Throne Of Light by Guy Haley

Author:Guy Haley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2022-03-17T15:32:30+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

DEAD MAN’S QUARTERS

ANGEVIN’S TOMB

CALL TO WAR

Lucerne was put into quarters once occupied by a serf officer. It still contained the effects of the previous inhabitant: a greatcoat on the hook on the back of the door; an unfinished letter; a rack of candles before an idiosyncratic collection of idols; a series of miniature oil portraits on wooden board no bigger than Lucerne’s thumbnail. There were other articles spilled on the floor. A handful of things, each one deeply personal.

For Lucerne, the cabin was vexatiously small. His wound needed tending to, and he had concerns for his armour, but there was no space for it inside. That, at least, had been provided with a proper stand in the ship’s armoury, but he was suspicious of his hosts, and he did not trust them not to meddle with it.

The usually buoyant Lucerne found his humour deserting him as he perched on the tiny chair and attempted to fix his cheek in place with flesh-bond. Such fine medical work was beyond him, and he cursed as his fingers adhered and the flap of skin and muscle remained unattached. He looked at the damage in the dead man’s tiny mirror. His nose was squashed, yellow bruising spread all round his eye sockets. He could not judge if he had been a handsome man before, but he was certainly less so now.

He got his fingers free and shook his hands out. He could return to his men, and leave this band of fanatics be. They were fighting for the Emperor, at least, and extinction would claim them soon enough if they did not take Cawl’s Gift. What did it matter? But then he thought back to his conversation with Guilliman, and he realised that it mattered very much. The Primaris project was vital to the Imperium’s survival. Even one small group rejecting the new Space Marines posed a risk. And there were the crimes they had undoubtedly committed.

He sat back, gathering his wits and his emotions both, before attempting the dressing again. Someone rapped on the door.

‘Enter,’ Lucerne said.

The lock wheel spun, and the door squealed open. Basic maintenance was lacking wherever Lucerne looked. Beorhtnoth’s neophyte, Botho, came in. He was young still, without his final black carapace implant, but he carried himself like a veteran.

‘Neophyte Botho?’ said Lucerne.

The youth was shy, and only managed brief eye contact when he spoke.

‘I beg your leave, master, but I thought you might wish a little help with your wound.’

Lucerne searched the youth’s face for falsehood, but found none. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘A wound like this can be difficult to tend to oneself.’ He struggled to speak. His face burned with pain.

Botho nodded and came to Lucerne’s side in an almost apologetic way. Lucerne looked aside. The youth examined the injury with an experienced eye. He moved the flap around.

‘This looks worse than it is.’

‘Maybe. But I have little skill with the flesh-bond.’

‘Then I shall do it for you. Once the wound is closed, your Emperor’s gifts will heal you quickly.

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