The Trial of Carnadine: Part 3: The Emperor’s Fulcrum

Bridge master Burrogol stood at the nexus of two catwalks looking out toward several large viewing portals.  Below him, about fifteen feet below, was the primary bridge of the Imperial Star ship Emperor’s Fulcrum. These were life long servants of the Emperor who sat and what seemed like endless terminals, banks of computerized and mechanical work stations.  Their bodies, mostly machine now, were wired into their work stations.  Their ‘unnecessary’ components replaced by mechanical limbs and cybernetic tools. Yellow desk lamps thew a poor light that bathed the lower level in a dim pallor.  Some of the work stations were made from polished wood and brass, levers and dials at their consoles, while other work stations, more recently installed, held data screens and info pads with quick reams of information.  Each presided over by a once human now machine servant who attended to the minute by minute details of the ship.  One of the servidors, who had caught the master’s eye before seemed to be steam powered, a small valve issuing steam from within the being’s chest.  Another, who attended what seemed like a much more sophisticated work station, was wired from ports in his eyes into the terminal.  All around these servants of the Emperor data cords snaked on the floor from terminal to terminal.  It seemed that the floor was covered with a bizarre tangled mess of cords and cabling.  Burrogol also observed several forms moving amongst the terminals and steeping quietly over the cords.  Hooded members of the mechanical cult tended to the servitors.  Pipes and mechanical arms protruded from beneath red robes, checking the work of the servitors, praying for them.  One of the mechanicus priests stopped beside the steaming servitor and seemed to wind a large key in its back.  Another, paused over a one armed servitor and appeared to be wiping sweat from the creature’s brow.  It seemed almost tender.

Above him, through vast oval viewing ports was the darkness of space.  In the background the stars of the cosmos winked and watched.  In the foreground lay the long spars and arms of the Amadanes orbital platform.  The old construction loomed around the ship filling most of the viewing port. The arm of the platform that was connected to The Fulcrum loomed so large in the viewing window.  Through the gulf he could see blinking lights and the tiny shapes of people in a observation lounge. The Hopeful Watch, a vast starship could see seen some distance off docked at the next spar of the platform.  A small squadron of Sword class frigates, their blue prows showing them as the Neptune squadron, scatted past the viewing window.  On their way to a system patrol he thought to himself.  And beyond the platform was the vast grey green orb of Char, the home world of the Carnadine chapter.

The master considered the platform.  It was the home of the battlefleet Adrade, one of the oldest battlegroups in the sector.  Twelve battle cruisers, five escort groups, and two heavy cruisers.  He had been working on this ship all his life and though the looked at the platform most days, he had never left this ship.  He had looked down on that world and had never been to.

The platform had once housed the Carnadine’s space marine battle fleet also.  During the last Tyranid war, almost one hundred and fifty years ago, the space Marines strike cruiser fleet had been reduced to such a meager force.  The Adreade had been reassigned to this platform to use it.  The replacement ships of the chapter would be long in coming.  At least that’s what Burrogol’s father had told him when he was a lad.  These days it seemed as though the chapter was waiting for a promise from Mars that would never come.  Few people talked about the lost space marine fleet.   Four strike cruisers did not make a fleet.  But nobody would say it.  The marines would not admit that their ability to make war was almost entirely dependant on the Imperial fleet that had come to be stationed here.  The master gripped the polished metal of the railing at the catwalk.  He watched a censor baring mecheoprest waddle along between rows of servitor terminals.  Clouds of smoke emanating from the censor swinging at the end of a chain.  He listed to the prayers of the shuffling monk.

He walked along the catwalk to his work station.  It consisted of a speaking tube.  A small desk with a high stool for sitting and a monitor that could feed him data about operations.  Several small message lights flashed.  He picked up the speaking tube and tapped one of the lights.  Several voices emanated from the tube.  He knew his deck well.  He could see which of the servants below was speaking into their speaking tubes to him.  One of the mechanicus priests shuffled over to check the servitor’s work.  One servitor delivered to him several messages from the other ships in the fleet from and another tracked the movement of the sword squadron as it began its patrol.  The many servitors forwarding information to his screen. From this terminal he could relay the commands from the ship’s captain to the servitors below or to the mighty engine room, he could dispatch fire control teams or warn the ship to brace for impact.  He could and had for the Fulcrum has seen many battles.  Many wars since before he was born, before his father and all the fathers that could be remembered.  He noted another indicator light on his small console.  Once again he took up his speaking tube.  He held it before his mouth.  Licked his lips and then turned on the general speaker.  When he spoke his voice was amplified across the large hall so all the servants below heard.

“All servitors, all deck hands, prepare for the Captain’s arrival”.

It wasn’t long before the captain did arrive.  To the rear of the large chamber a door opened and from it strode the lord and master of this ship and the fleet.  Millions of souls bowed down before this man.  Billions of lives relied on the might of his war machines for survival and protection.  He was a large man.  His impressive stout frame supported a broad shoulder carapace.  A fleet of medals hung on his armored breastplate.  His bald head supported a monocle, pinched at his eye and a wreath of gold leaves sat atop his head.  The door closed behind him.  To his left and right strode a flock of attendants and servants.  Advisers and soothsayers followed in the confident stride of a mighty man.  He walked out onto a large balcony, detailed with gold leaf and ornament.  It overlooked the chamber where the servitors and mechpriests worked.  His platform, like a box at the theatre, looked down on Burrolful’s crosswalk, which in turn looked down on the servants.  Above him the stars looked down on one of their princes~ Captain Faustus.

Faustus surveyed the room below.  His eyes caught those of his bridge master.  He nodded.  His servant nodded in acknowledgement.  Then he found the eye of his chief Mechpreist far below the catwalks.  The two men conveyed a appreciation of honor and respect though they didn’t understand each other’s faith or work.  They both had faith in their god’s ability to ensure the machines would work.  Faustus took hold of the speaking tube and tapped a small lever that connected him to Burrogol.

“Deck Master, connect me to the Chapter.”

“Opening a line to the Chapter”.  A moment passed and the hollow sound of static could be heard while the message was relayed to the planet below.

“Mighty Fulcrum this is Carnadine Chapter communications, please go ahead”.  Burrogol received the signal from the com servitor and directed the message to the general overhead com.  The massive sound of the speakers projected the last few words from from the planet below into the chamber.  The captain responded and his voice boomed across the room also.

“Chapter this is the Actual Fulcrum Captain. please communicate to the Chapter Master that I have received orders from the Segmentum fleet liaison to proceed to the Galthere Cluster and engage an alien war fleet that has been detected there.” The sound of mechanical clicks could be heard through the speakers.

“Mighty Fulcrum” Burrogol relayed from the planet.  “The Chapter Master on duty requests information.  How many of the fleet will be required?”  Click click click.

“All of it” the Captain reported.  The alien force have been detected moving toward Galthere Prime”

“Acknowledged Fulcrum actual.  Chapter Master indicates his best wishes.”

The Trial of Carnadine: Part Two: The Settlement

By the time Apir reached the bottom of the trail from the Prominent Chapel the rain had passed but the gray clouds high above remained.  They cast the sky as a vast granite ceiling.  A trail of hard worn earth lead from the premonitory to the settlement.  He quickly crossed the small field through which the trail led.  Small stones marked the edges of the trail.  Tufts of green and blue grass, blue like a stormy sea, filled the field through which the trail led.  He passed several groups of pilgrims, clad in a similar red garb as he, heading along the trail toward the winding path. The cold wind still pushed against them all as they traveled toward the chapel.

The settlement itself had been built millenia ago.  It was carved from the rocks that made the mountains.  The settlement comprised two distinct districts.  The Outwards lay at the entrance to the settlement.  They consisted of a series of low stone buildings, mostly square and sparse.  When looking at them, as they crowded on the slight slope leading to the upper part of the settlement one could see that they were made by hand and tool.  There was no standard template construct at work here.  And the knowledge to build these buildings was older than those revered plans from the dark age of technology.  Small red and yellow pendants hung from windows and eves, they cast about in the wind.  Hardy yellow Pomatac flowers grew by the doorways of many of the buildings.

By the time he reached the Outwards the morning was well underway and by then the village was so much more alive than when he had begun his pilgrimage.  Groups of Epigone hurried about the streets faithfully carrying out the business of their masters.  Some carried parcels and others scurried about delivering a message or running an errand.  All of them carried an urgency and purpose within their peach colored robes.  Smoke rose from many of the buildings and Apir could smell breakfast cooking.  There were a few others in the Outwards, family members of the Epigone made up the majority.  There were also regular Imperial citizens, off worlders, whose business had brought them here.  There were several of his kin, warrior brothers, whose forms towered over the others.

Apir strode through the main road that led through the Outward of the settlement toward the Chapter Temple.  Some called the Temple the “Inward” but this was not its real name.  Its massive form dominated the settlement.  It had been built by the founders of this settlement many thousands of years ago and formed the center of life on this planet.  Its bulky gray form rose from the low buildings, it presence dominating.  Square towers rose up capped by black wooded roofs.  Buildings were nestled among the towers and walls.  Dark windows looked out.  Red and gold square pennants hung from windows and walkways bright against the gray.  It housed the all the facilities for the warrior clan that Apir belonged to.  From armories, to sleeping quarters, to command bunkers and on and on.  The only thing the fortress did not hold within it was the chapel.  Nesbel’s chapel looked down on the Temple as some distant star looks down on a world offering guidance.

As Apir approached the gate there were more crowds.  There was a town square at the entrance to the temple.  Flanking the large gateway to the temple were two statues of armored warriors, similarly clad as the statue in the chapel.  Each was about twenty feet tall.  They were situated in the center of the square so that were one to enter the gates from the low village one would have to pass between the two.  Their heads were masked in the grimace of warrior helms.  The cobbled square was filled with vendors and crowds.  A market was occurring.  Villagers traded before the gates of the temple.  Apir strode through the marketplace ignoring all the activity and the crowds parted before him with a reverence that belied his rank in this place.

As he walked a figure fell in behind him from the crowd.  A young woman who wore a peach colored simple robe. Short cropped blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.  As soon as she began following him Apir began speaking.  It was as though she had been following him all along, or he had seen her in the crowd some distance off and known she would fall in behind him.  This was true, in fact, because she was one of his Epigone, his attendants.

The Epigone were the servants and attendants to the battle brothers who lived in this place.  There were several thousand who lived in the Outwards for each battle brother was attended by a handful of these servants.  They had once been villagers who came from across this world to be selected to serve the brothers of this temple.  They were selected by the chapter masters for their faith or their skill.  Or perhaps on a whim.  Their primary duty was to attend to the daily needs of the brothers; cleaning their quarters, cooking meals, washing clothes.  Sometimes they would be privileged enough to pray with the brothers.  Because the brothers would live so much longer than humans many Epigone would serve their entire lives from their arrival in the settlement until their deaths serving one brother.  Some battle brothers who lived on through dozens and dozens of decades would have a proud tradition of Epigones who would pass dictates of service, the habits and interests of their brother, from generation  to generation.  In the case of the death of one of the brothers, in battle, the attendants would continue on to serve their fallen masters, building and attending to the shrines of the fallen.  Their service would continue through the years until the Epigone themselves expired.

Once through the gate the couple entered a similarly crowded open air courtyard.  Here, however, the crowd consisted of only the Epigone and brothers.  There were no civilians.  They would have been stopped by the gate by larger than life versions of the statues in the fore.  The guards at the gate were dressed in red armor, large shoulders forming a split carapace.  A grim grill of a mask.  The boltgun and chainsword at their side.  The deep red, and gold of the Carnadine Chapter signified their allegiance.

“Master, while you were visiting the chapel there were several communications from the Sergent of the squad.  He wished to be apprised of the opinion of the priest.”  Apir nodded grimly.  Though Apir served as a formal messenger for the Captain, his first allegiance was to his Sargent. Sargent Tossel had lead the second squad for almost fifty years.  He had succeeded Halirax who had died almost one hundred and fifty years ago during the last Tyrannic war.
“Are we in readiness?” asked the marine.
“The prayers have been spoken and Grithmog has anointed the first of the bolts as instructed” she said as they walked,  she a few steps behind.
“Antrada, you will come with me and Grithmog, Fenil will stay here to tend our shrines.”
“Yes my lord” said the woman.  “We are going off world?”
“In deed”.
“Where?”
“That is unknown to me and unimportant to me” Apir replied.  They crossed the courtyard and headed down a narrow street, walkways strode above them. The martial presence of the space marines could be felt the further into the chapter temple they walked.  They crossed another square, quite large this time.  There was pair of small landers settling down in the middle of the square.  One touching down in a storm of jet backwash and another with its front hatches already open.  Marines exiting.  One red clad brother limped, leaning heavily on another, his leg missing.  Another, his armor blackened, cradled his arm.  Apir shook his head.  The raiders in the south plains were clearly becoming more bold.

They crossed the square and on through the now narrow walkways and paths through the temple.  Antrada recognized they were heading back to their quarters.  The temple itself was actually a continuation of the settlement, cordoned off from the Outward by the great wall and the guard.  Antrada had lived in the temple since her sixteenth year.  She was the youngest of Apir’s Epigone, having tended to his needs for only four years now.  She shuddered thinking of the injured marines in the square.  She couldn’t imagine her feelings were her master to be injured.  This was to be her first journey off word and though she showed no outward sign of it she brimmed with excitement.  To confess, she had hoped that Apir would take her off world this time.  She had waited in the market for his return with the hope that the marines would depart and take her with them.  She considered the vast number of Epigone that would travel with the righteous marines, supporting them, repairing their equipment, tending to their wounds.  Whenever Apir had departed for war in the past Fenil and old Grithmog would go.  She would remain behind with Pitin.  Not this time.  She inwardly beamed at the prospect of travel to distant stars.  It was a thrilling idea. Thrilling and terrifying.  She recalled last year when the marines had returned from their mission to aid in the pacification of the rebels on Malraux.  Many of the chapter’s finest had not returned.  She recalled the stories, told to her by Apir and Gothmog, of the last Tyranic war.  Stories of how so many brothers had not returned.  So many lost.  She shuddered with fear and excitement.

The two walked in silence through the now empty street.  She clasped her hands behind her back, her excitement telling in the spring in her step and the bob of her short ponytail.

The Trial of Carnadine: Part one. The Prominent Chapel.

In order to gain access to the prominent chapel one must walk the long path up to its high perch.  The old place of prayer sat atop a pillar of rock that loomed several hundred feet into the air.  The rock was like a gathering of fingers together pointing to the sky.  If one were at a distance one would observe a winding trail, some parts stairs, other parks walkways, cut into the old rock that wound round the digits  up and up to the apex.  The trail wrapped the promontory, sometimes round and round and other times switching back and fourth across the the sheer face.  Long worn stairs were cut from the grey rock by long blunt wedges held by long dead hands.  Along the pathway statues had been erected to observe those on the path.  To some, the eyes of old warriors scowled down casting fear, to other passers by they cast a welcoming gaze, comfort wrought in stone.  They had been erected a millenia ago.  Shrines to old long dead heros.  There were others, newly cast, that were the perfect illustrations of heros today, some still living, their own likeness passing by from time to time.  Some, recently dead were celebrated by feast days when flowers and totems would be laid at their feet such as candles and remembrances of their mighty deeds.  It was the hope of all who walked this winding trail to be remembered in this way.  It was their hope to climb this winding stair and to be met with favor from those old heros and one day to join them. To be cast in stone, to have their own feast day and to be celebrated and loved as long years passed by.

The early morning grey hovered just above the chapel at the top of the spire.  Today’s first pilgrim cast his eyes up the long stair past the statues, past tiny gardens along the way, past trees hugging the cliffs, tended with care, to the shrine above.  He smelt water in the air.  It was the threat of rain on the wind.  He continued on his way.  His sandals and short robes were his simple attire in this place.  His bare scalp was adorned with ceremonial studs showing victories won and campaigns fought.  They revealed his warrior purpose.  From a distance one could see the individual working his way up the trail.  Faded red robe.  The wind gusted colder.

Atop the spire the chapel sat like a hat on a head, covering the entirety of the apex.  Several pillars cut from the rock supported a low angled roof of deep red wood.  The pathway concluded on a small open stone courtyard.  It measured about thirty feet square.  Old flagstones were worn smooth by the feet of a thousand pilgrims and servants.  As one walked over the flagstones from the path one would approach double doors.  Today they were slightly open.  If one were to look back one would observe a wide vista below.  The world seemed to shrink away from this place.   There were several prominent rocks that bordered the courtyard and made the semblance of a wall protecting from the void beyond.  And an old tree that stooped over a small bench that when one sat on one could reflect on the view.

The view itself revealed a range of mountains all about.  Tall peaks rose higher than the point of the chapel and low valleys tore away at one’s vision, their vacuum as impressive as the bulk of the mountains.  To the north was the towering peaks called ‘the Watchers’.  They were twin mammoths of granite that stood like sentinels towering over the valley below.  Some parts shrouded in fog and cloud.  From the cleavage between the two mountian peeks flowed a thundering waterfall whose waters tumbled away into a tree choked valley.  Down down down into the darkness of the morning that hung on the forest.  A vast mountain to the south was covered in a covering of thick snow.

The Pilgrim walked across the flagstones.  He had spent decades meditating in this place.  He crossed the courtyard with the intent of entering the chapel.  He appeared to be unaffected by the climb from the bottom of the trail.  He cross the flagstones unlabored and confident.  His hand touched the door to push it open and as it did a voice appeared in his head.  It arrived like the quiet melt of butter.

“Not yet brother”. He stopped.  He recognised the voice and stepped back from the door.  His head bowed slightly.  He stepped backward and turned toward the bench beneath the Hawhak tree.  The bench’s purpose revealed itself as he sat and turned his attention to the view.  His mind walked to a meditative place that was so often the case in this courtyard.  A stiff wind blew catching the collar of his robe.  It whipped at his neck.  He ignored it and the chill it brought.  He was watching a small light in the distance.  It moved slowly through the air, through one of the many valleys between the peaks.  Suspended in the void it was a bright white light and a blinking blue light.  He supposed it was a cargo lighter bringing ore or materials from one of the mines or factories on the far side of the range.  He watched as it came closer, the small ship’s form revealing itself to his vision even though it was many miles off.  And he observed it through wind and rain.  It would eventually land on one of its many platforms below.  For this was a chapel for a settlement far below.  The settlement had dwelt in the shadow of this spire for as long as the chapel had stood.  The old stone of this place had formed a village and for thousands of years the pilgrim’s people had lived in the settlement and climbed to the spire to pray and receive council from those who dwelt in the chapel.

He watched until the ship left his field of vision.  It became obscured by the spire as it descended to the landing platform.  He looked skyward as a smattering of raindrops cast themselves over the small courtyard, pattering over stones and scalp alike with similar effect.

The door of the chapel, once ajar opened now to admit the passage of another pilgrim, very similar in appearance to the first passerby.  The man also wore faded red garb, had a bald head with marks and tattoos of office. The newcomer was older by what appeared to be several decades.  At his forehead he had a tattoo of a two headed eagle, it’s wings spread wide above his eyebrows.  The newcomer turned to see the pilgrim at the bench.  They nodded in acknowledgement of welcome but also of indication that the pilgrim’s time to visit the chapel had arrived.  The tattoo headed pilgrim walked across the courtyard, his massive warrior form, broad shoulders and barrel chested, was obvious now.  He walked with care in spite of his massive form.  Today he was a brother, a monk.  Tomorrow he could become a warrior.  The tattoo headed man began down the path back toward the settlement below.  The door admitted the pilgrim from his seated position on the bench with no interruption this time.  The pilgrim entered the chapel with his eyes quickly adapting to the darkness within.

The room inside was empty save for a few small furnishings.  A cobblestone floor similar to that outside supported a few small wood hewn tables and benches.  The tables were crafted from the same dark wood of the ceiling.  It too was dark and well oiled.  Recessed lights in the ceiling illuminated objects that sat on smaller tables around the walls.  Some of the lights illuminated empty tables.  The dark wood seemed to eagerly await their object’s return.  Some tables had been waiting longer than others, much longer.  Opposite the entrance to the chapel, against the far wall was the statue of a man.  The statue had little detail and few features that could be seen.  All that could readily be observed was that the statue was a warrior, wearing armor.  Large shoulder pads.  A light seemed to illuminate from the statue itself.  The statue’s face seemed calm and a peace but with so little detail one couldn’t be sure if it was a feature of the rock or a trick of the light or a design of the sculptor.  Truly one of the most odd things about the statue was the way that one couldn’t tell if the statue had been crafted to show a thousand small details in the rock or if one merely saw the details cast my one’s own mind while looking for the detail.  The priests of this chapel had spent hundreds of years thinking about this facet.  Did the faithful see more than the faithless?  Did the detail reveal itself as a message to those who looked?

In the middle of the room several small benches were arranged in a circle.  Sitting at one of the benches was a man.  As with the two pilgrims we have met he wore a reg garb and had a close shaved head.  The large bulk of his muscled form was revealed as he lifted his head to view the newcomer.  Much more so than the pilgrim, this man’s neck was muscled as that of a water buffalo.  He seemed to carry the weight of a rice plow on his broad shoulders.  His face, though calm now, had borne the weight of a thousand worries over a thousand years.

The two men embraced as the pilgrim moved to join the seated mystic.  “Welcome Apir” the shaman said as the pilgrim sat. “It is good that you came to see me this morning”.  Apir, the Pilgrim, showed a slight grin.

“I bring messages from below”  he said revealing that he had not come to pray in the chapel.

“Well” said the mystic “I hope you and I might pray all the same” said the mystic looking at Apir with some disappointment, but mostly hope.  “Messages and orders from below can wait for prayers” the mystic grinned hopefully.

“Of course I will pray with you my lord”  The two old friends grinned in the comfort of this place.  Apir had been praying with this mystic for almost two hundred years.  They had lead a life of conflict and it was here, in this chapel, that they both took solace from a lifetime of wars.  The Priest Nesbul could recall the first time Apir had come to the chapel.  He had come with a dozen other initiates and the priest had prayed over their wide eyes and faces excited by a new faith.  Nesbul had prayed over hundreds of brothers through his tenure.  He had grown old watching new believers grow into warriors of the faith, warriors of the statue and the hewn lord.
Now these two sat alone in the lovely chapel.  The wind was whiping stronger outside and a cold morning rain began to fall.

“Often I think that our brothers dwell to much on war and not enough on faith.”  The preacher began.  “I think they forget that we are brothers.  Not only are we brothers united by blood, the blood of our fathers…” The priest indicated toward the statue “and not only are we brothers born into our purpose to defend His mighty realm, but we are also brothers of the cloth”  Brother Nesbel held his frayed red robe between his thumb and forefinger.  “We are men of faith first and that is truly what keeps us alive in battle.”

“I know it”.

“Yes, we must remember our prayers of hope as much as our prayers of fealty and unity”.  Apir nodded and as he did the preacher placed his hand atop the bald head of the pilgrim and closed his eyes.  The prayers and sermon complete.  Apir looked up prom his silence about to deliver his message but the preacher continued.

“You know that the gun only hits its mark because of our faith.  It only fires at all because we believe it is His will”.

“Yes”.

“I think our brothers see the parts of the machine, the wheels and cogs and they believe that there is more to it that our faith.  There isn’t.  The tank moves through mud because of our faith.  The laser is deflected from our faith and His will to protect.”
“Yes” Apir agreed.  “Is it not true that our bodies work and are in fact sustained by faith in the same way that a gun is sustained by our faith?”

“Of course it is my brother.”

The priest became silent and expectant that now his point had been made.   Apir took his queue.
“The message comes from Captain Nethlix of the Third Company.  He has learned of the arrival of the Despot in the Cemephon system.  The priest’s eyebrows raised at the name of the long cursed space vessle.  Apir continued “The monitoring minds recorded the arrival on the edges of the Cemephon system and sent a message to the master librarian last night”.

“Is Librarian Athegus sure of the message?”  asked the priest.

“Sure enough to send me to you” the pilgrim nodded.

“The Librarian is rarely unsure of himself” the priest said.

“He has great faith” said Apir.

The priest nodded slowly and said “yes” casting an unsure glance at the statue.  “Were it not for his faith the Librarian’s ways would overwhelm us all”.

“The Captain wishes to know if the writings tell of the ship and it’s departure from our fleet.  What do you know?”

“The Despot was once called the ‘The Lord’s Mighty Bow’.  That was before it was lost to us” the priest began.  He pulled the knowledge from his vast memories of scriptures.  “The Lord’s Bow had served along side our fleet of warships that now lay at anchor off the south pole of this word.  Once our fleet had been twice what it is today.”  Apir thought of the large docking stations that hung like a chandler suspended far above the planet’s surface.  From the hive cities of Meto and Exmundi on the far side of the planet, the port could be seen as a latis of lights in the night sky.  Apir thought of the many service bays there that lay empty.  Massive spars of metal  and admantium that reached toward an embrace that would never be returned.  So much of the fleet was long lost.  Destroyed or simply vanished to the void.

“When was she lost?” asked the Pilgrim.

The priest swallowed. “During the Ralhast campaign”. Apir knew that was almost five thousand years ago.  “That ship is lost to us” the priest shook his head.  We can not return faith to one who has caused such deeds”  He spoke of the ship as if it were a creature in it’s own right.  “It has for a millenia caused hell for this great empire, casting filfth across the stars and our worlds at the call of the great enemy.  Who knows what horrors have occurred on its decks”.

“The Librarian believes it can be returned.”  Apir said.

The priest shook his head. “Athegus’ faith must be stronger than mine” said the mystic shaking his head. Then it seemed as a thought were caught in his head.  “However, the last known home of the Olive of Roth was aboard the Bow” The priest cast a glance toward one of the illuminated yet empty tables.  The two men sat in silence again.  The wind howled like wolves outside.

“The Captain is also eager to retrieve the ship”.

The priest shrugged “the ship is lost”.

“Surely we must do all that we can to restore what has been lost to our great chapter” said Apir but the priest shook his head.

“Tell the Captain and the Librarian that I will sanction an effort to return the Olive to us.  The ship, it’s deeds, can not be retrieved.  It’s deeds are poison to our faith.”

“I will tell him”  said Apir.  The priest smiled again and placed his hand atop the Pilgrim’s head in a fatherly way.

“Blessings to you, our chapter, and the mighty Sanguinius”

“To the mighty Sanguinius” repeated Apir and the two men turned in reverence toward the glowing statue.

Prolouge: Trial of Carnadine

Once more unto the breach, Battle Brothers, once more;
Or close the wall up with our faithful dead.
There is no peace amongst the stars and no modest stillness or humility.
For when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then we imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood rage,
Despise fair nature and issue a hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let fire through the boltgun’s mouth
Let it issue like the brass cannon; let the fury o’erwhelm it
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height.
On, on, you noblest of Chapters.
Whose blood is fet from our elder’s war-proof veins!
Elders that, like so many Brothers before,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And never sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your Chapter; now attest
That those whom you call’d men did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in battle, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like Storm Raven in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘For the Chapter, the Legion, and for the Emperior!’

~Attributed to the Thane of the Carnadine Chapter at the breaking of the siege of Hull