Deathwatch by Steve Parker Read Free Book Online

Karras’s serfs and baggage servitors. The First Codicier stood alone, the eyes of his battle-brothers on him. It was time.
    Cordatus was glad he was here for this. His combat duties in The Cape of Lost Hope – the stellar tip of the local spiral arm – had ended only weeks ago with the detestable dark eldar beaten back at last, though they would return in due course. Cordatus believed the timing to be no accident. Perhaps it was the hand of Fate intervening on his behalf, or perhaps the hand of the Emperor Himself or the countless spirits of humanity’s dead. Whatever the cause, Cordatus had again been able to take a direct hand in steering this warrior on whom so much depended.
    Time to bid him farewell.
    He marched forwards, stopped before his khajar, met his gaze and offered formal salute. This he did in the ancient manner of the Chapter, left hand held flat at the abdomen, palm up, right hand clenched in a vertical fist resting on the palm of the left. It was the masrahim , the salute of skull and stone. Its meaning was simple, but it was not a salute made lightly: I will honour you in death as I do now in life.
    Karras, though still shaken badly by what he had seen in the Temple of Voices, managed to return the salute, eyes locked with those of his teacher, red locked to red.
    Cordatus could see the torment there. He knew it all too well himself. Today, for the first time, Karras had seen the Megir upon the Throne of Glass. He was bound to be profoundly disturbed. Cordatus’s own hearts broke every time he went below at the psychic call of his old friend and master.
    Better Corcaedus had never found the Shariax.
    No. That wasn’t true, and such thought bordered on Chapter heresy. If the vision of the Founder ever came to pass, all the sacrifice in the galaxy would be made worthwhile, even – and it burned Cordatus to concede it – the soul of Lyandro Karras.
    ‘My khajar,’ said Cordatus. ‘You carry the honour of the Order on your shoulders. The reputation of the Chapter is in your hands. Do not stain it. Serve well. Earn the respect of those around you. Show by your example the strength and quality of the Death Spectres.’
    ‘It shall be as you command, khadit. They shall know us by our strength and spirit. This I swear on my life.’
    Preserve that life, my son , thought Cordatus. Preserve it at any cost.
    He did not voice this.
    Instead, he placed a hand on Karras’s shoulder and sent a command-pulse to a servitor waiting silently in the shadows. The mind-wiped man-machine ambled forwards, cog-knees whirring and jinking. In its metal pincers it held a weapon, long and slender, of such history and power that it had a soul of its own – and not a mere machine-spirit to be coaxed into operation with oils and litanies, but a soul that burned as bright as any man’s.
    ‘ Arquemann ?’ asked Karras in confusion as the servitor stopped on his right.
    ‘Aye,’ said Cordatus. ‘I entrust it to you now, may you serve each other well in the trials to come.’
    ‘I-I cannot,’ stammered Karras. This was a thing too great. The weapon, he knew, had once been laid at the feet of the Golden Throne on Terra. The Founder, to whom it had once belonged, had placed it before the Emperor just seconds before receiving his vision. After the Shariax itself, and the bones and armour of Corcaedus, this ancient force sword was the holiest relic on Occludus.
    He shook his head and took a staggering step back. ‘Khadit,’ he said. ‘I dare not even touch it.’
    ‘You can and will,’ ordered Cordatus. ‘The First Spectre commands. You cannot disobey. Please, khajar. Take it with honour and gladness. Arquemann is sensitive to the thoughts of those who wield it, and it will serve you better if you accept it with pride.’
    Karras reached out hesitantly, reverently, and touched the flat of the blade. Witchlight coruscated along it as the sword sensed his psychic strength. Karras felt the sword’s spirit probing his own,