Read Online The Flight of the Eisenstein by James Swallow - Free Book Online
Authors: James Swallow
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should share, something that a mere serf like him was not to be privy to, but there was nowhere Kaleb could hide, and if he turned around, the clatter of the cart's wheels would reveal him. In spite of himself, he coughed. It was a very small sound, but it brought with it a sudden silence as the commander broke off and noticed the housecarl for the first time.
Kaleb was looking directly at the decking, and did not see the expression of complete contempt Grulgor turned upon him
'Garro's little helot,' said the commander. 'Are you listening where you should not?' He took a step towards the housecarl and against his will, Kaleb shrank back. Grulgor's voice took on the tone of a teacher lecturing a student, making a lesson of him. 'Do you know what this is, Brother Mokyr?'
The other Astartes examined Kaleb coldly. 'It's not a servitor, commander, not enough steel and pistons for that. It resembles a man.'
Grulgor shook his head. 'No, not a man, but a housecarl! The emphasis he put on the title was scornful. 'A sad bit of trivia, a dusty practice from the ancient days' The commander spread his hands. 'Look on, Mokyr. Look at a failure.'
Kaleb found his voice. 'Lord, if it pleases you, I have duties to perform-'
He was ignored. 'Before our primarch brought new, strong blood to our Legion, there were many rituals and habits that knotted around the Astartes. Most have been cut away' Grulgor's face soured. 'Some still remain, thanks to the dogged adherence of men who should know better.'
Mokyr nodded. 'Captain Garro.'
'Yes, Garro.' Grulgor was dismissive. 'He allows sentiment to cloud his judgment. Oh, he's a fine warrior, I will give him that, but our brother, Nathaniel, is old in his ways, too bound by his Terran roots' The Astartes leaned closer to Kaleb, his voice dropping. 'Or, am I incorrect in my judgment? Perhaps Garro keeps you around him, not out of some misplaced sense of tradition, but as a reminder? A living example of what it means to fail the Legion?'
'Please,' said the serf, his knuckles white around the handles of the cart.
'I do not understand,' said Mokyr, genuinely confounded. 'How is this helot a failure?'
'Ah,' Grulgor said, looking away, but for a turn of fate, this wastrel might have walked among the Legiones Astartes. He could have stood where you do now, brother, wearing the white, bearing arms for the Imperium. Our friend here was once an aspirant to the XIV Legion, as were we all. Only he fell short of greatness during the trials of acceptance, damned by his own weakness.' The commander tapped his chin thoughtfully.
Tell me, serf, where did your will break? Crossing the black plains? Was it in the tunnel of the venoms?'
Kaleb's voice was a whisper. The thorn garden, lord.' The hateful old memory emerged, fresh and undimmed despite the span of years since the event. The housecarl winced as he recalled the stabbing, poisonous barbs on his bare skin, his blood running in streaks all across his body. He remembered the pain and worse, the shame as his legs turned to water beneath him. He remembered falling into the thick, drab mud, lying there, weeping, knowing that he had lost forever the chance to become a Death Guard.
The thorn garden, of course.' Grulgor tapped his fingers on his vambrace. 'So many have bled out their last in that ordeal. You did well to survive that far.'
Mokyr raised an eyebrow. 'Sir, do you mean to say that this... man was an aspirant? But those who fail the trials perish!'
'Most do,' corrected the commander. 'Most of them die of the wounds they suffer or the poisons they cannot resist during the seven days of trial, but there are some few who fail but live on still, and even they will largely choose the Emperor's Peace over a return in dishonour to their clans.' He gave Kaleb a cool stare. 'But not all. Some lack the strength of will even for that honour.' Grulgor looked back at Mokyr and sniffed archly. 'Some Legions make use of their throwbacks, but it is not the Death
Kaleb was looking directly at the decking, and did not see the expression of complete contempt Grulgor turned upon him
'Garro's little helot,' said the commander. 'Are you listening where you should not?' He took a step towards the housecarl and against his will, Kaleb shrank back. Grulgor's voice took on the tone of a teacher lecturing a student, making a lesson of him. 'Do you know what this is, Brother Mokyr?'
The other Astartes examined Kaleb coldly. 'It's not a servitor, commander, not enough steel and pistons for that. It resembles a man.'
Grulgor shook his head. 'No, not a man, but a housecarl! The emphasis he put on the title was scornful. 'A sad bit of trivia, a dusty practice from the ancient days' The commander spread his hands. 'Look on, Mokyr. Look at a failure.'
Kaleb found his voice. 'Lord, if it pleases you, I have duties to perform-'
He was ignored. 'Before our primarch brought new, strong blood to our Legion, there were many rituals and habits that knotted around the Astartes. Most have been cut away' Grulgor's face soured. 'Some still remain, thanks to the dogged adherence of men who should know better.'
Mokyr nodded. 'Captain Garro.'
'Yes, Garro.' Grulgor was dismissive. 'He allows sentiment to cloud his judgment. Oh, he's a fine warrior, I will give him that, but our brother, Nathaniel, is old in his ways, too bound by his Terran roots' The Astartes leaned closer to Kaleb, his voice dropping. 'Or, am I incorrect in my judgment? Perhaps Garro keeps you around him, not out of some misplaced sense of tradition, but as a reminder? A living example of what it means to fail the Legion?'
'Please,' said the serf, his knuckles white around the handles of the cart.
'I do not understand,' said Mokyr, genuinely confounded. 'How is this helot a failure?'
'Ah,' Grulgor said, looking away, but for a turn of fate, this wastrel might have walked among the Legiones Astartes. He could have stood where you do now, brother, wearing the white, bearing arms for the Imperium. Our friend here was once an aspirant to the XIV Legion, as were we all. Only he fell short of greatness during the trials of acceptance, damned by his own weakness.' The commander tapped his chin thoughtfully.
Tell me, serf, where did your will break? Crossing the black plains? Was it in the tunnel of the venoms?'
Kaleb's voice was a whisper. The thorn garden, lord.' The hateful old memory emerged, fresh and undimmed despite the span of years since the event. The housecarl winced as he recalled the stabbing, poisonous barbs on his bare skin, his blood running in streaks all across his body. He remembered the pain and worse, the shame as his legs turned to water beneath him. He remembered falling into the thick, drab mud, lying there, weeping, knowing that he had lost forever the chance to become a Death Guard.
The thorn garden, of course.' Grulgor tapped his fingers on his vambrace. 'So many have bled out their last in that ordeal. You did well to survive that far.'
Mokyr raised an eyebrow. 'Sir, do you mean to say that this... man was an aspirant? But those who fail the trials perish!'
'Most do,' corrected the commander. 'Most of them die of the wounds they suffer or the poisons they cannot resist during the seven days of trial, but there are some few who fail but live on still, and even they will largely choose the Emperor's Peace over a return in dishonour to their clans.' He gave Kaleb a cool stare. 'But not all. Some lack the strength of will even for that honour.' Grulgor looked back at Mokyr and sniffed archly. 'Some Legions make use of their throwbacks, but it is not the Death
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