The metallic clanging rang out in a steady roar, its crisp chimes echoing through the training chamber. Cold light flashed beneath the rows of lamps, like meteors streaking across the dark night sky, as the training swords in the combat servitors' hands spun and swung at blinding speed.
Lancelot darted and weaved inside the training cage. The swords moved so fast that no ordinary human could see them, but to Lancelot they seemed to play in slow motion. His tall yet agile Astartes physique let him dodge them again and again.
The Knight of Caliban had entered the combat cage unarmed. Those razor-sharp blades could easily sever flesh if they struck him, but the young knight showed no fear. He faced it head-on inside the cage.
His massive frame seemed to welcome the blades as he spun between them. Not one of the lightning-fast edges so much as grazed him. The Dark Angels Space Marine turned and snatched a sword from a servitor's grasp.
He parried and countered at incredible speed, knocking sword after sword away from him. The skilled swordsman wielded the blades in his hands as if they were part of his own body.
Lancelot displayed his peerless skill in the dim training chamber. Even among the Dark Angels Chapter, he must have been an exceptional swordsman.
Lancelot tossed aside his sword, then twisted away from a slash at point-blank range. He thrust out his arm and, in the blink of an eye, hit the servitor's shutdown switch.
After a series of beeps and clicks, the combat servitor, with its many arms, gradually fell silent. It drew its limbs back, then was lifted into the hatch above.
Lancelot caught his breath and opened the safety gate of the training cage. Sweat covered his muscular body. He picked up a towel. Well, to an ordinary human it would definitely have been a bath towel, but you know how it was with Astartes.
Lancelot draped the towel around his neck and strode out of the training chamber, heading into the vast space of the public training area.
But the place was empty now, save for three giants.
None of the Astartes wore armour. Even Bell wore nothing but a robe. He sat on a bench, repairing a Bolter with a multipurpose tool.
Beside him, Ragnar swung his Chainaxe at high speed. It roared as he wielded it with the same ease and fluidity that Lancelot handled his longsword.
What? You're asking why Ragnar didn't go into the training cage? Well, after he broke another servitor, Cole had forbidden him from going in again. If this Fenrisian pup dared enter it during this period, Cole swore by the Emperor and the Imperial Navy that he'd stuff Ragnar into a cannon and fire him straight into the star of this system.
Lancelot walked over to his spot. There was a rack for dumbbells, but instead of weights, it held a longsword adorned with holy wings.
Several servitors stood around it, holding censers of incense and swinging them in a regular pattern around the sword, as if performing some ancient sacred ritual.
"Lion, Lion, may the Lion King guide your child's sword to strike the Imperium's enemies. May this holy blade never be defeated."
Lancelot murmured a prayer. He placed a hand over his heart and recited the Chapter's ancient battle litany, sacred words that had been passed down among the sons of Caliban for a thousand years.
It was said that, as far back as the Great Crusade, the Dark Angels had soothed the Machine Spirits of their weapons in this way, praying that those ancient and powerful souls would guide them to victory after victory.
Ragnar grinned. He tossed his Chainaxe high into the air, then caught the roaring weapon as it fell. "Hey, Lancelot, why are you out so soon? Tired?"
"Tired? No, Ragnar. I could never forget the prayers, no matter what. They're a sacred Dark Angels tradition," Lancelot said. He ran a finger along the back of the blade, murmuring a string of cryptic High Gothic words, spoken with a slight accent.
"Ah! I hate it when you lot mumble in High Gothic. Why doesn't your Gothic sound like Bell's? Is it a Caliban dialect?"
"A Caliban dialect? Oh, no, no. It's probably the dialect of Golony, my home. I left a long time ago, but traces of home have always stayed with me," Lancelot said. He took a bottle of holy water from a servitor and solemnly, ceremonially anointed the blade.
The holy water carried a faint scent of incense. Perhaps it really could soothe a Machine Spirit?
Ragnar looked utterly confused. "Golony? What kind of place is that?" "My home, or at least where I was born. It's an Imperial feudal world. I was the eldest son of a local knight, and a Chaplain aboard a passing Dark Angels Strike Cruiser chose me. That's how I joined the glorious Chapter."
Ragnar was no less confused. He stared at Lancelot in utter astonishment. "Wait, wait, wait. You mean you weren't born on Caliban? Your Chaplains recruit new initiates from other worlds?"
Bell sighed helplessly from his seat and looked at Ragnar. "The Dark Angels are a fleet-based Chapter. They travel through space aboard the Rock, so of course they recruit new initiates from various recruitment worlds. Fleet-based Chapters aren't uncommon among our brothers."
"We fought alongside the Black Templars, remember? They, the Sons of Dorn, are a fleet-based Chapter." "I know they are, but I never knew the Dark Angels were. Isn't Caliban their homeworld?"
Lancelot smiled playfully. "Caliban is the Rock. It's a vast floating asteroid, fitted at its rear with peerless propulsion engines that let our Chapter travel across the galaxy."
"The Rock is also our Chapter. It's what remains of Caliban, and our Chapter Monastery is built upon it." "What? Caliban blew up?"
Bell stopped what he was doing and gave Ragnar a speechless look. "The homeworld of Caliban was destroyed in a supernova. Now only the portion protected by Void Shields remains. Did you ever study the history of the nine founding Chapters?"
Ragnar waved a hand dismissively. "Come on, I'm not one of those bookworms. I'd rather hear stories about the Chapter's glory! Hey, Olaf, remember the stories Old Wolf Logan told us? The ones about our Primarch, Leman Russ?"
The Old Wolf, who was tending to his armour some distance away, smiled and nodded. "How could I forget? I still remember the first time I heard the Wolf Lord speak. I'll never forget the story Leman Russ asked him to keep telling after he left."
Ragnar laughed and spun his Chainaxe in one hand. "Exactly! I remember plenty of stories about our glorious battle history. They're way more interesting than lessons. Bell, don't you tell stories?"
"The Chapter's glory? Of course we do. But the Ultramarines also place great importance on academic study. Ragnar, Lord Roboute Guilliman once said that we should strive to become not only exceptional warriors, but excellent scholars as well."
Ragnar impatiently waved a hand, then looked at Lancelot. "What about you? Do you lot do anything this boring?"
The Dark Angel smiled and set the holy water aside. "We tell stories of our Chapter's glory too, usually told by the Chapter Chaplains. Lord Sapphon told us countless such tales. I was even fortunate enough to hear Lord Azrael tell us about the Chapter's glory in person."
Ragnar laughed and rubbed his neck. "That's more like it! We're Astartes. Glory comes before everything!" "And faith and loyalty, Ragnar. Don't forget those."
Bell spoke sternly. "That's what sets us apart from traitors." "Of course, of course, my Chaplain," Ragnar said with a grin, plopping down beside him.
"You don't really think I'm like those traitors, do you? The Space Wolves' glory includes our loyalty to the Allfather. Right, brother?" "Of course, Ragnar. It should,"
Olaf said, wiping the engraved patterns on his armour. Maintaining that massive suit of Chaplain Power Armour kept Olaf busy for a long time, but the Old Wolf never seemed tired of it. He always tended to the old companion that had followed him for who knew how many years.
His breath had long since turned white. Even by Astartes standards, Olaf was old, yet age had not diminished the powerful warrior in the slightest. He was still the same strong, mighty, deadly Fenrisian wolf.
"Our Chapter trials are brutal! Back when I was young, I crossed Fenris's frozen wastes naked, armed with nothing but a little knife, and fought the bitter cold and the beasts that roamed the ice."
Ragnar boasted with a laugh, clearly embellishing the tale. He slapped his arm. "Some stupid giant bear bit me and tore off a huge chunk of flesh. Then I ran the bastard to death with this arm! I skinned it, wore its hide across Fenris's frozen wastes, and made it to the Fang."
As he spoke, he held up the tooth pendant hanging from his neck. It was clearly from the giant bear. Olaf wore a similar pendant, a remnant of the ancient culture the Space Wolves had inherited from their homeworld.
Legend held that every Fenrisian warrior had to undertake a hunt upon reaching adulthood—a dangerous but glorious hunt. The newly grown youths entered the wilds to track and hunt powerful beasts. In the end, if the Emperor willed it, they would return to their tribes bearing trophies from the beasts and become true men.
"I bet the Dark Angels' little kittens don't have such a 'terrifying' Chapter ritual. Just look at this kitten. He was tired after half an hour." Ragnar still couldn't resist teasing Lancelot. Perhaps this was a long-standing cultural tradition between the two Chapters?
Lancelot snatched up his knightly sword and turned to Ragnar with a mocking smile. "Shall we have another round, then? Vito interrupted us last time, so we never settled who would win." He spoke lightly, and Ragnar burst out laughing as he hefted his Chainaxe and walked toward him.
Bell cursed and got to his feet. "You two! In the Emperor's name, stop!" "Don't be so boring, Bell. We're just having one go. I can knock this kitten flat in one hit!" "I doubt it, brother. Come and try."
"Enough!" the Old Wolf barked. The two warriors, already raising their weapons, stopped at once. They turned and saw that Olaf had risen and was looking ahead. Someone was approaching from the edge of the training hall—or, more accurately, someone half machine and half flesh.
Omega's iron feet clanged across the marble floor as he walked toward the Astartes. The mechanical eye in his face glimmered with an unusual light.
"You may go below," Omega said, his mechanical voice speaking one word at a time. "You may settle this with a contest. I recommend a kill-count competition." The two warriors lowered their weapons and stepped aside to clear a path.
Olaf, the Old Wolf, walked between them. The towering giant stood before Omega like a mountain blotting out the sun.
Omega tipped his head up slightly to meet Olaf's eyes, then looked at the other three Adeptus Astartes. "The Inquisitor has obtained important information on the surface. We have confirmed that this planet has been infiltrated by the Tyranids."
"The local Genestealers have built a dangerous Tyranid production facility in the wastelands of the Industrial Plains. The Inquisitor has ordered its total destruction. You may unleash the wrath of the Omnissiah and the Emperor."
Olaf raised his head, and the three warriors took their places behind him, like a towering mountain range.
"As the Father of All Knowledge wills, we shall bring down his wrath."
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