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V2 Chapter 145: It Is Time to Wake Up, Warmaster.
This was not a speed or a strength any mortal should have possessed.
In this moment, every person in the room finally understood with complete clarity what kind of force this legendary and celebrated Commissar actually held inside him.
In less than a blink, Duvette was already directly in front of Slaydo.
The Warmaster's hand had only just reached the grip of the power sword at his hip. Duvette's eyes sharpened. His right hand shot out and took hold of the small Saint Sabbat figurine hanging at Slaydo's chest, chain and all, and tore it free.
The next instant, he turned and threw the thing at the tall guard with everything he had.
The guard was already raising his sword to charge at Duvette. The figurine struck his sword arm with the force behind it, and a sharp clean crack sounded across the room. The arm was broken outright.
The tall guard stepped back. A low, compressed groan forced itself from his throat. The figurine went past him and struck the wall behind, shattering into fragments across the floor.
Slaydo's eyes lost their focus.
He screamed at Duvette.
"How dare you—"
The words had not finished when Duvette's hand closed around Slaydo's right hand, the one reaching for the sword, and pressed it back down hard. The half-drawn power sword was forced back into its scabbard.
Slaydo's arm was driving against the grip.
Some force was amplifying his strength. But Duvette's hand locked around the Warmaster's wrist like a vice, and no matter how much force broke against it, nothing moved. Not by a fraction.
The power sword was jammed in its scabbard, producing a brief scrape of metal.
Duvette looked at the Warmaster in front of him, his expression calm, and said it very quietly.
"It is time to wake up, Warmaster."
The next instant, Silence activated.
A suffocating blankness covered the entire room.
The whispers, the yearnings, the urgency, the reflected glory: all of it was severed in that instant. Slaydo felt suddenly as though an infinite emptiness had opened inside him, as though every honour had been stripped away and every victory was moving further from his reach.
Deep in his vision, Saint Sabbat, radiant with golden light, slowly lowered her head. She looked at him. Disappointment was on her face.
"No..."
Slaydo trembled and stepped back.
His body was still standing in the office. His mind had been pulled deep into a vision that came from within himself.
Duvette did not try to follow Slaydo into whatever was happening to him.
The half-automatic door behind him had opened. Two Storm Troopers at the entrance were shouting as they raised their weapons, both muzzles aimed at Duvette.
The tall guard was enduring the pain of a broken arm and had taken his power sword in his left hand, driving forward at Duvette.
The young Chief of Staff had already taken up an emergency communicator. His face had gone white, but his voice came out close to a shout.
"Major General-Commissar Duvette is in open mutiny!"
"All guards, reinforce this position immediately!"
Dense boot-falls started converging on the compartment.
Duvette showed no sign of alarm.
He read the situation at a glance and drove immediately at the tall guard. The guard swung his power sword in a downward cut toward Duvette's shoulder with his left hand, the blade producing its characteristic low hum.
Duvette turned aside and let it pass.
His fist went into the guard's abdomen.
A heavy, muffled impact sound filled the room. The tall guard's body bent sharply around it. The power sword left his grip. His eyes appeared to press outward from the force of it.
He went to his knees clutching his stomach, then toppled sideways and did not move.
The Storm Troopers at the door finally pulled their triggers at this point.
Duvette's speed had already outpaced their reaction.
In a single breath he was standing in front of the young Chief of Staff.
The young man stared at Duvette appearing directly before him. His pupils contracted sharply. The fear that crossed his face was unconcealed. The emergency communicator was still in his hand. Half a syllable had just started in his throat.
Duvette's hands took hold of his neck and shoulder, and drove with force.
The sound of bone tearing.
The young man's head was ripped from his body.
The soldiers outside the door saw it and went pale.
None of them had ever seen anything like it. This legendary Commissar had come in with no weapon. In the space of moments he had torn the Saint Sabbat figurine from the Warmaster's chest, knocked out the guard, and now dismembered the Chief of Staff the Warmaster had just appointed: all in full view of everyone present.
Duvette did not slow down.
He threw the head toward the doorway.
Blood reached the floor and the door frame. The first rank of soldiers outside the entrance stepped back half a pace by instinct.
Duvette turned and moved toward Slaydo.
The Warmaster was still in his daze, body trembling slightly, his eyes carrying pain and confusion in equal measure. Duvette took hold of his shoulder and neck in one movement, lifted him, and positioned him in front of himself.
More officers and guards were gathering in the corridor outside.
From the moment Duvette had moved to now, less than thirty seconds had passed.
"Release the Warmaster!"
"What are you doing, Duvette!"
"This is mutiny!"
"You are finished, Duvette! Release the Warmaster!"
Shouting filled the corridor. More muzzles trained on the office. Several guards tried to find a firing angle, but the Warmaster's body blocked every one of them.
Duvette's expression showed nothing.
He held Slaydo, who was still in his daze, in front of him, and his voice came out with an absolute hardness that allowed for no argument.
"Put down your weapons."
"Step back."
Everyone outside froze.
The Warmaster was in his hands. Nobody would risk firing.
Some gritted their teeth and lowered their muzzles. Others were still trying to find an angle on Duvette's exposed shoulder. Several officers looked at each other, faces set in fury and fear together.
"Don't do anything rash, Commissar Duvette."
One officer forced his voice down as he spoke.
"You should not have come to this point."
"What do you actually want?"
Duvette answered with two words.
"To wait."
After that, he said nothing more.
Time passed.
Slaydo's body began to tremble.
Not from any wound. Duvette could feel it: the Warmaster was going through something inside himself. A storm that had nothing to do with what was happening in the room.
It was his own will in contest with the Chaos corruption.
An old Warmaster's soul fighting to hold itself together.
Duvette kept his hold on Slaydo's shoulder and neck and said it quietly into his ear.
"The crusade needs you."
"The Imperium needs you."
"It is time to wake up, Warmaster."
Slaydo's breathing grew ragged.
In the depths of the vision, the great hall of golden victory was coming apart. Countless regimental banners burned. The perfect and unblemished star chart was fracturing. The figure wearing the radiance of a saint was still looking at him, as though asking why he had not completed the crusade that was meant to be absolute and perfect.
Duvette's voice continued to reach him.
"Glory does not need perfection to prove itself."
"What Saint Sabbat needs is for her loyal sons and daughters to keep moving forward."
"What the Emperor needs is for you to hold the line for humanity under the Warmaster's title: not to turn the crusade into an offering to obsession."
Slaydo's fingers twitched.
The people outside the door did not know what Duvette was saying.
They could only see this legendary Commissar holding the Warmaster, his voice growing more weighted, as though delivering a final order to someone in his grip.
At the far end of the corridor, a marksman had taken position.
Several officers had seen the marksman's location and were waiting for the opening. They were ready to break Duvette's hold on the Warmaster the instant he showed a gap.
Duvette did not look at them.
All of his attention was on Slaydo.
"Loyalty, sacrifice, endurance, and humanity itself: these are what allow this crusade to keep moving."
"Wake up, Warmaster."
Slaydo's body shook once, hard.
In the vision, he saw the battlefield at Balhaut.
He saw the soldiers who had died there.
He saw Macaroth standing in the distance. He saw Duvette standing in front of him. He saw the orders he had given, one after another.
Those orders had once seemed to him like necessary corrections.
Now they were simply cold fact.
He had treated the loyal as threats.
He had treated his successor as an enemy.
He had treated the crusade as something that belonged only to himself.
The Warmaster's breathing began to level.
That unnatural quality faded from his face. The lines came back into it. He looked older than he had moments before, as though he had finally returned to the age he actually was.
At the moment the marksman at the far end of the corridor was preparing to pull the trigger, a worn and aged voice reached everyone in the room.
"I am sorry, Duvette."
Slaydo slowly raised his head.
His eyes still held pain. But they were clear again.
"I have... made grave errors."
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