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Virtues of the Sons – Andy Smillie

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Virtues of the Sons

Andy Smillie

‘We are poor fathers, brother,’ I say to Horus’s armoured back. My brother’s attention is, as always, divided, torn between the twin roles of Legion primarch and commander. He stands at the head of his temporary war room, eyes fixed on the large hololith that dominates the wall.

‘How so?’ he asks without turning.

‘It is a father’s duty to educate his sons, to steer them towards a better path.’

Horus turns then. It is the first time I have seen his face these last few months. His brow has grown heavier, his eyes narrower under a burden that my words have done nothing to ease.

‘Look at what our Legions have accomplished,’ he says, gesturing to the hololith. He is a proud father in that moment, stood before me championing his sons. Across the display, the details of a thousand wars fought across a hundred systems scroll and resolve. The tapestry of information and tactical data tells of our sons’ unstoppable might – they are conquering worlds even in the face of overwhelming opposition. ‘Were the Legions not under our stewardship, they would have accomplished far less.’

He is the commander again. I smile to myself, wondering if even he is aware of how often he slips between the two roles.

I shake my head. ‘No. That reasoning is flawed. Our sons are born to battle – we did not teach them that. What they do in our names, and the name of our father, they do out of obedience, out of duty and honour. We use them as tools to accomplish our ends, but we teach them little.’

‘What would we have them be, if not what they are?’

‘Were we better teachers, we would be able to help Perturabo accept his place, or ease Lorgar’s mind. We could focus Angron and bring balance to Curze. Our limitations as fathers are doubly reflected in our failings as brothers.’

‘No.’ Horus’s voice was iron-hard, his resolve absolute. ‘We each have our part to play. The Emperor knew this and made it so. We are each of us the sword or the shield that He needs us to be.’

‘What of the warrior cast to the fighting pit who must wield both sword and shield?’ I ask.

‘It is not the weapon, brother, but how it is wielded.’

‘My point. We, each of us, only know how to wield our might one way.’

Horus speaks to me then the way I address my own captains: any sense of brotherhood hidden behind a mask of purpose and responsibility. ‘What is troubling you, Sanguinius?’

‘Nothing,’ I lie.

I tell him nothing of my visions, nothing of the Emperor’s palace burning with unnatural fire. I do not speak of my nightmares, or of the fear that my Legion will drown in its own cursed blood. What would I say? I cannot envisage any foe that could threaten Holy Terra, nor any catalyst that could send my sons as one into madness.

Of all my brothers, I had hoped that I could share my doubts with Horus. The sense of sudden isolation steals the strength from my voice. ‘Just a passing thought.’

I turn and walk from the chamber.

The memory of that vision follows me. It was a warning against shortcomings, a cautionary tale about trusting solely in one’s greatest strengths. My vision spoke of my sons, and their failures. At the last Tempest of Angels – a ritualistic duel from the distant history of Baal – I tried to teach the most polarised of my sons something of balance. Yet even atop the duelling stone, when all else but life and death was stripped away, my teaching was lost upon them.

I sigh.

True learning only occurs when consequence forces a change, for we are selfish creatures and we cling to our ways like deposed kings clinging to the ashes of a failed kingdom.

It is a truism from my childhood, a saying passed down from the first elders. The words burn in my gut. Anger draws my hands to fists. Amit and Azkaellon – my sword and my shield. But at the blades of my brothers’ sons, I will have them learn to be more than this.

Before the next Tempest approaches, I will teach them the virtue of the lesson.

Azkaellon

It always rains on Henvinka. An entire planet sodden by an unceasing downpour, its continents are turned to slurred mulch, its seas storm-wracked gulfs. The enemy hides in the planet’s core. Tomorrow, our companies will descend into the depths of this place and bring them the Emperor’s justice. Tonight, we stand upon a rig of steel and adamantium, a towering platform holding us proof against the perilous waves.

I remove my helm and feel the rain on my skin. Within a moment my hair is soaked through, slicked to my scalp by the downpour.

‘Where are the rest of your warriors, Azkaellon?’ My opponent gestures to the five Sanguinary Guard that have accompanied me here. Lucius, the greatest blademaster of the III Legion. His features are noble, patrician. Even blasted by the storm, his hair lashing in the wind, he looks as though he had been born to stand there.

Yet any beauty he possesses is ruined by the sneer that stains his face.

‘I am in no need of an audience as grand as yours,’ I reply, indicating the thousand legionaries of the Emperor’s Children stood in serried rank at Lucius’s side of the platform.

He smiles a barbed grin that holds no warmth. ‘Your companies will hear of your defeat whether they are present or not.’

Lucius’s confidence is not misplaced. His face is unscarred – a rarity for any Space Marine, even more so for one who has fought so many hundreds of duels.

I regard him carefully. ‘Only a fool tallies the battles still to be fought among his victories.’

The remark twists Lucius’s lip into a snarl. ‘Perhaps. I suppose it is not beyond my lessers to have a good day.’ He steps towards me, a casual swagger shortening his gait, and draws his sword. ‘Unfortunately, Angel, this shall not be one of yours.’

His blade is exquisite. The slender longsword has a wire-wound handle that stretches longer than I would have expected for a blade of its length.

He catches me studying the weapon and smiles, flicking its point up with a flourish. ‘It’s an antique. The long handle lets me switch between grips.’ He demonstrates, effortlessly changing to a two-handed grip and back again.

I frown. Among a Legion of perfectionists, Lucius was a narcissist.

He taps the hilt of his sword against the combat shield locked to his left arm. ‘Now, if you are ready, I would begin.’

I draw my weapon, a wide-bladed sabre in the same bronze and gold as my armour. ‘First blood.’

‘As you wish. First blood.’ Lucius performs a mock bow, and begins to circle me. He struts with an air of casual disregard. He plays for the crowd, mocking me as he tosses his blade from hand to hand, and shifts his gaze between the adulation of the Emperor’s Children and his seemingly forgotten opponent.

It is all for show. For all his posturing, he takes not a single careless step, never straying more than a handspan within my striking distance, and never without his blade resting between us.

This is no game to Lucius.

I hold my ground. I am in no rush. Unlike many of my brothers, I am not prone to bouts of… enthusiastic anger. I have nurtured the patience needed to defend my father, a being who in all likelihood will never need my blade to keep him. I will outlast Lucius’s hubris, too.

Ten more heartbeats pass.

The Emperor’s Children begin to tire of the standoff, their earlier jeering replaced by the begrudging silence of boredom.

Lucius’s eyes narrow as he senses their disinterest. ‘I was content to let you thrust first, to give you a fighting chance before I claim victory. But…’ He stops moving, a sardonic smile spreading across his face. ‘…we have only tonight.’

He attacks.

His sword is a flash of movement and nothing more, its length little more than an incorporeal spectre. Its bite is real enough, though. My hurried parries manage only to turn aside the truest of his strikes, defending the exposed flesh of my face against the tip of his blade. A dozen times he scores my armour. Were he to draw even a single drop of blood from my cheek, the duel would be over.

The Emperor’s Children erupt in approval with each new graze. Whooping, they stamp their boots in rhythmic applause against the steel of the platform.

Lucius breaks off. ‘It pleases me to find you have some skill. Dull victories bring me little pleasure.’

I feign distraction, concentrating on my breathing, careful to keep my breaths shallow and quick, as though I am in need of the moment’s respite. Lucius takes the bait. He steps in to thrust towards my leading leg. But his attack is overconfident. I ignore the feint, parrying his blade as it rises towards my face. I strike back, gripping my own sword two-handed and cutting down towards his abdomen.

There is no room for him to parry. He twists, turning into the blow, denying me the momentum, and braces behind his combat shield. My blade shudders as it connects, carving a rent down the length of the shield. I pivot, reversing my grip and stabbing my blade around behind me.

Nothing. I am not quick enough. Lucius has already sprung out of range.

‘Yes, let us give them a show!’ He spreads his arms for the crowd but his eyes narrow further and, beneath his preening exterior, his blood is up.

‘I tire of your voice, cousin,’ I growl. ‘Let us finish this in silence.’

I see it then. The ugly, prideful anger that churns beneath the blademaster’s still exterior.

Then Lucius twirls his sword in his hand, and another empty smile creases his cheeks. ‘We are not at war, you and I – why not enjoy these moments?’

‘I see through you, Lucius.’ His face hardens at my words. A ripple of anger ruins the corners of his eyes. ‘Your nonchalance is nothing more than a blade wrapped in silk. You remind me of my brother, Amit. His aggression runs as deep as yours. Though he at least has the courage to embrace it.’

‘The Flesh Tearer?’ Lucius barks. ‘I am nothing like him!’

I ignore Lucius’s protestation. Courage. It surprises me to have given voice to such a thing where Amit’s temper is concerned. Yet my brother would not have suffered this dance. It is my turn to smile as I imagine him fighting this duel, bludgeoning Lucius’s face. I can almost hear the crack of his skull as Amit’s armoured gauntlet batters it. The hammerblows ring out in my mind until my hearts quicken in echo…

I see Lucius speak again, but hear nothing beyond the thunder in my chest. Defence, strategy, honour – they all pale into quiet whispers beneath the roar of my rising anger.

Lucius’s mouth moves again. I reply with a snarl.

He makes to attack, but I move first. I charge forwards, my blade raised overhead. He blocks my downward strike, turns aside the reverse stroke, and steps back out of range as I lunge with a kick. I keep going. A sweeping horizontal slash, followed by another as my blade twists in my grip. My sudden fury catches him off-guard. He makes good on his defence, but he has clung too tightly to his position, allowed me to step inside his reach.

I am larger than he. Stronger. Now is my chance.

I let go of my sword and grab the hilt of his with both hands. Pulling him tight to me, I launch a thunderous head butt. But Lucius has the wits to lower his head, and I grimace as my forehead strikes the thick bone of his. Grunting with effort, I turn my hips and throw him, blade and all, across the deck.

‘This is not a brawl!’ Lucius’s voice is still thick with frivolity, but his eyes burn in outrage as he leaps back to his feet. ‘First blood is first cut with a blade. You will not bludgeon your way to victory.’

I advance on him.

‘Have you forgotten something, Blood Angel?’ Lucius grins and gestures to my gauntlets with his sword point.

I look down at my empty hands. Damn my rage, I have left my sword on the deck behind me.

It is in that instant that I find respect for Amit’s way of war. It is harder than I had imagined, to lose control and yet still remain in command of one’s actions.

‘This contest is over,’ Lucius sneers.

I keep advancing. ‘Then why do you back away from me, blademaster?’

A look of confusion spoils his swagger, but he keeps his eyes on me.

I knew he would. He was far too experienced to fall for such an old lure.

But if he had glanced over his shoulder, he might have realised just how close to the platform’s edge he has come.

My words have done their job. The single moment of doubt that passed through Lucius’s mind, the one instant when his instinct turned to going backwards instead of forwards, was all the extra leverage I needed.

I lunge forwards.

I feel something score my cheek as I crash into him. My momentum drives us both over the edge. We fall, both of us together, my arms locked fast around his waist. Cries of laughter follow us over the edge as the Emperor’s Children pour scorn on their champion’s mistake.

‘You have lost!’ His voice is a desperate plea against the rush of our descent.

‘I know.’

I smile and spread my arms. We tumble away from one another. I close my eyes and relish the calm touch of the rain as it follows me down to the sea.

Lucius had won the duel, but that was never the victory he sought. Admiration, the adoration and worship of his fellow warriors, was the prize he fought for. By the time we are recovered, the gash in my cheek will have healed and the moment of his triumph will have passed. His victory, like everything else on this planet, will have been washed away by the oceans of Henvinka.

Amit

We are victorious. We have slain the enemy and returned another world to the Emperor. I crack my neck and roll my shoulders free. For me, though, one fight remains.

I duck low under a natural archway, and step into a hollowed-out trench in the rock face.

If this planet has a name, we have never bothered to learn it. Such a task we have left to those whose concerns do not run as bloody as ours. We however call it Bask, and it suits the name. An undulating landscape, baked dry by the oppressive blaze of its four suns.

I follow the trench for six more paces. If it is straight, it is only because it is not winding. Irregular chunks of rock narrow it in places. The ragged stone scores my pauldrons, yet yields and crumbles as I force my armoured bulk through. The space I emerge into is almost circular, a shallow basin at the foot of a mountain.

Khârn is waiting for me.

Behind him, a limp World Eater, his white and blue armour scarred and rent, is dragging himself away down another channel in the rock. Khârn follows my gaze.

‘A warm up,’ he smiles. It is an empty expression, something to fill the space between the twitch of his fingers and the flicker of rage that tugs at the corners of his eyes, and his voice is a guttural rasp. ‘To keep the blood from my ears while I waited.’

He was right. I was late.

‘It could not be helped.’ I say holding Khârn’s gaze without apology. Sergeant Barakiel had demanded the honour of this duel. I owed him the chance to fight for it.

‘As you say.’ Khârn speaks free of menace as we stare at one another. ‘I knew in the end it would be you and I who stood here.’

He and I are bound together by more than this moment. At my primarch’s command, we have fought against one another in the duelling pits of the Conqueror, even as we have waged war together on this world for months. We have killed the same enemy and bled on the same earth. I see myself reflected in the dark of his eyes, and I am forced to admit that there is more. We have each borne witness to the other’s bloodlust, to the rage that steals away all else. In truth, there have been days when, were it not for the colour of our armour, it would have been hard to tell us apart. Even now we both stand with the same unease. We are strangers to peace – addicts on edge, craving the familiar embrace of violence.

‘This may be the last battlefield we share. I would not cede this chance to pit my blade against such an opponent one more time.’

Khârn grins. ‘Few are the warriors who seek me out so readily.’

Above us, the slopes of the mountain are barren. This fight is between us. It is for us. My Blood Angels and Khârn’s World Eaters will not stand in audience.

‘This is a fitting end to our time here,’ I say. Then my lips twist in contempt. ‘But there is no honour in this. This is not true combat.’

Khârn smiles. It is as real as the sweat that soaks his brow. ‘You do not disappoint, Flesh Tearer.’

Flesh Tearer.

It was once so rare to be addressed by that name by someone outside my Legion command. I was a Blood Angel, a captain. My name was Amit, and yet – like those other titles – it always seemed less fitting than Flesh Tearer.

‘And no, this is not combat,’ Khârn continues. ‘So let us forge our own honour, you and I. Let us stand here as flesh and blood. Let us fight as warriors, and not symbols of honour or tithe.’ He crashes a fist into his breastplate.

I nod.

Neither Khârn nor I speak as we strip to our undersuits, revealing scars that wrap our torsos like thick ropes.

‘One shall stand,’ I say, eventually, my eyes still fixed on Khârn.

‘Very well.’ He nods and extends his hand.

I step forward and grasp his forearm in a warriors’ salute. We will fight until one of us cannot rise again. ‘Let us see whose blood runs stronger, the Angel’s or the Butcher’s.’

Khârn’s face twitches in furor even as I feel my own hearts begin to quicken.

Together, we approach the arming post stood at the side of the pit. It bristles with long blades and polearms. Crude clubs sit beside barbed flails. There are punch daggers, bucklers and everything in between. I choose a short cleaver. Its ragged edge is blunt, its blade thick and heavy. It will not cut or slice. It will break bone and tear flesh.

‘A good choice,’ Khârn mutters as he pulls an axe and a lumpen hammer from the rack. ‘A better choice than the blade that your brother, Azkaellon, once fought me with.’

I stifle a smirk at the comparison. ‘You will never find me like my brother.’ I take a length of barbed chain and wrap it around my left fist. ‘This fight will not long be fought at blade’s length.’

‘Yes. This will be painful and bloody.’

Armed, we ready ourselves five paces from one another.

I see only Khârn.

The howl of the wind, as it scrapes across the rock of the valley, falls under the roar of blood swelling in my muscles. My grip on my weapon is white-knuckle tight. My weight is forward. It is all I can do to stay on the spot.

I imagine the first moments as we clash, my blade knocking Khârn’s axe aside to smash his arms. I see his face crumple as my fist thunders into it. I want to hit him again and again. I hear my hearts beat and his bones break. I see Khârn broken, and nothing else beyond it.

He roars, and charges me. I echo his call, a grumble tearing from my throat as I leap at him. His axe is high. I bring my blade up to meet it as it chops down for my head. The weapons ring out as they clash, and a reverberating ache shoots through my arm. Khârn’s strength is fierce. I push forwards as his hammer swings low towards my thigh. I spear my left hand downwards, grimacing as his forearm collides with mine. I wrap my hand up around his shoulder and pull him in, dropping the cleaver to fold my elbow into his jaw. He raises his arm in defence, snarling as I smash into the meat of his bicep.

Weapons forgotten, we are a tangle of limbs scrabbling for dominance.

His head strikes my nose and blood fills my mouth.

My fist connects with his ribs. Bone cracks.

His teeth savage my shoulder.

My head cracks his jaw.

We hold our ground, suffering under incessant blows from the other. We are a mess of blood, sweat and saliva.

‘You are holding back,’ Khârn spits. ‘Give me everything.’

‘As are you,’ I say, throwing my elbow up into his chin.

‘I must.’ His fist closes my right eye. ‘Once the Butcher’s Nails compel me, I am lost. Until they are sated.’ Khârn pulls my head close to his mouth, and his voice is a blood-slick whisper. ‘And they are never sated.’

‘True fury cannot be manufactured. It is in the blood.’ I catch the look in Khârn’s eyes, and I know that I am wrong. For all its cruelty, my rage is a part of me; Khârn’s has been forced upon him, an insult against his flesh. His mind was not born to deal with such a thing.

I see Khârn then, lost to his Nails. I see it in the drool that flecks his mouth, and the pulse of his eyes as they strain in their sockets.

My left leg buckles as Khârn hammers his shin into my thigh. He strikes again, pain flaring to my hip. I snarl and dig a punch into his throat. The blow buys me a moment. I grunt in pained effort, and shoulder Khârn away, then pace backwards and recover my footing.

‘You have… lost…’ Khârn’s mouth curls in a sneer as he advances. ‘There can be no… backwards. We must go forwards.’

I stagger as his fist hits my ear.

He is right. The fight’s momentum is his.

I struggle to defend against a series of brutal punches and kicks. My arms burn with the toll of defence. They will soon fall, and he will crack my skull. Khârn’s mouth hangs open in a snarl that I cannot hear. His cry is lost under the roar in my head, swamped by the blood-red fog thickening behind my eyes.

No. This battle shall not be the one that claims me.

Khârn’s knees drive up into my abdomen, knocking the wind from me. My vision blurs. The light of the suns presses down upon me, an oppressive glare of gold – the colour of Azkaellon’s Sanguinary Guard plate. I find the strength to smile at the thought. My brother has never bested me in combat, yet he has survived my most wrathful endeavours.

I throw myself at Khârn, riding a punch that almost breaks my jaw, and lock the blades of my hands around his neck. He drives forwards. We topple.

Khârn continues to batter me as we fall. He lands atop me, pinning my torso beneath his hips. I cover my face with my arms in a desperate guard. He bludgeons them with fists and elbows in a frenzied attempt to get at my skull. He lands a blow with every beat of my hearts. I roar in frustration, swallowing my every instinct, all of them demanding that I hit back. If I move my arms now, I am dead. He will smash my skull open upon the rock as surely as the suns will bake my blood dry.

I wait while Khârn strikes again and again.

His rage is not coordinated. Left does not follow right in an economy of motion. Right follows right follows right. The gap between strikes lengthens as the favoured limb tires.

Khârn attacks. I wait.

Another blow. More pain. I wait.

A slew of incoherent curses tears from Khârn’s throat. He strikes again. I wait.

He strikes.

I counter.

I hook my left arm over his right and pin it against his body, as I throw my weight up. We roll. This time, I’m on top of him. Khârn hasn’t registered the reversal. I have a moment’s clear shot.

I hit him. The blow dents his cheek, breaks my fist, and leaves blood pooling under his skull on the rock. I drop my weight behind an elbow and collapse onto his face. Bone breaks. I ignore the pain in my ribs as he lands a series of wild punches, and grab his head with both hands. I growl, smashing it into the ground.

Khârn lies still. I slump away from him.

I hear the roar of my blood rolling and crashing like a distant wave. It begs me to rise. I cannot.

The words fall from my lips. ‘A draw.’

Cruel laughter rumbles in Khârn’s throat. ‘There can be… no such outcome. Our fight is… not over…’

‘It is for today.’

‘Finish it.’

I ignore him, and close my eyes. I see only Khârn, and the World Eater wears my face.

The Tempest

It is the ninth day of the ninth month. The Tempest of Angels is upon us. I stand in the centre of the duelling stone and await my sons. It has been a year since I have seen either Amit or Azkaellon, not since I sent them to face Lucius and Khârn. I turn my gaze to the twin statues of the Emperor set above the chamber’s main archway. Between them burns a single, blood-red candle. The pillar of wax is almost gone. When the last of it has burned down, the Tempest will begin.

For a hundred heartbeats, I watch the flame. It stands upright in the still air of the room. Only at its last does it waver. I watch as it flickers and fades. A moment more and it will burn its last. It is the same moment in which it burns brightest.

Then my thoughts turn to my sons, and my mood diminishes just as the candle has. I think of my Angels and their fury as they war across the stars. I wonder for how long such a fire will keep them from the darkness in their blood. Foreboding threatens to steal all strength from my limbs as I ponder my sons’ final moments, and the terrible loss that such a time will bring.

‘Lord Sanguinius.’

The strength in Amit’s voice breaks my reverie. I remind myself that the flame is still lit. The destiny of my bloodline will unfold – if I am to be more than a mere observer, my focus must be on guiding them now.

I turn to find him stood under the eastern archway, a ragged frame of dark brass and jagged iron. He neither bows nor salutes, for there is no honour in this place. Only life and death, and the moments that act as passage from one to the other.

He has come as the Blood Seeker. The attacker, the destroyer. A role I have never doubted he was born for. I sigh.

‘Lord Sanguinius.’

Azkaellon’s voice sounds from the opposite side of the chamber. I do not turn to greet him. He stands as the Saviour. My defender.

I feel my limbs swell with anger in the same moment that my hearts grow heavy.

I have failed. The lesson has gone unlearned.

They have come to play the same roles that they always do.

I wait, motionless, while they step onto the duelling stone and ready their blades. I nod for them to begin, and close my eyes. I have no wish to watch this same dance again.

I am barely aware of their actions as they clash around me. Azkaellon will never let Amit’s blade strike me, and the Flesh Tearer will never stop trying. My mind begins to wander, to slip away down the threads of thought, until–

The familiar clashing of Baalite steel, the background wash of the Tempests I have stood through all these long years, changes. There is something different in the tempo this time.

Something in the cadence of the fight.

I open my eyes to find Amit wrong-footed, his attack beaten back by Azkaellon’s savage counter. I hide a smile as Azkaellon presses this advantage, each sweep of his blade more furious than the last. Amit remains composed, turning aside Azkaellon’s blows until he finds an opening. Amit’s strike is exacting. Azkaellon only just stops his blade as it drives toward my abdomen. I watch now with keen interest.

But the break in the normal rhythm of the pair is fleeting, and they return to their natures by the next sword stroke. Amit attacks with pure aggression, sacrificing his guard for a chance at victory. Azkaellon, his composure regained, strikes with direct poise, unwilling to throw himself off balance for a kill stroke. Yet, as the duel progresses, there are moments when the tempo is altered again, and in each of them I see a glimmer of the other.

I was wrong to have expected these two to switch roles. Horus was right – we are who we are.

But we can be tempered. Our flaws rounded off by the virtues of our brothers. I know hope then. It is as a third heart in my breast, beating in slow time as it waits for the chance to race, to pump a glorious future through my veins.

I have seen too much of the possible ends to believe that it is glory awaiting me and my lineage. Yet the weight of certainty is not crushing, for when the day comes when my sons each fall to the darkness in their blood, I hope that the virtues of those they stand beside will keep them in the light.

About the Author

Andy Smillie is best known for his visceral Flesh Tearers novellas, Sons of Wrath and Flesh of Cretacia, and the novel Trial by Blood. He has also written a host of short stories starring this brutal Chapter of Space Marines and a number of audio dramas including The Kauyon, Blood in the Machine, Deathwolf and From the Blood.

As Azkaellon and Amit duel in the ritual Tempest of Angels, the two favoured sons of Sanguinius learn something about their virtues and their weaknesses, of both themselves and each other.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Death and Defiance in 2014.
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* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

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