V2 Chapter 116: Markus's True Combat Experience.
Both of them stepped forward at the same moment.
Duvette watched the Salamanders veteran sergeant and reached his assessment quickly.
Salamanders were physically imposing even by Astartes standards. The sons of Nocturne had obsidian skin and burning red eyes, and their frames tended to run heavier than most. With power armour, Vakur resembled a moving wall of ceramite.
But Markus was not giving much away in that department either.
The Shadow Wolf stood on the training deck with his shirt off, broad across the shoulders and back, both arms and his chest thick with old scar tissue. Even without power armour, his height and his frame generated the kind of pressure that would make an ordinary Astartes think twice.
Beyond that, he was not operating at his original baseline.
The King of War campaign Mark was still in effect. That ten percent across-the-board enhancement sitting on Markus was not dramatic, but it was visible to anyone who knew what to look for.
On an Astartes's already exceptional physical foundation, a percentage enhancement produced results that dwarfed the equivalent effect on a mortal. His breathing was steadier, his movements were tighter, his footwork was cleaner. The earlier sparring drills had been warmup, and familiarisation with his own enhanced strength.
Vakur's combat knife came in from the right. The angle was controlled: the edge was not going for the throat, it was cutting toward the join between shoulder and neck.
Markus raised his blade and blocked it.
Metal struck metal with a sharp crack across the training deck. His bare feet slid back half a step. The muscle along his arm drew taut, and several old scars stood out pale under the light.
Duvette saw it clearly.
The force differential that power armour produced was obvious. Vakur had not come close to full strength, and Markus's wrist had still drifted slightly absorbing the block.
In a killing fight, Markus would never have taken that blade straight on.
But he had.
Duvette understood his intent a moment later.
Markus was reading Vakur. Cataloguing his strength, his recovery rhythm, how far he stepped, and the brief lag the power armour's servo-systems produced before they completed a correction. He was recording all of it.
The Salamanders' neural response speed was marginally slower than several other Astartes bloodlines. On the battlefield, the gap barely registered; power armour, tactical experience, weapon selection, and fire superiority more than compensated for it. But in a close-range three-touch sparring match, that narrow margin would be amplified.
Vakur's second blow came down immediately, a horizontal cut from the left, faster than the first.
Markus did not block this time. He stepped back and to the side, letting the blade pass within a fingers-width of his chest.
The Black Shields continued watching in silence. No one made a sound.
Vakur pressed forward, the power armour's servo-systems producing a low, running sound. As he brought his blade back, he simultaneously sealed off Markus's rightward movement.
At that instant, Markus came forward.
His body cut in nearly against the edge of Vakur's blade. His left shoulder came within a fraction of being opened. He did not drive for any gap in the ceramite. He simply brought the back of his knife down in a light touch against the inside of Vakur's right elbow guard.
"First touch."
Markus's voice was even.
Vakur paused for a moment, then slowly brought his blade back.
The touch had no destructive force behind it, had not even marked the outer paint of the power armour. But every Astartes in the room had seen it clearly. Markus had identified the gap in Vakur's recovery, and had stepped precisely into it.
Something changed in Vakur's eyes.
He raised the combat knife again, this time without moving to attack immediately.
Markus remained where he was, his blade hanging naturally at his side, chest rising and falling with his breath. He was still sweating. Several cuts had traced slow lines down his shoulders and back. His expression had not shifted at all.
Duvette narrowed his eyes slightly.
Markus had been recording everything since the first strike. Strength, recovery speed, stride length, and the brief lag before the servo-systems completed their adjustments. All of it logged and ready.
And the King of War Mark was translating those reads into action.
The ten percent enhancement would not let Markus step over the gap that power armour created. But it would let him step into those brief response windows with greater consistency.
Vakur came in again.
This time he did not use broad swings. He shifted to short steps, blade held close, using the power armour's mass to compress Markus's available space.
Markus stepped back.
One step. Two. Three.
His back was approaching the collision barrier at the training deck's edge. Vakur did not accelerate. He continued to press, and it was clear he had identified what Markus was looking for.
He stopped giving Markus obvious recovery gaps.
The Salamanders behind Vakur said nothing, but their lenses had locked onto the floor between the two combatants.
Just as it appeared Markus was about to be stopped, he raised one foot and placed it on the lower railing beneath the barrier. The next instant, he used it to pivot sideways, and his body slipped past the outside of Vakur's blade path.
Vakur cross-blocked immediately.
But Markus did not go for the ribcage or the joints. His knife moved forward and the tip came to rest lightly at the edge of the flame insignia on the left side of Vakur's chest plate.
"Second touch."
Vakur looked down at his chest plate.
His movement stopped for half a second.
Markus did not press. He stepped back two paces and opened the distance again.
Duvette watched this and quietly found himself thinking that this man had a considerable talent for getting under people's skin.
The touch had avoided anything vital and carried no insult in the action. But it had landed precisely on the edge of the Salamanders Chapter's own insignia. Vakur was not about to lose control because of it, but it was going to make him take this seriously.
Exactly as Duvette expected, Vakur tightened his grip on the combat knife.
The servo-structure at the power armour's back produced a soft sound as his centre of gravity dropped lower and his steps shortened.
When the third exchange began, Vakur gave Markus no room to work around him. He pushed directly forward, blade maintained at a position that allowed immediate blocking, using the mass of the power armour to press down with every step.
The smile on Markus's face became slightly more visible.
He stepped back again, light on his feet, appearing to continue looking for an opening.
Vakur did not take the bait.
He pressed the blade low, closing Markus's right side, and used the angle of his shoulder guard and chest plate to push Markus toward the left. One more step and Markus would be in a corner.
At that moment, Markus exposed his right shoulder.
It was a very brief opening.
Vakur caught it this time. His blade moved, but the edge turned slightly at the midpoint, not cutting toward the shoulder and neck, settling instead at the safer suppression angle.
Duvette saw the adjustment.
The Salamanders had not forgotten the rules, and their character would not let them go for the kill in a sparring match with someone who was not their enemy.
And in that precise instant, Markus came inside.
The combat knife grazed his shoulder and drew a new line of blood across his skin. Markus's left hand came down onto Vakur's knife wrist. His right foot locked against the outside of Vakur's forward foot.
The power armour's servo-systems responded immediately with a burst of corrective force.
Markus did not fight it.
He moved with the direction Vakur was already pressing, used his own momentum to guide it, and turned. The entire sequence lasted no longer than a single breath. Vakur's centre of gravity had crossed the point of safe return.
The heavy green figure lost his balance.
Power armour struck the training deck with a resonant impact. Several 112th veterans nearby instinctively pulled their heads down.
Markus's knife stopped in the air above Vakur. He did not bring it down.
He pulled the blade back and reached his hand toward Vakur on the deck.
"Third touch." Markus said. "Good blade, brother."
The air on the training deck seemed to hold still for a moment.
Then the Salamanders veteran sergeant raised his hand and gripped the palm Markus had extended.
Markus pulled him to his feet.
Vakur steadied himself and looked at him. The wariness in his eyes had not gone away. But something new was there alongside it.
"Your combat experience is impressive."
Markus let go and returned the knife to the weapon rack.
"Only that I've been alive a very long time. Besides, I made use of the rules and your sense of restraint."
Duvette stood to the side watching, and said nothing.
This sparring match had not ended the Salamanders' suspicion. But it had at least established one thing clearly.
These thirteen Black Shields standing at his side were not there because of Inquisitorial documents or temporary designations.
They had earned the right to stand there.