Somewhere, Somewhen

The Thunderhawk Dawn's Edge set down with a jolt that made his leg twitch, it was an old wound that felt like an involuntary muscle spasm. That was strange, when one considered he had no muscles in his legs, merely pistons, rods and armour plates. Both his legs were augmetic replacements for his organic ones. For a decade he had walked on metal legs and he had personally worked on them to eradicate the quiver, but nothing he tried seemed able to remove it. So Captain Erathor suffered in silence.

A gruff voice intruded into his thoughts, "This is not going to go well." That was Apothecary Santes, his white armour a mote of clarity in the dark troop bay. The healer's duty was to restore the bodies of wounded Astartes, which he did with gruff efficiency; unfortunately he was not so skilled in healing spirits. His manner was abrasive and dismissive, always finding fault with everybody and everything. Maybe it was decades of watching Brothers die under his knives or maybe it was his shame that made him so. The Apothecary's arms were bound by plasteel links, fused to the Ceramite armour. The Chains of Shame, marks of his disgrace and exile.

Erathor sighed, "It will go as it goes."

Santes snorted, "How can you be so sanguine? We are walking into an Ambull's's den."

Erathor glared at him and snapped, "Where else could we go?"

Santes retorted, "Somewhere, anywhere. We have a ship and Brothers, we could stay out among the stars forever. Coming back here is a mistake."

Erathor had enough of his moaning and growled, "This is our home, there is nowhere else we belong. We have earned our right to return."

"I doubt our kin will see it that way," Santes muttered under his breath.

Erathor knew what he meant, for their exile had been imposed under a bitter cloud. Erathor, Santes and their company had been caught up in a civil war within the Storm Heralds Chapter. True Believers against Primarch's Own. The fighting had been bitter, good friends and honoured Brothers had fallen. Erathor himself had slain his best friend Maxitio, a deed he would never forgive himself for. The civil war had ended in victory for the other side and the surviving True Believers had been sent on a Penitent Crusade.

The thought of that reminded Erathor of the other occupant of the Thunderhawk and he glanced over to where a mortal man was climbing out of the ammo netting that passed for mortal's restraints. A wizened ancient who looked like he was trying not to be sick. Erathor asked, "Holois, are you about to drop dead?"

The hunchbacked old man wheezed, "I shall endeavour not to my lord."

"Good," Erathor affirmed, "Your duty is not discharged until you have delivered your burden."

At Holois' feet was a large chest, bearing a scroll of inestimable worth. Erathor had struggled to earn that scroll, Brothers had died for it, not least Captain Tygra and Chaplain Wrethan, fellow exiles who would never smell the clean air of their homeworld again. Yet their deaths had helped to earn that scroll and so Erathor returned to Lujan II, to deliver it unto the Masters of the Storm Heralds and so be judged. The rest of their exiled company were confined in orbit aboard the Strike Cruiser Pax Mortis, only the pair of leaders had been permitted to land.

Reluctantly Erathor and Santes lifted their restraints and trooped over to the ramp as it slammed down and for the first time in a decade Erathor breathed the air of Lujan II. The first thing that hit him was the sharp dawn light, a piercing ray burning into his eyes, unfiltered by clouds or haze. The second thing was the sounds of the ocean, crying seabirds mixed with the lapping of waves crashing upon a bluff shore, drawing back only to throw themselves onto jagged rocks once more. The third thing was the intense smell of salty brine, a pickled odour that forced its way up the nose and settled at the back of the throat. Erathor's senses drank in the flavours of his homeworld and his spirit knew contentment.

It lasted for only a second, then his eyes settled upon a trio of figures waiting for him. One wore a Captain's laurels on his armour; the second was a Chaplain he did not recognise. The last one however was unmistakable, a Venerable Dreadnought with a missile array and twin-linked lascannons, one of those legendary heroes of the Chapter entombed forever in a bipedal war machine. They were the most revered and venerated heroes of the Chapter, each one a living legend to be honoured as avatars of a glorious history. Unfortunately this one just so happened to be the Dreadnought who had shot off Erathor's legs: Venerable Temeraire.

Erathor refused to be cowed by the unwelcome sight and marched down the ramp then declared, "I am Erathor and I have returned home, to whom do I speak?"

The other officer stated flatly, "I am Second Captain Cyvo, and I have been instructed to escort you to Chapter Master Phalros."

Erathor vaguely knew the name, he had been a sergeant during the civil war but Cyvo's accent betrayed the inflexion of a low-born islander. Erathor hailed from the nobility of Lujan II, schooled in the finest arts of war and statesmanship from childbirth. It had always irked him that the Chapter had never seen the distinction in their initiates but now was hardly the time to argue. His upbringing demanded decorum be maintained, no matter his personal feelings.

Erathor nodded as he said, "Hail Cyvo."

But then the unknown Chaplain growled, "You should have stayed away."

Erathor glared at him and hissed, "Your name is?"

"Cortha," the Chaplain uttered, "And I will be watching you closely."

Then Temerarie growled, "As will I, one wrong step and I will finish what I started with your legs, by claiming your head."

Erathor refused to be cowed by their unsubtle display and kept his chin high as he said, "Enough idle threats, let us go to meet the Masters. Where is our Rhino?"

Cyvo sneered, "A Rhino is too good for you. We can walk."

Erathor grimaced for that was a deliberate insult, his rank entitled him to transport but it was one more indignity he would have to swallow. He turned to Santes and said, "Collect Holois, he can't walk that far, you'll have to carry him."

Santes looked like he would argue at the insult of acting like a common servitor, but a glare from Erathor quieted him. The Apothecary stepped back into the Thunderhawk and emerged carrying the serf in one arm and the box in the other, then they set off, marching across the Fortress-Monastery. They walked in sullen silence but Erathor didn't mind, it gave him time to examine the home of the Storm Heralds. The Chapter's base was built upon a lonely island, all alone in hundreds of miles of ocean. Its spires and mighty defence lasers rose into the dawn light, casting long shadows and Erathor was pleased to see the Fortress-Monastery had prospered in his absence but he was stunned to see lines of Space Marines marching in unfamiliar armour Marks. They were tall, taller than any Astartes and bore long rifles and were followed by a grav-tank of a pattern he had never seen before.

"Who are they?" Erathor spat incredulously, "Why do they wear our sacred colours?"

"Primaris Marines," Cyvo replied snidely, "The Storm Heralds have been reinforced. The Primarch Roboute Guilliman gave them to us... personally."

Erathor missed a step at that and spluttered, "Our gene-father has visited us?"

Cortha needled, "Less than a month ago, shame you missed him."

That was a petty jibe and Erathor refused to be baited, but he did wonder what the Chaplain had against him. The rest of the march passed in resentful silence, passing among the towers and barracks of their home. After an hour's walking they reached the Grand Council Chamber, and entered through its arcing doors. The broad space was as magnificent as ever, the high vaulted roof held up by thick pillars and the marble floors polished till they shone. Ancient banners hung from the roof and servo-skulls floated overhead, fat wax candles on their domes dribbling down over their empty eye sockets.

Erathor ignored it all as his eyes settled on a ring of seats set before him. Within those seats were the Masters of the Chapter. Some he recognised, like Captain Hakulo, Nimodes, Toran and Chief Librarian Echeb. Others he did not, strange faces, many of them Primaris in nature yet all wearing Storm Herald colours. But it was the central face that drew his eye, the stern countenance and senatorial features of Chapter Master Phalros. In the entire debacle that had been the civil war Phalros' elevation had been the one bright note, the one surviving officer on the other side Erathor could respect. It had been he who judged the defeated True Believers and sent them on their Death Oath, a more generous sentence than Erathor would have granted were the situation reversed.

Cyvo peeled off and took his seat, as Cortha and Temeraire fell back in respect. Erathor faced his kin and boldly declared, "I have returned."

Phalros drew in a breath but before he could speak Hakulo jolted forward and said, "You're supposed to be dead!"

Erathor bridled at being address so by the savage warrior, he wasn't even a proper Lujanite but hailed from the feral backwater of Trux. As if that wasn't enough of a blemish on his character he also switched sides half-way through the civil war. Erathor faced the cur and uttered, "It seems I must disappoint you."

Then Captain Toran said, "At the very least we expected you to be gone for a hundred years. It's been only ten."

If there was one person Erathor liked less than Hakulo it was Toran. A jumped-up line sergeant, promoted well beyond his ability, in Erathor's opinion. The pair glared at each other as Erathor declared, "Yet here I am, having fulfilled the conditions of my Death Oath."

Toran snorted, "I doubt that."

Erathor snapped back, "Keep a civil tongue in your head, lest I rip it out."

Suddenly Phalros banged his fist on his chair and barked, "Enough! Do not sully this occasion. Erathor, the conditions of your Death Oath were quite clear, yet here you are, asking to be allowed back into the Chapter. What has transpired to make you think we forgive you?"

Erathor lifted his head and declared, "My Penitent Company fought on a Shrine World, bringing low the foul Disciples of Ruin. We defeated the foe and earned a pardon from the Cardinal and Inquisitor in charge of the War of Fatih. Though it cost us many lives, including Captain Tygra and Chaplain Wrethan."

Toran's face fell as he whispered, "Wrethan's dead… Did he pass with honour?"

Erathor nodded sadly as he affirmed, "Most honourably, he earned his redemption. Wrethan died as a true Storm Herald."

Yet Hakulo sounded less moved as he growled, "I don't believe a word of this."

"Indeed," Cyvo concurred, "I will not accept the word of a rebel and heretic at face value."

"I did not come without proof," Erathor said as he gestured Holois forward.

The Serf limped over, aching from his journey and opened the chest, pulling out a weighty scroll as he said, "This scroll bears the seals of the Ecclesiarchy, Inquisition, Administratum and other appropriate bodies. I have examined it thoroughly and all is in order, this is indisputably an official pardon."

Hakulo's eyes narrowed as he growled, "A piece of parchment, that's it?! You think waving a scroll in our faces will make us forget you murdering Maxitio?!"

Yet Holois replied calmly, "This scroll bears the imprint of Imperial authority and so carries the sanction of the Emperor. To question this is to doubt the Emperor himself."

Erathor enjoyed the looks of constipation that passed over the Captain's faces. None of them wanted to believe this was true, but Space Marines were indoctrinated above all to believe in the Emperor. His decrees were unquestionable, even after ten thousand years of silence and His edicts were to be obeyed to the letter. There was no possibility of questioning or doubting such a declaration. He could practically see them trying to think up a loophole but they fell short.

Eventually Phalros conceded, "It seems we must accept this pardon. Your oath has been fulfilled."

Toran protested, "But he…"

"The Emperor has passed His judgement," Phalros barked, "I will suffer no hint of doubt or vacillation in our execution of His will."

Toran was abashed and fell silent but Hakulo smirked, "Unfortunately we have another problem, we have ten Captains already, so what shall we do with you?"

Erathor replied graciously, "I will accept a posting wherever you deem fit."

Cyvo mused, "There is no Company lacking a Captain, but we do send an envoy to the ruling triumvirate of Lujan II."

Erathor was confused and said, "There is no such office."

"There is now," Hakulo replied with a wicked grin, "Lord Guilliman abolished the governor's post. Yes, send this one to sit with fat merchants and argue about law-making and tithe quotas."

Erathor was aghast at the thought, he was a combat officer, glory and honour were his destiny, not sitting in meetings with greedy merchants and corrupt politicians. It was an insult to suggest such a thing, but he forbore the disgrace with dignity and said, "If you so wish, I will accept."

Yet Phalros rubbed his chin and said, "No, it would still seem like a punishment and so cast doubt upon your pardon. This is a conundrum, ten companies but eleven Captains, but I see a solution. The Chapter still retains a sizeable fleet and our duties are more onerous than ever. We must endeavour to increase our presence among the stars, proactively meeting threats before they can manifest. It is too much to expect a Company Captain to bear this responsibility, thus I propose a single officer be dedicated to taking charge of our Naval assets."

"Master of the Fleet?" Erathor mused. It was a bold idea; there was honour in such a role, and the chance for glory in combat. "An acceptable idea."

Phalros replied sternly, "Your approval is irrelevant, this is my decision to make. The Battlebarge Thunderlord shall be at your disposal, as will whatever fleet assets are not required to transport our Companies to war. Your duty shall see you travel far and wide, meeting the enemies of the Emperor in their own star systems. Keep your Penitent Company as officers for your ships, let them prove their worth in battle and in time the divisions between us shall be healed."

Erathor bowed his head in submission, it was less than he had hoped for but more than he had expected, so he said, "I shall not fail you. I will find our enemies wherever they lurk and burn them out of their holes. For the Emperor."