WAR FOR ARMAGEDDON by Aaron Dembski Bowden & Nick Kyme & Chris Wraight

Author:Aaron Dembski Bowden & Nick Kyme & Chris Wraight
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Games Workshop
Published: 2018-07-27T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THREE

GRIMALDUS

The ship juddered, bouncing over a wave in the deep warp.

The seven knights of the Inner Circle ignored the Eternal Crusader’s creaking and rolling. Gathered in the Chamber of Sigismund were Champion Bayard, Master of Sanctity Theoderic, Master of the Forge Jurisian, Castellan Ceonulf, Praeses-Sword Brother Gulvein and Brother-Dreadnought Cantus Maxim Gloria. Also present were Abbott Giscard, leader of the thrall-monks of the Monasterium Certituda deep in the bowels of the ship, Sergeant Majoris Valdric, chief officer of the Chapter’s warrior-serfs, and Confessor Cornelius Halquon, lately arrived from the convent world of Rith. These last three had no vote in the doings of the council, but their voices were heeded by Helbrecht, the confessor’s especially.

Helbrecht occupied his throne. In front of it was a pool of dazzling light.

Sword Brethren in robes lined the walls in the shadows, allowed to witness but not permitted to add their own arguments. The air was thick and hot, heavy with the scent of incense and the Dreadnought’s exhaust stacks. The rumble of Cantus’s powerplant turning over brought an industrial quality to the proceedings. The confessor, new to the ways of the Adeptus Astartes, was taken aback when Cantus clanged into the room to take up his place at the edge of the Inner Circle. It was explained that Cantus was an Ancient, and senior Dreadnought of the Black Templars. His wisdom was invaluable in such debates as these.

Currently, Valdric occupied the speaking place in the circle of light.

‘Lord Grimaldus is a good choice, my liege,’ said Valdric. He was a stern, grim man, who had aged quickly in the manner of unaltered humans, bald, gruff and close-mouthed. In his gleaming armour and with sword by his side, some saw in him a Helbrecht in miniature.

‘He has little time for the menials, lord,’ said the abbott.

‘And rightwise too!’ barked Valdric. Spittle was apt to fly from his mouth when he shouted. His grey moustache quivered. The two men had little time for each other, despite their equal love for their masters. ‘The spiritual welfare of the Chapter’s servants is your concern, not the Lord Reclusiarch’s. A warrior-priest should be grim, unapproachable. He frightens the sergeants, and that is as it should be.’

‘Have you finished?’ growled Bayard.

Helbrecht sat forwards on the great throne of Sigismund, his face emerging from the shadows cast by its ornate gothic canopy of carved black wood. Above him, tiny, stylised figures of Black Templars waged endless, frozen wars against grotesque foes.

‘Valdric has the right to speak, Bayard,’ said Helbrecht.

‘My liege–’

‘Now is not your turn to speak, Champion. We know of your objections. Confessor, holy father, give me your opinion.’

Halquon, a shrewd man with a sharp face, came forwards. He was young, but a twisted spine caused him to go about perpetually hunched and clutching at his staff, as if he were burdened with the weight of his office.

‘The Ecclesiarchy recognises Chaplain Mordred’s wishes. You will find no objection from our diocese. I cannot speak for all, but the episcopal rede of Ultima Segmentum has voted in Grimaldus’s favour.

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