Final Journey

Guy Haley

‘In the name of the Emperor, and of mankind, and of duty,’ intoned Chaplain Odon. Clad in newly polished armour, robed and carrying the symbols of his office, he led the funeral procession. His voice was metallic though his skull-helmet’s speakers.

‘The Emperor. Mankind. Duty,’ replied the brothers. There were twenty-five of them. Rearmost were twenty in two files, empty-handed but for one who bore a white veteran sergeant’s helmet in his hands. Four pall bearers were at their head. These, members of Voldo’s squad, remained silent, heads down, muscles straining under the weight of the armoured corpse of Sergeant Voldo on the bier. More than one was new to the squad, replacements for others dead, but that did not matter. They shared a bond with Voldo, whether they knew him well before or not.

Sergeant Arendo was the twenty-fifth, walking between the bier and Odon. Helmless, grim-faced, lips painted black with ash. This would not be wiped free until Sergeant Voldo was laid to rest and he would utter his first orders to squad Wisdom of Lucretius.

‘In the cause of the Emperor, the defence of mankind, and our oath,’ said Chaplain Odon.

‘We give our lives freely.’

With each response to Odon’s chanted words, the Space Marines descended a single step, stamping their armoured boots with a crash that resounded down the kilometre-long stairway and into the darkness at the roots of the mountain. They waited for the sound to die away, until only their breathing, the faint whining of their bone and blue armour and the spitting of the lumen globe hovering over Odon’s head remained.

Odon shattered the quiet again with his ringing voice.

‘Each to themselves, each to their duty. Each to the oath of Corvo.’

‘Our duty is ourselves, our duty is the fulfilment of Corvo’s Oath.’

Crash.

They neared the bottom. The catacomb of the Red Millennium was ahead, dug deep into the cold hard rock of the Heavenward Mountains as every catacomb had been and every catacomb would be until the Novamarines were extinct, and their fortress home finally finished.

‘Glory to the dead, glory to sacrifice, glory to the children of men.’

‘May they forever rule the stars.’

Crash.

‘We bring our brother home, may he rest peacefully until the final battle is begun.’

‘May the Emperor deem him worthy, and bring him again to war.’

Crash.

So it went on, until the entire procession had descended to the level floor of the catacomb. The corridor was a perfect rectangle, and if the light of the lumen globe were powerful enough, the Space Marines would have seen it stretch away until its sides, ceiling and floor were forced together by perspective.

Somewhere far ahead, a pair of servitors waited by a raw rockface for the ceremony to cease so that they might continue their digging. Only when the millennium turned would they stop extending the catacomb, and another would be begun. Perhaps ten thousand cold beds lined the walls already, perhaps more. They would never all be filled, but that was not the point.

Odon bowed his head. The brothers followed suit, moving with perfect synchronicity. They remembered Sergeant Voldo in life, they reflected upon his death; all but black-lipped Sergeant Arendo. His task was to stare ahead, past the feeble glow of the lumen globe and into the darkness, thinking on his duty. He did so unblinkingly.

Two minutes past. Odon sang, and started off again. The corridor reverberated to the dirge as they went slowly on, past the remains of hundreds of fallen brothers. The further they went, the more complete the remains became: dust to bone fragment, bone fragment to yellowed skeleton, yellowed skeleton to mummy, flesh desiccated in the dry air. Mummy to cadaver, cadaver to fresh corpse whose rot was slow in the aseptic tomb. The corpses were laid in no order, each was simply put into the next available slot. They came to the last such recess. Odon paused by it, finished his song, and looked within.

‘Rank, squad and company have no place here, in the halls of the dead.’

‘In life we are brothers. In death we are brothers,’ said the others.

Odon led the procession a short way to a chamber let off the corridor. Here the bier was placed, and with great reverence the men of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius removed Voldo’s armour piece by piece, passing the components down the column with care.

Voldo lay naked, his skin dark with tattoos from his ankles to the crown of his head. His bolter was replaced in his hands.

‘See the wounds that brought him low, and mark them well, for similar will one day pierce all our flesh,’ said Odon.

‘No scars form on the flesh of the dead.’

‘See ye also, the marks of pride. The flesh tally of his deeds.’ Odon pointed. ‘By these will the Emperor know his worth.’

‘And call him to war once again.’

Odon began a description of Voldo’s tattoos, the manner in which they were won. This took time, for Voldo had been valiant and much decorated.

‘To the final sleep he must go,’ he said eventually.

‘There to await the call,’ responded the brothers.

The squad members lifted him, easily now that his armour had been removed. They returned to the recess and laid Voldo gently in place, his head upon a low shelf at one end, his feet pointing back down the corridor.

‘Stone for pillow, stone for bed, his comfort is great, for his brothers are his companions.’

‘In life and death we are never alone.’

Odon handed his crozius and boltgun to Sergeant Arendo. With an armoured fingertip, he wiped the ashes from his lips. He took Arendo’s helmet from the Space Marine that carried it, and placed it upon the sergeant’s head.

‘You are sergeant. You may speak,’ said Odon.

‘Company!’ Arendo shouted, his voice filling the catacomb as surely as a gun report. ‘About turn!’

‘We obey,’ they said. As one, they swivelled on their heels. Each held a piece of Voldo’s armour.

‘March!’ shouted Arendo.

The Novamarines thundered off down the corridor, away from Odon and the light. The noise of their feet boomed long after they were out of sight.

When quiet returned, Odon reached in to the recess and gently took Voldo’s bolter.

‘Honour the battlegear of the dead,’ he said, and left Voldo to the eternal night under the mountains.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Guy Haley began his career on SFX Magazine in 1997 before leaving to edit Games Workshop’s White Dwarf, followed by SF magazine Death Ray. Since 2009 he has been a wandering writer, working in both magazines and novels. He lives in Somerset with his wife and son, a malamute and an enormous, evil-tempered Norwegian Forest Cat called, ironically, Buddy.

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