The Crown of Thorns

Peter Fehervari

‘None fall as far or as fatally as those who soar the highest, for pride does not precede the fall. Pride is the fall.’

– The Lethean Revelation – Psalm 451

I will make my stand today, Montaig vowed to the heavy tome in his hands. I will not cast another neophyte to the Thorns.

The forbidden book had been an anchor to him throughout this benighted decade, a tangible relic of past glories. He ran his fingers over the gilded text, marvelling at the crisp, cursive elegance that other hands had wrought – the hands of a Space Marine like himself. He had never possessed the talent for such things, yet many amongst his Chapter were fine artisans. It was a gift from their progenitor, Divine Sanguinius, passed down the millennia to illuminate the path of His descendants. A gift that Neophyte Phelion would have exemplified in saner times.

Such beauty honours our lineage, Montaig mused. While other Chapters fought for glory, faith or the sheer joy of slaughter, his own had made nobility its creed. And alone amongst the scions of Sanguinius his battle-brothers had been entirely free of the madness that haunted the Angel’s bloodline. No Space Marine in the blue and the gold had ever succumbed to the Black Rage.

But that was when we were still Resplendent, Montaig admitted, returning his treasure to its hiding place. Now so many of us have fallen that we have our own Death Company. Perhaps within the century we shall have nothing else. And then what? An ignominious doom that will consign us to a sordid footnote on the Imperium’s roll of honour? He glanced across at the neatly arrayed segments of his power armour, scowling at the murky, umber-streaked black plates. We won’t even die bearing our true colours.

Reverently he replaced the loose flagstone, sealing the tome beneath his chamber. It was a minor work, but it was the only book Montaig had been able to save during the Great Purge and that made it priceless. Perhaps in some future age it would be restored to the librarium – after the librarium itself was restored and the fortress-monastery of Kanvolis cast off the Crown of Thorns.

But I shall not live to see any of it, Montaig knew.

‘Beauty blinds the body, hope binds the soul.’

– Psalm 31

The flickering torches along Montaig’s path served only to taunt the shadows as he descended towards the Halls of Contempt, tramping through a mulch of rotting tapestries and pulverised statuary. The Undying Martyr had pronounced this effluvium of desecrated glories sacrosanct – a mockery of treacherous pride. The Great Purge had swept Kanvolis clean of beauty, yet it had left the fortress filthy, just as the Martyr’s words had befouled the Chapter itself.

He has poisoned us with sour faith, Montaig thought, but we chose to drink deep of his lies so perhaps the venom was always in our hearts.

The Undying Martyr had come among them a decade ago, crawling from the churning waters of the River Tristesse that served Kanvolis as a moat. Brother-Sergeant Montaig had led the squad that challenged the intruder, bolters poised to fire upon his word. He could sense his brothers’ fury at this trespass, for it should have been impossible. Few Space Marines could master the Tristesse, so how had a mortal survived the feat?

But was he truly mortal? Montaig had been struck by the raw presence of the man who stood swaying on the riverbank, head bowed and face shrouded in a cascade of black hair. He was a giant amongst ordinary men, powerfully muscled and only a few heads shorter than a battle-brother. His flesh was a patchwork of cuts, boils and blisters and the bleeding wound in his midriff looked fatal, yet he burned with vitality. Only the crude pendant hanging from his neck stayed Montaig’s hand, for it was unmistakably an aquila. In that moment of hesitation the stranger looked up and pinned him with savage, compassionate eyes.

‘Do I still dream?’ he asked.

I should have ended him then, Montaig thought bleakly. Instead he had taken the intruder to Chaplain Malvoisin for interrogation and the fall of his Chapter had begun.

‘Penitence and pain are the hammers and nails of devotion.’

– Psalm 27

‘It is time,’ Montaig called from the door of the cell.

Phelion reeked of stale sweat and fresh shame. Like all neophytes he was forbidden to cleanse his body until he had earned the black carapace. And like so many who strove under the edicts of the Undying Martyr he had been found wanting, but whereas most fell foul of some minor ritual, Phelion’s sin was catastrophic. Absurdly, it made no difference, for all sinners, great and small alike, were summoned before the Crown of Thorns, the conclave of Chaplains that now presided over the Chapter. Invariably they were offered the same choice.

‘Take the Path of Chains,’ Montaig urged.

‘And condemn myself to be an ankoryte until I fall?’

‘You would still be serving your Chapter.’

‘Then tell me, sergeant, which path would you take?’ Phelion challenged. For that Montaig had no answer.

I should have stood with Athanazius, he thought bleakly. It would have been better to die with my Chapter than live to watch it shrivel and devour its own.

But Montaig had not seen it then, for he had been as blinded by Chaplain Malvoisin’s fervour as the rest, just as Malvoisin had been blinded by the Martyr. The Chaplain had conversed with the stranger for nineteen days before proclaiming him a prophet of the God Emperor who bore terrible new insights into the Imperial Creed. Those truths were dark indeed, for he revealed that mankind was corrupt beyond redemption and that its greatest guardians, the Adeptus Astartes, were the basest of all sinners, for had they not faltered and fragmented in the war against the arch-betrayer Horus?

‘Those who stood unblemished yesterday shall fall tomorrow or the day after,’ Malvoisin had declared, ‘for treachery hides in our blood, cloaked in pride.’

There could be no hope of ascension into the Emperor’s light, only penitence and pain for sins past and future. The war was already lost and the only victory was fighting on in the knowledge of certain defeat.

Was it the lurking shame of the Black Rage that drew us to such a barren creed? Montaig wondered. Were we always so broken?

‘Rise,’ he commanded the neophyte. ‘Your path awaits.’

‘Better to serve in shame than rule in sin.’

– Psalm 19

It would have been different if the Knight Resplendent had been with us, Montaig mused as he led his prisoner through the darkness. He would have cast out the snake. But Chapter Master Varzival had been absent for years, campaigning with the First Company. There had been no word of them since the Purge and Malvoisin had declared them lost, but Montaig didn’t believe it. The Knight Resplendent would return some day to reclaim and redeem his Chapter.

But I am unworthy of seeing it…

In the absence of the Chapter Master, only Chief Librarian Athanazius and his brethren had spurned the Martyr’s testament. Inevitably they were denounced as heretics and Montaig had stormed the librarium alongside his brothers, driven by a loathing he’d never felt before, even in battle with the xenos.

Was that the first stirring of the Black Rage?

Athanazius and his followers had awaited them, absent arms or armour, yet shielded by a contempt that brought the charge to a standstill. The attackers waited for the frigid electric tang that presaged a psychic assault, but when Athanazius spoke it was only words: ‘We will rise on burning wings.’ Only words, but they were the Chapter’s credo, delivered with a conviction that drained the poison from Montaig. It might have been enough, but then Malvoisin bellowed the new credo, the one revealed by the Undying Martyr: ‘The Emperor condemns!’

The Angels Resplendent died that day and the Angels Penitent rose from their grave, shadow-bound and bitter.

‘The Emperor condemns.’

– First Psalm

‘This is not the way to the Hall of Thorns,’ Phelion protested.

‘No,’ Montaig admitted. ‘It is not. I am taking you to the Harbinger’s Gate. Head upriver from there and lose yourself in the mountains.’

The neophyte halted, confused. ‘But the Crown of Thorns has summoned me.’

‘It has,’ Montaig said. ‘It has summoned you to tear yourself apart, as all who attempt the Path of Thorns must do.’

‘If that is the penitence for my sin–’

‘You have committed no sin!’ Montaig almost snarled. ‘Your scrimshaw carvings honour the primarch.’

‘No…’ Phelion’s eyes were feverish. ‘Art exalts the tyranny of vanity.’

‘We were warrior artisans before the outsider enslaved us. I’ve seen your skill grow over the years – arms and art in harmony, the true path of the Resplendent.’

‘You knew of my heresy?’ The neophyte was aghast.

‘I am your mentor-sergeant. Of course I knew.’ Montaig shook his head gravely. ‘I strove to shield you, but someone must have spied your work and betrayed you.’

‘Nobody betrayed me,’ Phelion said coldly. ‘I confessed my sin to the Crown of Thorns.’

Montaig stared at him.

‘As you must confess yours, mentor-sergeant,’ Phelion accused, ‘for you have broken faith with–’

Montaig’s fist took him in the face, crushing his words with a savagery that sent the neophyte reeling against the wall. Even so, Phelion’s reflexes were magnificent and he turned the stagger into a wild spin, trying to put distance between them, but Montaig gave him no quarter. Stepping in, he caught Phelion by the throat and swung again, then again, letting the Black Rage claim him, absolving him of virtue or honour or the torment of hope.

We have fallen and we cannot rise for our wings are chained and our blood runs cold…

When it was done Montaig stepped away from the broken corpse, breathing hard as he fought down the rage. It had not felt black at all, but radiant.

‘The heretic tried to flee,’ he said aloud, testing the words that he would offer the Crown of Thorns. ‘I delivered him unto the Emperor’s spite.’

And I will make my stand another day.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Fehervari slipped into the parallel surreality of television almost twenty years ago and never quite escaped. As a rogue editor, his life is an eternity of cuts and mixes to quench the dreams of thirsting producers while actually getting things on air. He has cut promos for many well known television shows, but winning a place in a Black Library anthology eclipsed it all. Since then his short stories have appeared in Heroes of the Space Marines and Xenos Hunters. Fire Caste is his first novel. He currently presides over a dormant Chaos Gate in London.

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Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

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