This external, proud focus was anathema to Zephon and many of his brothers. The creation of art in song, in prose, in stone, was to reflect on the nature of humanity; a step forwards in understanding the distance between mankind and their Legion-evolved guardians. Like all of the Legions, the Blood Angels were born and shaped for battle, with rolls of honour a match for any other, with valour beyond question. But away from the eyes of their cousin Legions, they celebrated a culture of enlightenment: a quest not merely to understand the nature of man, but to understand their distance from the root species they were destined to fight and die for.
Zephon, a tribal boy who had eaten dust in the starvation seasons and slaughtered mutants with packs of his kindred before his twelfth summer of life, had learned to play the harp. For a century he’d excelled, his gift for harmony a match for his talents on the field of war.
Until a single battle had stolen both of his gifts. All hope was swept away by the alien sword that had severed both of his arms, mutilated both of his legs and cut him down in indignity.
After the ninth bionic surgery, the Legion’s Apothecaries had bade him face the unwelcome reality. The grafts had taken as well as they would take. His physiology was simply not suited to the process of augmentation.
He still practised his music, jangling out discordant melodies with his shaking, slipping metal fingers, just as he still trained with his boltgun, able now to fire one in five times when he tried to pull the trigger. That was a significant improvement.
His aim was similarly ruined. Though his new arms had the strength of his old limbs, even their microtrembles threw off the razor precision of his former marksmanship. His blade-work suffered just as savagely. All of his precise balance and easy footwork was lost in the random tenses and spasms of his reconstructed leg joints.
Hence his exile. Hence this assignment to Terra.
In Hoc Officio Gloriam. There is honour in this duty. How those words made him smile.
His hands rested on the fine strings once more, their twitching just beginning again when the door klaxon gave its monotone whine.
Zephon froze, instinct pulling his eyes to the where his weapons were racked against the wall. He’d had no visitors in well over a year, since his last meeting with the Sigillite, when Malcador had refused yet another of the Blood Angel’s requests to be granted command of a small frigate and set out in search of his Legion. The thirtieth such request.
Zephon rose from the seat, laid the harp aside and moved across the spartan chamber to turn the door’s wheel lock. His left leg whirred with smooth mechanics where his thigh and knee had once been, the four-taloned claw that had replaced his right foot clanking down upon the floor.
When the door swung open on hinges badly in need of oiling, Zephon was faced with the towering figure of a Custodian, a four-metre tall guardian spear clutched at the warrior’s side. The immense suit of armour hummed. The eye-lenses of his conical helmet blazed.
‘I seek the Bringer of Sorrow,’ the Custodian said.
Out of his armour and clad only in a black tunic, the Blood Angel felt curiously at odds with the warrior in full battleplate. ‘You have found him.’
‘You are far from my expectation,’ the Custodian admitted. He disengaged the seals at his collar and removed the helm, revealing an ageless face with Urhan ritual scarring, like rivulets of saliva running in five lines down his chin and throat. ‘I am Diocletian. Are you truly the Bringer of Sorrow?’
The title stabbed at Zephon harder the second time. He wasn’t sure why. ‘That was my title when I led men into war,’ he replied. ‘You sound disappointed.’
‘That’s because I am. I expected a champion in exile, and I find a bionic cripple. However, my disappointment is irrelevant. Activate your arming servitors and make ready for battle.’
Zephon hated the palpable sense of hope that surged through him with those words. The shame of it burned him. ‘I assume you are aware that the Sigillite has forbidden any of the Crusader Host from acting without his seal of authority.’
‘I will spare you a lesson in where the Sigillite’s authority begins and ends regarding the Custodian Guard and the actions we may undertake. In this instance, he was the one to commend you to our service. Now arm yourself at once, Bringer of Sorrow.’
With reluctance, the Blood Angel lifted his hands, showing his arms composed entirely of metal struts, plating and muscle-cabling from the elbows down. His treacherous fingers twitched as if on cue.
Diocletian looked for several seconds. He blinked once. ‘Is there some significance in your mutilation that I’m supposed to acknowledge?’
Zephon lowered his hands. ‘I cannot fire my bolter. My hands do not obey me.’
‘Can you at least hold a sword?’
Zephon wondered if he was being mocked, though he couldn’t guess to what purpose. ‘Not reliably,’ he admitted.
‘Your invalidity is noted. Now activate your arming servitors. Once you’re ready, you’ll come with me.’
‘To where?’
‘First to the Seberakan Isolation Compound via the Ophiukus Colonnades, then to the Halls of Unity Memoria.’
‘I do not understand. Why?’
‘Understanding will dawn in time. Let obedience come first.’ Diocletian gave another of his long, emotionless stares, marred by only a single blink.
How, Zephon wondered, could these golden avatars ever be considered more human than us?
‘Custodian?’ he asked.
‘I’m waiting for you,’ Diocletian replied. ‘My patience isn’t infinite, Bringer of Sorrow.’
Zephon moved to the wall-comm, keying in the code to summon his armoury thralls. ‘Given the circumstances, “Zephon” is fine, thank you.’
‘If you prefer. I agree that the title is unbearably theatrical, especially for a cripple.’
Zephon felt the first stirrings of anger, and by the blood of Sanguinius it was a welcome thing indeed.
‘You are the first Custodian I have ever spoken to,’ he said. ‘Are all of your kind so direct?’
‘Are all of your kind so intoxicated with self-pity?’ Diocletian looked almost as if he might smile, but the expression was stillborn. ‘Now be swift, please. You aren’t the only lost soul I need to reclaim today.’
‘Lost soul?’
‘I told you we are bound for the Seberakan Isolation Compound.’
The Blood Angel narrowed his pale eyes. Seberakan was home to traitors who had marched beneath the Warmaster’s banner. ‘Perhaps I am missing some aspect of humour in your words, Custodian.’
‘There is never any humour in my words. Now come with me. You and I are going to free some prisoners.’
Together they stalked through the Imperial Palace. Diocletian was displeased by all he saw. He and Zephon walked side by side through the bustling hallways, scattering pilgrims and refugees before them. Helmed, the two warriors had the option of immunising themselves against the sweaty salt-stink of unwashed skin and unclean breath. Diocletian grunted in disgust as he sealed his vox-grille, relying on his armour’s internal air supply. The processional halls of the Ophiukus Colonnades were choked with the homeless detritus of war, coughing and sniffing and muttering. In some cases, weeping.
He felt their eyes upon him. Their judging eyes, doubtless wondering why Diocletian and his brethren hadn’t saved them all and won the galactic war already. He felt their ignorance as a weight on his shoulders. That, at least, was a response that edged upon nobility. Far less honourable was his irritation at the moronic, animal weakness in their helpless gazes. Why were they here? Why were they not still among the stars, fighting for their home worlds?