291.947.M30 – Eremus Gate
Eight hours of daily duties, then eight hours more of preparing for war, then four hours to contemplate the Will of the Dragon, then four hours for rest, as is the custom. Mortals think it little enough, but it is more than stone requires.
In stillness, revelation comes.
Malchior summoned me to the apothecarion during my off-duty hours. Kharros was there also, his leg now braced with ceramite and synthflesh. Malchior placed the ork blade into my hand and bade me strike Kharros as Erastes was struck.
Kharros is the better swordsman; I knew I could not best him blade to blade. So I drew my pistol instead, two rounds to the chest—enough to stagger him, not to kill. I shoved him down, pinned him, and drove the blade through his hearts. A clean strike, true to the manner of Erastes’ death.
We helped Kharros to his feet. He knew the truth as I did. Erastes was no fool with a blade. The finest swordsman among us, perhaps. No ork, no matter how frenzied, could deliver so precise a killing blow. Only another Astartes could.
Yet what Astartes would turn blade against brother? The thought is poison. Even the suggestion of an accident stretches credulity.
I took the matter to Magos Rhadamanthine, my fellow Solarian. He listened gravely, and employed his arts to recover security footage thought long since purged. Grainy, incomplete—but damning.
It showed Erastes. Advancing on his sergeant, blade poised for murder. And Calvien, ready. Pivoting, catching him off-guard, and striking the killing blow with the ork weapon. No doubt. No question.
Why? Rivalry? Madness? Or something deeper, some hidden corruption? It is not for me to say.
We brought this to Sergeant Tyndrel. His usual stoicism faltered, if only for a moment. Brother-murder is a shadow too deep to ignore. He commanded that dispatches be prepared, encrypted twice—first in our Legion’s cipher, then wrapped in House Veyra’s codes. Our Primarch’s allies among the Fists will see them delivered to the Keepers, who will divine what we cannot.
For now, we wait. And we endure.
In my spare hours, I found myself returning to the Navigator’s chambers. Perhaps I told myself it was duty, to ensure she was not isolated. Perhaps I thought I aided her in this strange hour of responsibility. But truth be told, I sought her company as much as she sought mine. She is alone now, bereft of servants, her only companions the Sol Club and the silence of the sanctum. She did not turn me away.
One night, leaving her chamber, the lift doors opened and I was met by a hulking ogryn beneath a tattered hood. With but a few words, he thrust a cylinder of ebony and silver into my hands. I was not aware of an ogryn presence aboard, but then again, I had never bothered to check. It was too fine a gift to turn away; I accepted it. Within were the missing charts.
I bore them to Iskandra. She confirmed them, yet doubted their worth. The Nestor who brought us through slew himself upon arrival. The explorator ship we found was reduced to madness. Perhaps the path is cursed. At the very least, it cannot be trusted until we know more.
Before we could decide our course, Iskandra stiffened. Her third eye gazed into a distance we could not see. Warp emergence.
The ship sounded alert. Augurs flared. Two vessels, smaller than the Ashen, exiting the Immaterium and steering for Eremus II. They did not use the ork-held gate. They must know another path.
An intercept course is plotted.
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