Warden of the Blade (Warhammer 40,000) by David Annandale

Author:David Annandale [Annandale, David]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

THE END OF THE DANCE

There was no sound of mourning on the night’s wind. It blew through the shattered window, carrying the echoes of terror and the smell of burning past Crowe. But there was no mourning. The city roiled in its fall. It rotted. The faithful and the apostate clashed. And there was nothing beyond the throne room to show that one of the great heroes of the Imperium was no more.

Crowe had run to the window in pursuit of the daemons. He was not sure how long he had been standing there, staring into the crimson-tainted dark. It could not have been many seconds, he thought. Enough, though, to face the reality of defeat. Enough to impose a cold rationality on himself, so the decisions he must now make would be the correct ones. And enough for him to see all the night and beyond the smoke to the ice of the stars, and to know that Gavallan’s death had not been marked.

No Grey Knight’s death would be known by the wider universe. His only possible memorial would be in the Dead Fields. Even so, at the loss of such a warrior as Gavallan, the earth should have cried out. The stars should have dimmed in grief.

Instead, the night went on. The terror and the killing in Egeta continued without pause or notice.

Something smashed behind Crowe. He turned. Sendrax had punched the throne, reducing it to splinters.

‘Every step,’ Sendrax snarled. ‘Every step. We have been led perfectly. What need have we of Prognosticars? We would save time by asking the Ruinous Powers themselves what they would have us do. We seem destined to act as they wish.’

The other Purifiers had gathered around Gavallan’s body. They stood in a circle, a silent honour guard, waiting for the Knights of the Flame to command. Near the doorway, Vendruhn stood hunched, shaking, her fists clenched. Her hair had been burned to stubble by the psychic fire. The back of her neck and her hands were blackened. Sores oozed. But the worst of her injuries, Crowe knew, were spiritual. How severe those wounds were he could not tell.

Vendruhn had her back to the Grey Knights. She faced her surviving troops, the few that there were. The mortals had retreated from the throne room. They, at least, showed some awareness that a death unlike others had occurred. They were silent out of fear and respect.

But Vendruhn’s silence was different, Crowe thought. Her grief and anger were so strong, they choked her voice.

Sendrax was still raging. ‘What steps have they arranged for us next?’ he shouted. ‘Are we amusing them as they would wish?’

‘Brother,’ Crowe said.

Sendrax stared at him. He marched over, kicking through wreckage and dissolving remains. His helm inches from Crowe’s, he said, ‘Do you have insight, brother? More of the insight that has served us so well thus far?’

Crowe said nothing. He did not point out that Sendrax was condemning Gavallan’s leadership. The other Knight of the Flame would realise that in his own time.

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