Hellsreach - Aaron Dembski-Bowden [117]
Nerovar had also retreated from the others.
But apparently not far enough.
‘Brother,’ came a voice. Grimaldus had returned. Nero acknowledged him with a nod, and returned to his feigned examination of the blistered and burned mural on the temple wall. Scenes of the Emperor watching over Helsreach: a golden god with His radiant visage regarding scenes of great industry below. With the wall ruined by flame and the artwork charred, it now resembled the city outside more than it ever had.
‘How was the command meeting?’
‘A tedious discussion of last stands. In that respect, it was no different from any other time. The Salamanders have withdrawn.’
‘Then perhaps Priamus will cease his complaints.’
‘I doubt that.’
Grimaldus removed his helm. Nerovar watched him as he examined the paintings, seeing the Reclusiarch’s scarred features set in a thoughtful frown.
‘How is the wound?’ Grimaldus asked, his voice both deeper and softer now, unfiltered by helm vox.
‘I will live.’
‘Pain?’
‘Does it matter? I will live.’
The chains binding his weapons to his armour rattled as the Reclusiarch moved across the chamber. Ceramite armour boots thudded on the dusty mosaics, breaking them underfoot. In the centre of the room, Grimaldus looked up at the holed ceiling, where a stained glass dome had once mercifully blocked the view of the polluted sky.
‘I was with Cador,’ he said, staring up into the heavens. ‘I was with him at the end.’
‘I know.’
‘So you will believe me when I say that you could have done nothing for him had you been at our side? He was dead the moment the beast struck him.’
‘I saw the death wound, did I not? You are telling me nothing I do not already know.’
‘Then why do you still mourn his fall? It was a magnificent death, worthy of a vault on board the Crusader. He killed nine of the enemy with a broken blade and his bare hands, Nero. Dorn’s blood, if only we could all inscribe such deeds on our armour. Humanity would have cleansed the stars by now.’
‘He will never rest in that vault, and you know it.’
‘That is not worth mourning over. It is just a regrettable truth. Hundreds of our own heroes have fallen and remained unrecovered. You carry Cador’s true legacy. Why is that not enough? I wish to help you, brother, but you are not making it easy.’
‘He trained me. He taught me the blade and bolter. He was a father in place of the parents I was stolen from.’
Grimaldus had still not looked at the other knight. He watched as an Imperial fighter streaked overhead, and wondered if it was Helius, the heir to Barasath and Jenzen.
‘It is the way of the warrior,’ he said, ‘to outlive the ones that train us. We take their lessons and wield them as weapons against the enemies of Man.’
Nero snorted.
‘Did I say something amusing, Apothecary?’
‘In a way. Hypocrisy is always amusing.’ The Apothecary removed his own helm. As he did so, he could suddenly feel the unwelcome weight of the cryo-sealed gene-seed in his forearm storage pod.
‘Hypocrisy?’ Grimaldus asked, more curious than annoyed.
‘It is not like you to comfort and console, Reclusiarch. Forgive me for saying so.’
‘Why would I need to forgive you for speaking the truth?’
‘You make it sound so clear and easy. None of us have been truthful with you since… we came here.’
Grimaldus lowered his gaze from the dark skies. He fixed his eyes – eyes that the commander of a god-machine had called kind, of all things – on Nerovar’s own.
‘You say “Since we came here”. I sense another lie.’
‘Very well. Since before we came here. Since Mordred died. It is difficult to be near you, Reclusiarch. You are withdrawn when you should be inspiring. You are distant when you would once have been wrathful. I believe you are wrong to lecture me on Cador’s death when you have been lost to us since Mordred fell. There are flashes of fire beneath the cold surface, and we have warned you of these changes before. But to no avail.’
Grimaldus chuckled, the sound leaving his lips as a soft exhalation through a reluctant smile.
‘I am seeing the world through