped to the back of his armour.
'Demenos!' shouted the Imperial Fist over the din.
One of the Techmarines turned to him. 'Captain Lysander?'
'What grade of material are you using for your hammer heads? These things feel like they would
splinter against a child's hand! And the shafts are about as sturdy as straw!'
Techmarine Demenos bowed his head. 'Many of my forgemen are new, captain,' he said. 'They have
yet to understand the artificer's art. These weapons are exemplars of their competence thus far. They
shall be used as training weapons, I would imagine.'
'If you wish to train our novices to fear the failing of their wargear, then they will do perfectly,'
retorted Lysander. He picked up a sword this time and made a few thrusts and chops with it. 'This is
better,' he said. 'This would go through a few skulls.'
'My own work,' said Demenos.
'Then you need to learn how to balance a hilt. Good work, though.' Lysander spotted Voar trundling
between the forges towards him. 'Archmagos! I am glad you could come. I think perhaps this place is
more suited to your tastes than the rest of the Phalanx.'
'I have no tastes,' replied Voar. 'A magos metallurgicus could gain no little pleasure from the
specifications of your forges, no doubt, but my specialities lie in the fields of reverse engineering and
theoretical mechanics.'
'Well, be that as it may,' said Lysander, 'the Crucible itself is not why I requested your presence. This
is.' Lysander took from a compartment in his armour a tube of black metal, as long as a normal man's
forearm. Its surface was knurled into a grip and on one end it had a small control surface with indented
sensors. 'Perhaps you recognise it?'
Voar walked up to Lysander and took the cylinder. Voar's bionic hand did not fit the grip well - it
Page 95
was sized for a Space Marine's hand.
'This is the Soulspear,' said Voar flatly.
'As seized at the Lakonia Star Fort,' said Lysander. 'The seed of the conflict between the Priesthood
of Mars and the Soul Drinkers. We recovered it from the Brokenback before it was scuttled. I
understand that it is to be considered your property. It was taken from you by the Soul Drinkers, and as
heretics they have no right to it. Therefore its possession defaults to the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Specifically, you.'
Voar turned the weapon over in his artificial hand. 'I confess that my dealings with emotive matters
are long behind me,' he said, 'but still I have the impression, a remnant of some human sense if you will,
that you are not happy about this situation.'
'The Soulspear is a relic of our primarch,' replied Lysander. 'Rogal Dorn himself found and
re-engineered it. By rights it should belong to one of the successors of Dorn's Legion, the Imperial Fists
or one of our brother Chapters. I have no shame in that belief. Any son of Dorn would say the same. But
my Chapter Master has no wish to see another rift between the Adeptus Astartes and the Mechanicus,
and I must bow to his decision. Here.'
Lysander touched a finger to one of the control surfaces and a tiny laser pulse punched a microscopic
hole through the ceramite of his gauntlet's finger joint. Twin blades of pure blackness shot out of each end
of the cylinder. The air sighed as it was cut apart by the voids of the blades.
'Vortex blades,' said Lysander. 'A vortex field bound by Throne knows what technology from before
the Age of Imperium. Activated by a gene-lock keyed to the genetic signature of Rogal Dorn. This was
wielded by Dorn's own hand, archmagos. A man of whom no Fabricator General can claim to be the
equal. The saviour of the Emperor Himself at the height of the Heresy. The greatest soldier this galaxy has
ever seen, and I say the greatest man, too. Remember that, whatever you choose to do with this relic.
Fail to show Dorn's own handiwork the proper respect and the Imperial Fists just might choose to risk a
new rift after all.'
'I see,' said Voar. 'Your information has been logged and will be made available to all those given the
honour of examining this device.'
'In return for this,' said Lysander with obvious disdain for Voar's manner, 'the Chapter Master
expects the Adeptus Mechanicus to conduct their part in the trial with all the honour that your status as a
guest here demands. This is no place to settle a feud between the Soul Drinkers and the Mechanicus. No
place for vengeance.'
'Your battle-brothers are not all of the same mind,' said Voar. 'Nor, logic suggests, will many of the
visiting Astartes agree with such a stance. There is a great deal of vengeance sought on the Phalanx, and
the better part of it stems not from the Mechanicus.'
'Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh has pronounced on the subject,' said Lysander. 'He has tasked me,
among others, with seeing his word made law.'
'Then it shall be abided by,' said Voar with a nod of his head. It seemed the archmagos was not
capable of any gesture of greater deference. 'Our interest is in justice.'
'If you cared about justice, archmagos, you would give the Soulspear to us.'
'And if you cared about justice, brother-captain, then Sarpedon would have died on Selaaca.'
Archmagos Voar wheeled around and left the forge, the Soulspear clutched in his bionic hand.
(The End)
小说下载尽在http://www.txtnovel.net---书香门第【gzbysh】整理
附：【本作品来自互联网,本人不做任何负责】内容版权归作者所有!
