'Then we must make it so,' said the warrior. 'I grow tired of extermination.'

Dust lay thick on hundreds of glass cabinets and the air within the Gallery of Antiquities was ripe with musty neglect and forgotten history. Of all the places he had seen on Salinas, this was the one that truly spoke to Uriel. The legacy of the past and sense of belonging to something bigger was strong and he was reminded of the many halls of ancient banners and honour trophies that filled the Fortress of Hera.

It was the day after their meeting with the Janiceps and the guilty taste of psychic contact had not yet left Uriel's mind. As dawn had spread its sour light over Salinas, Uriel sent a request to Governor Barbaden, via their ubiquitous shadow, Eversham, that they needed a trained medicae to examine Pasanius.

No reply was immediately forthcoming, and rather than simply sit and wait for a response, Uriel had decided they would use the time before their battle-brothers made contact to better acquaint themselves with this world.

The best way to do that, decided Uriel, was to learn of its past.

Having travelled through the palace corridors to the parade ground once before, the route was embedded in Uriel's memory and they found their way to the outer doors of the palace with ease.

The bare concrete esplanade and grey tower at its far end were no less depressing than they had been the day before and as he made his way towards the decrepit Gallery of Antiquities, Uriel couldn't help but feel as though he was being drawn to this place, that somehow this journey was necessary.

'Doesn't look like much,' Pasanius had said, looking at the neglected wing of the palace. Despite feeling that great things awaited in the gallery, Uriel had been forced to agree with him.

That feared disappointment was dispelled as soon as they had entered and seen the vast array of cabinets, packing cases and curios that filled the wing. Much of its depths were shrouded in darkness, and who knew what treasures awaited discovery farther in, for a planet's worth of battle honours and history filled the Gallery of Antiquities.

In charge of imposing order on this haphazardly collected memorabilia was Curator Lukas Urbican, a meticulous and proud man, who Uriel had immediately warmed to upon meeting.

'Ah,' said Urbican, looking up over his spectacles as they had pushed open the doors to the gallery. 'I was hoping you would feel compelled to visit my humble gallery, although I must apologise in advance for the somewhat… random nature of the exhibits.'

Urbican was of average height and from his bearing he had once been a soldier. Though he wore the dark robe of an adept instead of a uniform, it was clear that he kept fit and healthy. Uriel guessed he was in his early sixties, his face lined and hard, and what little remained of his hair was shorn close to his skull and as white as powdered snow.

Urbican beckoned them in and marched over with a liver-spotted hand extended in welcome. Uriel took Urbican's proffered hand, the old man's grip strong and rough textured.

'Curator Urbican I presume?' said Uriel.

'None other, my friend, none other,' said Urbican with a disarming smile, 'but call me Lukas. I'm guessing you would be Captain Uriel Ventris, which, if I'm not mistaken, would make your one-armed friend, Sergeant Pasanius.'

'You're not mistaken,' said Pasanius. 'The arm is a bit of a give-away.'

'You have heard of us?' asked Uriel.

'I shouldn't think there are many on Salinas who haven't,' said Urbican. 'News of the arrival of Adeptus Astartes travels fast, though I must confess I was afraid that Leto would keep you all to himself. Our vaunted governor doesn't have much time for me, or the dusty old relics of the past. A waste of time, he'd say.'

'Actually, Governor Barbaden appears to want little to do with us,' said Uriel, surprised at his candour.

'Well, he has a lot on his plate, I suppose,' conceded Urbican, 'what with all the trouble the Sons of Salinas are causing.'

'Exactly,' said Uriel, sensing that he could learn much from Lukas Urbican. 'Thus, we find we have time on our hands.'

'And you use that time to visit my poor gallery of antiquities? I'm honoured,' said Urbican, beaming. 'I know how rare it is for a soldier such as yourself to have time on his hands, or any man of war for that matter. Of course, it has been some time since I could call myself a soldier of the Emperor.'

'You served with the Falcatas?' asked Pasanius.

'For my sins,' said Urbican, smiling, although the smile faltered for the briefest second. He waved a dismissive hand. 'Of course, that was many years ago. I mustered out after Restoration Day, though I think Colonel Kain would have retired me had I not. War is a young man's game, eh?'

Urbican suddenly paused and raised his hand with his middle finger exposed. 'Of course! Where are my manners? I know what you've come for, how silly of me.'

Uriel smiled as the aged curator bustled off into a chamber just off the main hallway.

The interior of this wing of the palace had seen better days. The paint was peeling from the walls and spreading patches of damp rose from the floor and spread across the arched ceiling. Banners hung on the walls, red and gold guidons and rectangular standards emblazoned with a golden warrior with the head of an eagle bearing twin falcatas.

A long row of glass-topped display tables ran down the centre of the hall and the walls were stacked high with crates. Some of these were open and scrawled with illegible notations, with portions of uniform jackets and assorted pieces of battle dress hanging from them. Cracked glass cabinets stood between the packing crates and lifeless mannequins dressed in what looked like mismatched pieces of uniform and armour carried rusted lasguns that looked about ready to fall apart.

There appeared to be no order to the collection, and yet Uriel found it incredibly reassuring to know that at least one man of Salinas cared for the memory of those who had served in the regiment and who honoured the people of the planet they had claimed.

'How many years of service must be gathered here?' Uriel asked Pasanius, peering into a cabinet filled with medals and a variety of bayonets.

'Decades,' said Pasanius, lifting a falcata with a rusted blade, 'if not centuries.'

While Urbican rooted around for whatever it was he sought, Uriel wandered along one of the aisles between the display cabinets. The first cabinet he stopped at was filled with battered leather notebooks bound with rotted cord. Most were rotted to illegibility, but one was arranged proudly in the centre of the cabinet.

The gold leaf on its cover was faded, but Uriel could make out enough of the lettering to know that it was a copy of the Tactica Imperium, the mighty work by which the Imperium's armies made war. The date was worn away, but the edition number appeared to be in the low hundreds, making the book well over a thousand years old.

'Ah, I see you've found Old Serenity's copy of the Tactica,' said Urbican, his head poking from the doorway. 'Very rare piece, and said to have a personal note from Lord Solar Macharius on its inner cover, but the book's so fragile I don't dare open it.'

'Who was Old Serenity?' asked Pasanius.

'The Colonel of the Falcatas before Leto Barbaden,' shouted Urbican, 'a grand old man indeed, a gentleman. Never lost his cool in battle, even when things went awry. When we were set to be overrun at Koreda Gorge he turned to his adjutant and said, ''I shall never sound the retreat, never. Warn the men that if they hear it, it is only a ruse on the part of the enemy''. Stirring stuff, eh?'