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More Warhammer 40,000 stories from Black Library

DARK IMPERIUM
Guy Haley

LEGACY OF THE WULFEN
Robbie MacNiven and David Annandale

AZRAEL
Gav Thorpe

THE DEVASTATION OF BAAL
Guy Haley

THE TALON OF HORUS
Aaron Dembski-Bowden

CADIA STANDS
Justin D Hill

THE HORUSIAN WARS: RESURRECTION
John French

SISTERS OF BATTLE: THE OMNIBUS
James Swallow

THE EYE OF MEDUSA
David Guymer

FARSIGHT: CRISIS OF FAITH
Phil Kelly

RISE OF THE YNNARI: GHOST WARRIOR
Gav Thorpe

I AM SLAUGHTER
Dan Abnett

HORUS RISING
Dan Abnett

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Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Introduction

A Hunt in the Dark

Honour of the Third

Holder of the Keys

Ravenwing

One

Veteran Reborn

Muster

Thunderhawk Insertion

First Drop

Retribution

Escape Thwarted

The Hunt

Disappointment

Omens From Afar

The Hunt Begins

Two

A World of Anarchy

Strategic Precautions

Arrival in Kadillus

Grim Discoveries

A Riddle of Corpses

Brother Boreas Speaks

Heresy Begets Retribution

The Trail of the Fallen

The Seed of Doubt

Re-Arming

A Cursed Name

Solace and Punishment

The Prey Revealed

The Black Knights

Three

Opening Salvo

No Escape

Primary Insertion

Confusion and Fear

The Unworthy

Holding The Line

Unexpected Foes

No Innocents

The Purification

Strange Forces

The Divine

Mission Accomplished

The Interrogator

The Trail is Fresh

Honour

Four

Guile and Subterfuge

The Stakes are Raised

Silent Hunters

The Assault

Contingency Planning

Epilogue

Battle-Brothers

Master of Sanctity

Part One

Retribution

The Enemy Within

Misplaced Zeal

Penitent Warriors

The Seventh Rite

The Prisoner

Judged

Righteousness

Lessons of War

Promises

Marksmanship

Arguments Old and New

Past Times

Conclave

Pacification

A Riddle in the Dark

To Catch a Fallen…

Oaths

Part Two

Painful Divination

Into The Eye

City of Decay

Mansion of Madness

Leadership

Fury

Corruption

A Losing Battle

An Unexpected Encounter

Reality Dawns

Faith

Division

Retreat

Desperate Times

The Gambit

Contemplation

Part Three

Old Wounds

Reasons to Hate

Suspension

Expectation

Complications

Warmonger

Battle Begins

Drop Warning

Distractions

The Price of Duty

Target Alpha

Teleport Assault

Hunter and Hunted

All Must End

Accept No Failure

The Unforgiven

Part One

Surrender

Repercussions

Armourer of the Soul

The Captive

Knights of the First Company

Truth Within a Lie

Teleport Strike

A Missing Brother

Blade Versus Beast

Annihilation

A Brother’s Choice

Hit and Run

The Hand of Justice

The Wayward Angel

Part Two

End of an Age

The Hidden Chamber

Dark Prophecies

Penance

Half-Life

Cypher’s Testimony

The Traitor Strikes

Confession and Rejection

Censured

Under Scrutiny

Repulsed

A Last Gambit

The Canker of Doubt

Ancient Deeds

Heirloom of the Lion

Farewells and Regrets

Part Three

Old Alliances

The Honoured Half-Dead

An Enemy Revealed

Dark Talons

Only In Death

Battle for the Rock

Defiance

Sins of the Past

Honour Repaid

An Unlikely Reunion

Retribution Unleashed

Footfalls on Caliban

A Return to Dark Places

Unholy Revelation

The Beginning and the End

A World Broken

Secrets and Lies

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Purging of Kadillus’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

INTRODUCTION

Readers have asked me why I like writing about the Dark Angels. It’s because they have a built-in conflict that revolves around the Hunt for the Fallen. Their continued existence is predicated on a lie.

The Fallen is the flaw of the Dark Angels, every bit as debilitating and shameful as the Red Thirst is for the Blood Angels. The difference with the Dark Angels as opposed to their brothers from Baal is that their taint is self-inflicted and spiritual rather than physical. A long, long time ago their leaders faced a choice and, for reasons that may be explored at some point when we’re done with the Horus Heresy, they decided to keep a secret.

A really big secret.

Some people ask what the big deal is and point out that nearly all, if not all, of the Legions had some members turn from the Emperor. The big deal is that the Dark Angels chose to hide that fact and from this decision has stemmed 10,000 years of paranoia, lies and manipulation. For the most part the leadership of the Chapter, and their successors, are concerned with the day-to-day violence and mayhem that is all part of being a Space Marine, but now and then an opportunity arises to catch one of the Fallen, and that’s when priorities get skewed.

Throughout the Legacy of Caliban, the theme has been about how the Dark Angels’ own desire for secrecy continually holds them back, and can be used against them to disastrous effect.

On the whole I would say I’ve become more sympathetic to the Dark Angels the more I’ve written about them in both the 31st and 41st millennium. Angels of Darkness is about the realisation of the self-defeating nature of the Hunt for the Fallen, but by the time I wrote The Unforgiven I’d come around to thinking of the terrible consequences of what might happen should the knowledge of that ten thousand-year-old lie come to light. This is explicitly explored in The Unforgiven.

My other goal, prompted by reactions to Angels of Darkness which I penned many years ago, was to make fans of the Dark Angels examine what they knew and believed about their beloved Chapter. The testimony of Astelan in that book continues to reverberate. In fact, Astelan himself has gone on to become a major character in the Horus Heresy and continues to hold attention into the present day.

Simultaneously working on Legacy of Caliban and events for the Horus Heresy series has allowed me to dangle threads between the two in a way I could not at the time of Angels of Darkness. So Legacy of Caliban was predicated on having a finale that would, somehow, blow the minds of Dark Angels fans and non-fans alike. I think it does that and my eternal thanks to the editors for allowing me to write it this way...

The structure of the trilogy owes to my experience with The Purging of Kadillus. For that book I took inspiration from the story telling method, at least, of the Band of Brothers TV series and the novel is broken down into separate stories that focus on a single character at a time, while the arc of the narrative links all of them together.

For the Legacy of Caliban I changed that slightly, so that the whole series has two characters that carry through their own stories – Telemenus and Annael – while major parts of the other novels are given to different members of the Chapter’s Inner Circle so that we see events from both the bottom and top.

At the lower ranks, the un-informed Space Marines of the regular companies, there is not a lot to differentiate them from those of other Chapters, except perhaps an even greater emphasis on unswerving loyalty and obedience. Your regular Tactical Space Marine has no more clue about past events than anybody outside the Chapter and is a faithful, zealous servant of the Emperor.

As we ascend the levels of knowledge, I wanted to convey the idea that knowing more about the Fallen is a soul-destroying experience, a source of genuine shame and regret that eats at the heart of those that know. Bearing that burden every day, living the lie that must be lived, takes an eventual toll, made all the worse because those loftier positions that are so lauded, externally and in other Chapters, come with the greatest burdens of truth and responsibility.

The problem with lies and secrets is that the longer you keep them, the worse it becomes if they get out. Thus, on occasion those of the Dark Angels who understand the truth about the Chapter’s past have gone to extreme lengths to protect the sanctity of that secret. It is important to remember that the Inner Circle keep the truth of what happened at the end of the Heresy from the battle-brothers, and even the whole truth from the Ravenwing and Deathwing. It’s my view that no individual knows entirely what happened after 10,000 years of mystery and ritual. The various roles within the Inner Circle exist to keep the secret, even from each other sometimes.

As the hunt escalates from the Ravenwing, through the Deathwing and to the entire Chapter, we see action from Sammael, Sapphon and Asmodai and eventually Azrael himself.

It is part and parcel of the Chapter’s leaders that they exist within this dichotomy, not fully understanding the true nature of their own treachery; they are unable to step outside the story they have created and see themselves for what they really are. To even question whether it is right to keep the Chapter’s secret is to invite heresy, and a Dark Angel is no more capable of that than an Ultramarine is of tossing away the Codex Astartes and saying ‘I think those Space Wolves are on to a good idea’. It is literally unthinkable that the First Legion could be disloyal, because by their very nature they are the guardians of the truth and thus the arbiters of what constitutes loyalty.

At the very pinnacle, Azrael is a highly driven but conflicted individual. Every part of him wants to be the exemplar of the Space Marines the descendants of the First Legion should be, but those principles are constantly eroded by a decision in which he took no part, yet have handed him the most awful decisions to confront.

Legacy of Caliban is a self-contained arc, and though it has obvious implications for possible future stories, at the time of writing this afterword I have no plans to go back and pick up those threads. However, in writing about some of the Successors, I have awakened an urge to perhaps visit a few of The Unforgiven that aren’t quite so well known. In doing so, perhaps we will discover even more about the secret history of The First.

Gav Thorpe
Nottingham, 2016

A HUNT IN THE DARK

The cell stank of despair. There were ancient blood stains painted on the walls and floor, written in the adrenaline-filled reek of sweat in the air. The red glow of a single guttering lamp barely touched the walls, which were hewn from the raw foundations of the Rock, deep beneath the Dark Angels’ space-faring fortress-monastery. Here was not the carved stone and intricate tapestries of the Tower of Angels; here was the naked remnant of Caliban, preserved within countless power fields and held together by graviometic archeotech that perhaps even the Master of the Forge no longer fully understood.

The weight of ten thousand years pushed down on Sammael every bit as much as the millions of tons of architecture above this dismal place.

Stripped of his armour, clad only in a black robe of the Ravenwing adorned with a silver symbol denoting his rank as a Black Knight, Sammael was under no illusion regarding why he had been brought here. The two Deathwing Knights that flanked him, resplendent in full bone-coloured power armour, had treated him as a prisoner from the moment they had taken him from his solitary contemplation in the Reclusiam. By ways unknown to Sammael, and passing no other Space Marine or serf, they had brought him down to the lower levels. Though Sammael could not say where exactly in the dungeons of the Rock the cell lay, he knew well enough the reputation of the place and others like it.

On entry to the Ravenwing he had been initiated into the first of the Rites of the Raven and had learn of the Fallen. He had absorbed such knowledge without shock. He was not sure why he had not been surprised by the revelation that warriors of the Dark Angels had turned on the primarch and the Emperor during the uprising of Warmaster Horus. It was possible that his suspicions of such an event had brought him to the attention of the Chaplains and ultimately the Ravenwing.

As he had risen through the seven Rites, he had learnt more – more about the Fallen and how to hunt them, and more of the arts of the Interrogators that offered them the chance for repentance in cells like this one, dragging forth confession and absolution from bloodied flesh.

A small wooden table and two sturdy chairs were all that furnished the cell; so simple, so domestic in their construction yet given an ominous air by context. Sammael would have felt more comfortable had there been a shelf of torture implements, brands and hooks and knives rather than the plain furnishings, but there was no overt sign of the excruciation suffered by others who had been brought here before.

There was no fear in Sammael as his guards pushed him into the cell and slammed the heavy steel shut behind him. Not fear of torture, at least. He was no Fallen and he could not believe that his battle-brothers would turn their bloody attentions upon him as punishment for the debacle at Kapua. There was no need to extract any account, he would freely tell them what had happened and how the disaster had unfolded.

That was not why he was here, though. There was another reason behind the secret abduction and the intimidating surrounds. The cell was the destination of a journey he had started before Kapua, before Gideon’s fall.

The chatter of autogun fire echoed across the wide courtyard, masking the sound of punctured flesh and splintering stone. Only when they had emptied the magazines of their weapons did the firing squad cease shooting, drawing up their rifles to their shoulders in a salute to the armoured Space Marines overseeing the execution. Grand Master Gideon, his black armour overlaid with golden icons and the heraldry of the Ravenwing, gave a signal to their sergeant, who dismissed the troop. The ten defence troopers, natives of Kaphon Betis, filed away, leaving the two Dark Angels with a dozen bullet-riddled corpses.

‘A fitting end for traitors,’ said Sammael, glaring down at the bodies. ‘Filthy xenos-worshippers. The lowest kind of scum, turning on their own kind for the favours of aliens.’

‘Misguided for certain,’ agreed Gideon. He took off his helm, revealing dark hair and angular features, a scar across his throat disappearing behind the gorget of his armour. He looked at Sammael and shrugged. ‘Only a deviant mind could hope for succour from the very creatures that kill and enslave one’s kith and kin. Desperate, insane. The eldar plied their evil in Kaphon for many decades before we came. It is a shame that some succumbed to despair and started to entreat them, but they were a small minority.’

‘A tiny group, to be sure, but influential,’ replied Sammael. He was aware that Gideon had singled him out to oversee the firing squad, though there were many members of the Second Company that were his senior. It was no secret that the Grand Master had taken a special interest, and there were few that would argue that Sammael did not deserve the recognition and attention he received. Sammael wanted to prove that his superior’s faith was well-placed, to demonstrate the qualities worthy of a Black Knight and perhaps, one day, a Master.

‘Less than two hundred, but there are many in positions of power. They willingly allowed the eldar to harvest those that looked to them for protection. I am sure the aliens were more than happy to cooperate. Had we not heard rumours of instability and division in this system, the xenos cultists might have turned even more to their twisted cause.’

‘By the grace of the Emperor, we arrived and now the threat has been ended.’ Gideon waved a hand at the piled bodies. ‘These are the last of them. We will depart by nightfall and return to the Rock.’

‘The last?’ Sammael was surprised. ‘We have not yet caught the ringleader. The so-called Lord Cypher.’

Gideon’s stare was as sharp as the Raven Sword hanging at his hip. ‘Where did you hear that name?’

‘Chatter from the prisoners. One of them thought they would be saved by a ‘Lord Cypher’.’ Sammael read consternation in the expression of his superior. ‘I have not yet had time to search the planetary records, but I am sure we will unearth this traitorous noble soon enough.’

‘You have not spoken of this to anybody else?’ Sammael answered Gideon’s question with a shake of the head. ‘Good, let it remain so.’

Sammael felt as though he had done something wrong, but he had no idea what the infraction had been. He sought refuge in formality to hide his confusion. ‘If that is your command, grand master.’ Apparently the attempt was unsuccessful.

‘This is a far graver matter than you know, Sammael,’ Gideon told him. At first it looked as though that was all he would say on the matter, but after a pause he continued, his voice little more than a whisper as his eyes darted around the courtyard before settling on Sammael. ‘The title is not from Kaphon Betis, it is from Caliban.’

‘Caliban? Our destroyed home world? How can that be possible?’

‘Cypher is one of the Fallen, Sammael. More than that. The worst of them, intent on destroying all that remains of the Legion he once served. If he has been in Kaphon there is far more at play here than eldar raids and heretic sympathisers.’

The scrape of footfalls outside the door drew Sammael from his the recollection of when he had first heard the name of Cypher. The cell door opened and two familiar figures loomed large in the corridor beyond: Supreme Grand Master Azrael and Chief Librarian Ezekiel. The two most senior Dark Angels entered in silence and the door closed behind them.

Azrael gestured for Sammael to remain seated and stood to one side, while Ezekiel sat in the chair opposite. The Librarian’s bionic eye gleamed red, matching the ruddy glow of the lantern. His other eye seemed a pit of blackness, swallowing the light. Sammael felt himself drawn into those depths, and shuddered despite every effort when he saw golden motes of energy within the gaze of the psyker.

‘You will tell me about Kapua.’ Azrael spoke the words without emotion, a flat statement of fact. Sammael answered, but his gaze was locked with the stare of Ezekiel, unable to break the trance the Librarian had set upon him.

‘There seemed little danger at first. We had detected an astropathic call for assistance in putting down a small-scale rebellion on the world of Kapua. We entered the system some seventeen days later and made orbit over the primary world, Kapua Seven. After short conference with the aides of the Imperial Commander, who we were told were overseeing the fighting personally, Grand Master Gideon organised and launched a standard drop assault on the rebel holdings less than fifty kilometres from the city of Vespengard.’

Ezekiel had not blinked, but it was as though he had allowed Sammael a moment of release and the Black Knight took it, turning his attention to the Supreme Grand Master. Azrael’s cold stare was only slightly less intimidating.

‘Describe the rebels,’ he said.

‘Nothing untoward, master. Dissidents led by political opponents of the Imperial Commander, with weapons looted from the stores of the local forces. Nothing to offer significant resistance to warriors of the Adeptus Astartes.’ Sammael shrugged. ‘We took a few casualties, but in a matter of days the strength of the rebellion was broken, their command shattered and their lairs destroyed.’

‘Gideon became over-confident.’ Again it was a statement, not a question. ‘Faced with poor opposition he underestimated potential threats.’

‘I disagree, master.’ Sammael kept his tone level, trying to be critical of Azrael’s assessment and not the man who uttered it. ‘At that time there was no evidence to suggest any foe more significant than the rebels we had encountered.’

‘Perhaps you do not question Gideon’s judgement because it reflects poorly on his later declaration in support of your elevation to the position of Grand Master. If we doubt the first judgement we must also doubt the second.’

The suggestion riled Sammael a little but he did not rise to the baited words.

‘Your judgement will be final, master. I relate the events simply as I experienced them. You wished for me to offer opinion and I did so.’

Azrael nodded in acknowledgement of this defence. He gestured for Sammael to continue.

‘No commander I have served with could have predicted what happened next,’ said Sammael.

The torrent of reports over the vox-network was the closest to panic Sammael had ever encountered in his time with the Chapter. Each measured, clipped message belied the anarchy that had suddenly engulfed the Ravenwing and it was by its mass rather than individual parts that the underlying consternation could be felt.

Sammael understood the shock in those voices all too well. The same sense of dislocation and unreality was raging in his thoughts as bolter fire and missiles screamed down at the Black Knights from camouflaged bunkers ahead.

‘Power armoured enemy, moving through the woods to the west.’

‘Highly accurate heavy weapons fire, we are withdrawing.’

‘Converging fire from ground level and above. Where did they come from? Sergeant! Sergeant?’

‘Is that a Dreadnought, brother? Sector five. I swear I saw a...’

A blast seared through Teranto’s bike just a few metres from Sammael, turning mount and rider into a roiling ball of superheated vapour and molten ceramite. Sammael swerved to avoid the expanding cloud of gas and atomised matter, recognising a multi-melta hit. His shouted warning was lost amongst the din filling the vox.

‘Armoured vehicles, old Legion patterns, breaking through the buildings on our flank.’

‘By the Emperor, traitors everywhere! Rebels have launched massive counter-attack through the marshalling yards!’

‘Autocannon position, end terrace. Covering fire with grenade launchers.’

‘We need a Nephilim strike, sector seventeen. Heavy armour incoming. Urgent request for air strike! Where is the air cover?’

‘Squadron Astrael reporting. Two Land Speeders destroyed. Request Apothecary retrieval for survivors. Providing cover fire. Enemy are pushing forward, support needed immediately.’

Sammael glimpsed colour ahead: bulky shapes moving through the rubble of a refinery that had been levelled by orbital bombardment. The fortifications around it had shown clear on the auspex scans. Sammael checked his steed’s display again. Still it registered no enemy despite the torrent of fire that had erupted from the supposedly empty bunker line.

‘Some kind of masking shield,’ he said, but nobody seemed to be listening. The Black Knights were each concentrating on staying alive, dodging between mortar bomb eruptions, whickering heavy bolter fire and the stabbing ruby beam of a lascannon. Sammael turned his bike towards this last threat, unleashing a salvo of shots from its plasma talons into the firing pit where the heavy weapon was stationed.

It was then that he saw something that caused him a moment’s pause. The lascannon was no tripod-mounted support weapon as he had expected. It was carried on the shoulder of a warrior in power armour, dwarfing the poorly-armoured rebels.

A Traitor legionary.

Sammael did not know the foe from his deep red livery, but as the enemy Space Marine turned to fire his lascannon the yellow and black sigil emblazoned on his shoulder revealed his former allegiances. A renegade of the Word Bearers Legion. There were others around him – more giants in red armour, some in black, pushing out to encircle the Ravenwing advance.

‘All vanguard squadrons to pull back!’ This last came from Gideon, cutting through the chatter. ‘Withdraw immediately, do not get drawn into prolonged engagement.’

To Sammael’s right the Grand Master pulled his jetbike into a tight turn, pulling away from the refinery and its defenders. Sammael followed suit, the wheels of his mount sending up showers of grits and dust as he hauled Withermare across the broken ferrocrete of the street.

The shots of the rebels and Traitor Space Marines followed them as they sped back up the road, Sammael’s soul heavy with thoughts of failure.

‘Gideon’s response to evidence of the Traitor Legions was to break off the attack. He surrendered what momentum the assault had gained.’

Sammael looked at the Supreme Grand Master and wondered if Azrael was conducting this inquiry to find the truth or was simply seeking to confirm an opinion already formed. The Black Knight spoke up in defence of Gideon. Nobody else could.

‘Grand Master Gideon assessed that we were not in a position to prosecute a successful attack with the speed and decisiveness required. Although it transpired in our later reconnaissance that the Traitor legionaries were no more than a few dozen in number, they had armoured vehicles and heavy weaponry that negated the advantages we had over the rebels. As well as their direct military impact they were also leading the enemy, who numbered several thousand, coordinating their attacks, bolstering their resolve, and had been doing so since the outset.’

‘So it was a trap?’ It was the first question Azrael had asked.

‘I believe so. Gideon also thought that it was likely. Our early successes had been an attempt to lure us into a false sense of confidence so that we might over-extend our efforts. Grand Master Gideon’s swift command to withdraw enabled over ninety per cent of the company to escape the ambushes. Had we stayed to fight, we would have been wiped out.’

‘That is your assessment, Sammael. I have my own.’ Azrael folded his arms, jaw set. ‘Continue with your account. Gideon thought it wise to continue with the attacks even though the enemy were well-prepared in fortified positions.’

‘The Grand Master convened a council of the veterans and the decision was unanimous to continue the offensive. We considered waiting for Chapter reinforcements or the weight of the Imperial Guard, but the risk that the traitors would gain a further grip on the populace, or perhaps escape from Kapua, outweighed the dangers of continuing the campaign.

‘The next phase of fighting vindicated the Grand Master’s decision. Our orbital support had been curtailed by intervention from the traitor’s warships, and our air power seriously compromised. Lacking the firepower needed for a direct attack, the company began a series of supply raids and feint assaults. Over the course of seven days these proved troublesome enough for the enemy to react. The rebels led by the Word Bearers in particular were prone to being lured out of position by these baiting attacks. We later discovered there were also Space Marines bearing unaffiliated black livery, who proved far less headstrong.’

‘To what purpose were these attacks directed?’

‘With precision strategy, we were able to weaken part of the cordon around the city of Vespengard. If the company could breach the city then the enemy defensive line would be rendered worthless. Once the fortifications had been penetrated, forces still loyal to the Imperium could assault Vespengard while the company continued to confound the enemy from behind their line.’

‘A strategy that seems to have some merit.’ Azrael scratched the side of his nose, his attitude seeming to soften for a moment. Then his expression hardened again and the next words rasped angrily. ‘But it was not, was it? Due to imprecise intelligence, the attack ran into fierce opposition. Gideon led the Ravenwing into an even greater trap than the one they had already survived.’

With Nephilim and Dark Talon fighters screaming overhead and Thunderhawks and Land Speeders pounding the buildings and streets along their flanks, the bikers of the Ravenwing plunged towards the heart of Vespengard. Sammael and his Black Knights accompanied Gideon as always, a few metres behind the Grand Master’s jetbike, their steeds leaving dust and exhaust fumes filling the street in their wake.

Missiles from Land Speeder Typhoons raked along rooftops, setting factories, administration buildings and hab-blocks ablaze while the battlecannons and lascannons of the gunships shredded the improvised barricades that had been thrown across the roads along the path of the attack squadrons on the ground. Heavy bolters and assault cannons on Land Speeder Tornados held the rear, keeping the rebels pinned in their bunkers and trenches.

A sudden surge of energy flashed across the auspex display of Withermare. At first Sammael thought it was one of the inner city power stations exploding, but the truth revealed itself half a minute later when a monstrous engine stepped into view at the far end of the boulevard ahead.

The Reaver Titan was a colossus of the Dark Age of Technology, twelve stories high, its vaguely humanoid form obscured by the purple and blue flickering of void shields. The street underfoot cracked and sagged beneath its weight while windows exploded as its void shields touched them, filling the air with glittering shards. The blare of its war horn roared down the boulevard, overloading Sammael’s autosenses and shattering more glass.

The Titan’s original battle colours, black and orange, could still be seen on the war banners hanging from its weapon mounts, emblazoned with a horned skull and flames. Its body was more like living flesh than metal and ceramite, flexing and bulging with ruddy muscles corded with brass-like veins, protected by serrated, overlapping armour plates. Where once the head and crew deck had been there was now a monstrous daemonic face surrounded by curling horns, its mouth rimmed with whirring chainblades like teeth. Piercing yellow eyes blazed with hideous light as its murderous gaze fell upon the Black Knights. Its right arm was a multi-barrelled gatling blaster, its left a huge fist encased in coruscating black energy that crackled from the tips of its barbed claws. Atop its angled carapace a twin-muzzled turbo-laser swung towards the gunships now converging on its position.

With a blinding flash, the turbo-laser opened fire, giving Sammael no time to wonder how such a monstrosity had been concealed from the Dark Angels augurs and orbital surveys; the reality was that it had. The beam intersected with a Thunderhawk, splitting it from cockpit to tail. As the remains of the gunship rained down on the city the gatling blaster spewed a torrent of shells along the boulevard.

The Black Knights reacted without command, veering hard to the left as Gideon wrenched his jetbike away from the stream of explosions tearing towards the squadron. The turbo-laser fire stabbed out again, incinerating a Land Speeder Tornado racing across the rooftops from the west. Too fast for the Titan’s main weapons to target, the Nephilim fighters and Dark Talon interceptors plunged down, opening fire with rift cannons and missiles.

Sammael’s last glimpse of the Reaver was of the Titan wreathed in coruscating warp power as its void shields absorbed the attacks of the aircraft. Autocannons and anti-air missile streaked up from the surrounding streets, driving off the interceptors and fighters midway through their attack runs.

‘All units, break off attack. Withdraw to assault point alpha.’ Gideon’s voice was laced with regret. ‘All units, withdraw.’

A moment after the order had been issued, a communication arrived from Sergeant Versian leading the rearguard.

‘Grand Master, Traitor legionaries converging on our withdrawal sector. Word Bearers and heavy armour have cut off retreat route alpha.’

The news was almost as devastating as a salvo from the Titan. The Ravenwing were trapped inside the city.

Sammael closed his eyes, reliving the moment of realisation. His hearts were beating faster even now, months later. He calmed himself and when he opened his eyes, he found himself locked by Ezekiel’s unblinking stare once more. Azrael’s voice seemed to come from a distance, muffled and indistinct.

‘Gideon did not form up the company for a forced breakout. He chose to remain in the contested city.’

It was with some difficulty that Sammael dredged up the facts from his memory. The Black Knight had to wonder if Ezekiel was deliberately dulling his senses, or was this simply a side effect of the Librarian’s scrutiny?

‘Had the company come together and been baulked in the breakout, we would have been exceptionally vulnerable to encirclement. The situation was dire, but we still had the advantage of mobility. By dispersing the company we were able to maintain a moving threat. The Traitors and their war engine could not be everywhere, and if they tried to tighten the trap then it would present opportunities for counter-attack.’

‘Surely the battle for Vespengard was already lost, Sammael. What did Gideon hope to achieve by remaining in such close proximity to the enemy?’

‘It was the Grand Master’s firm belief that the skill with which we had been deceived indicated a superior level of intelligence possessed by the enemy commander. We faced a coalition of forces, and the nature of their purpose in luring our formation onto Kapua suggested a very specific reason why we had been targeted.’

‘He thought the enemy commander was one of the Fallen?’ Azrael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Supposition, nothing more.’

‘At the time it made sense, and the possibility of capturing one of the Fallen could not be overlooked. The enemy’s only strength was the abomination of the traitor Mechanicus. If the Titan could be overcome, the city would swiftly fall into the hands of loyal forces again and the enemy commander run to ground.’

‘A rash decision. It seems uncharacteristic of Gideon to be so foolhardy so soon after being ensnared.’ Azrael’s voice became more determined even as Ezekiel’s stare bore deeper and deeper into Sammael’s soul. ‘What are you not telling us, Brother Sammael? Why are you holding back?’

‘By the Lion and the Emperor, I swear I am being forthright and truthful,’ the Black Knight replied, trying hard not to plead. There was no pain, not of the kind he had felt before, but Ezekiel’s psychic probing was like tiny lacerations in his thoughts, parting his mind into a thousand pieces to inspect the constituent parts.

Suddenly the sensation ended. Sammael flopped back, realising that he had been hunched forward with every muscle taut. His breath came in short gasps and his hearts thundered in his chest.

‘If you insist,’ said Azrael, looking unconvinced. ‘Gather your thoughts. Do not leave this cell. We will return shortly.’

Ezekiel stood up and followed the Supreme Grand Master out into the corridor. Sammael tried to relax, taking long breaths to ease himself back into a stable state. Through the open door he could see the pale armour of the two Deathwing Knights.

The Black Knight knew that the departure of his superiors was simply part of the interrogation, perhaps to unsettle him further or otherwise disrupt his thinking. It was hard not to get drawn into the notion that this was a battle of wits, Sammael versus Azrael, trying to prove something out of principle and opposition rather than to arrive at the truth.

Sammael forced himself to calm down. Even if he didn’t regard this as a battle, it appeared that Azrael did, and Sammael had learnt long ago the importance of using any lull in hostilities to regroup, resupply and relax. His interrogators could be back any moment or at any day, but he had to be prepared for either eventuality.

A shout from outside snapped him back to full attention. He was uncertain whether moments or hours had passed. Normally his internal time perception was perfect, to all intents and purposes, even when unconscious – an effect of the gene-crafted catalapsean node interacting with his cerebellum, basal ganglia and other time-sensitive brain networks. The sensation of dislocation was alien and awkward.

‘Stay there,’ barked one of the Deathwing Knights through his vocaliser, disappearing from view as quickly as he had appeared. In the darkness of the corridor, the armour of the other faded from view.

Sammael did as he had been told, suspecting that this was part of the interrogation, a test of his obedience to orders. Azrael had commanded him to wait, so he would wait.

Several more minutes passed before the other Deathwing warrior returned. He recognised the posture of a vox-link exchange between the two guards. There seemed to be some form of disagreement between them. After the exchange, the Space Marine that had left departed again. A few seconds later the remaining Deathwing warrior approached the cell.

‘One of the Fallen has slipped his captivity,’ the Space Marine confided. ‘I’ve been ordered to stay here to watch you, but we both know that would be a waste of manpower.’

Sammael hesitated. Was this a snare constructed to betray disloyalty? It seemed possible, but Sammael could not be sure. If there was actually a Fallen on the loose in the dungeons there could be untold havoc before he was recaptured. Sammael would rather be damned for something he did than something he didn’t, but caution tempered his desire for action.

‘Do not remain on my account, brother,’ he told the other Dark Angel. ‘Assist your brethren.’

The Deathwing Knight nodded his thanks and moved out of sight, leaving Sammael alone in the cell with the door open.

The echo of boots drifted away and then returned, along with other noises: the report of a bolt pistol firing and the rasp of motors and screech of metal. The corridors turned these sounds into drawn-out reverberations, but Sammael recognised their sequence easily enough – a close range shot followed by a brief duel of chainswords.

A patter of bare feet and silence followed, broken a dozen seconds later by a grunted cry for assistance. Sammael was at the door before he realised what he was doing.

He paused at the threshold, his instinct telling him that this was no simulation, his rational mind wary of entrapment. In the end instinct won – it had seen him survive and prosper so far.

‘Brother!’

The call came from the right. Sammael had no idea where the cell was, or the layout of the surrounding rooms and tunnels, and he simply headed towards the sound. A quiet, wordless cry took him down a corridor to the right a few metres on and then another to the left. It took some time for him to orientate himself again as it seemed he followed the sound in circles for a few minutes.

He came upon another cell, the wooden door open, the splinters of a bolt impact clear beneath the grille of the window. Just inside lay another Space Marine, his chest plastron rent open by a wicked chainsword hit. Blood spilled from the wound, too much even for the warrior’s Larraman cells to staunch. He flailed an arm towards Sammael, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

The wound was real and Sammael’s doubts about the veracity of the emergency disappeared in an instant.

‘No time. Took my pistol.’ The Space Marine’s arm flopped to the left, pointing down a long corridor. ‘Heading towards the Exactatory.’

Sammael had no idea what or where the Exactatory was, but the wounded Space Marine’s vehemence made him certain it would not go well if the escaped Fallen reached it. The Black Knight pulled off his robe and tore a strip from the hem. Using this as a bandage, he pushed the rest of the garment into the armour breach, plugging the wound, and bound it into place.

The Deathwing Knight’s chainsword lay just out of his reach. Sammael picked it up and tested the motor. It was still working.

He had a weapon, but no armour. Not much use against a well-aimed bolt-round, but better than nothing at all. It was impossible not to feel a little trepidation at the thought of cornering a dangerous, armed foe with no protection, but he quelled the sensation. Doing so brought back another memory of Kapua.

The Titan seemed even larger than before, its carapace clearly visible over the intervening buildings, the miasma of the void shields extending higher still.

The shields flared and crackled from impacts as elements of the Ravenwing unleashed plasma and missiles and shells at the enormous war engine, but the energy field generators held firm, protecting the daemon machine from harm.

It did not matter; the assault was simply a diversion to allow Sammael and his Black Knights to close within the void shields, from where they would unleash plasma blasts and armour-piercing grenades. A trio of attack bikes with multi-meltas followed thirty metres behind the command squadron, ready to finish the task.

Sammael had faced many foes, and he trusted the judgement of his superior as much as he trusted the artifice of the armourers who had forged his war-plate and maintained Withermare. Yet looking up at the half-daemonic behemoth gave Sammael pause. All the armour in the world would not stop the beam of a turbo-laser. He felt like a gnat going up against a First Company Terminator.

The Titan’s war sirens blared again as it swept its energy-wreathed fist towards a Land Speeder, trying to swat it like a fly. The pilot was too good, dodging the attack even as the gunner continued to rain fire onto the Titan from the skimmer’s assault cannon.

The enemy had too much faith in the power of their totemic war machine. Although it was capable of destroying super heavy tanks and levelling buildings, it was just one machine, and its size restricted it to the widest plazas and thoroughfares. As much as the Ravenwing were best suited to city fighting, the Titan needed infantry support even more, to watch its back against an attack just like the one led by Gideon.

None of which made Sammael feel better about riding full speed towards the ancient colossus with nothing more than speed and skill to protect against attack. He checked again that the plasma talons were charged and activated the targeter to lock on to the huge war engine.

The Titan started to turn.

Sammael watched as the ponderous machine’s torso started to swing towards them over the roofs, and a few seconds later a foot crashed through the corner of a building. The cumbersome movements were slowed further in the Black Knight’s perception as the baleful eyes of the daemon-possessed machine glared down at the approaching bikers.

With similarly tortuous slowness, the gatling cannon swivelled on its mount.

‘Grand Master!’ Redevere barked the warning but there was no response.

‘Master Gideon, we have been detected’ said Sammael. ‘Evasive manoeuvres?’

‘Full attack speed. It can’t target us at full speed,’ the Grand Master replied calmly.

The Titan was less than three hundred metres away now. Sammael accelerated, keeping pace as Gideon’s jetbike flashed along the boulevard towards their target.

Two hundred metres.

‘We’ll be inside the minimum ra–’ Gideon’s words were lost in the roar of the gatling cannon.

Shells the size of groundcars slammed into the boulevard and surrounding buildings, one every half a second, tearing up massive chunks of ferrocrete, pulverising plastek, twisting metal supports. Fire engulfed Sammael as a shell detonated just ahead, lifting Withermare twenty metres into the air.

For a moment he felt weightless as the force of the explosion and gravity equalised. In the cloud of debris he could see other riders and mounts spinning through the dust and fire. Taking a breath, Sammael plummeted groundwards and a second later Space Marine and steed slammed into the shattered surface of the road.

Sammael survived the impact, head ringing, and watched as the fusillade continued, pounding across the neighbouring streets, driving back the rest of the Ravenwing attack. The blur of shells against the cloudy sky came closer again, hammering into a five-storey habplex to Sammael’s right. Billowing smoke and rockcrete grit, the front of the building sheared away.

The last thing Sammael saw was the Titan, turning away to confront the rest of the company, moments before the wall of masonry obscured everything and buried him in a welter of grinding shards and thunder.

Sammael had tracked the Fallen enough times that he had a sense for the Hunt. The dungeons of the Rock were an unknown labyrinth but the Black Knight headed in the direction indicated by the wounded Space Marine. There were signs that he was on the right trail: doors broken open, droplets of blood on the floor from an injury the escaped prisoner must have suffered in his duel with the Deathwing Knight and the distant pad of feet echoing down the corridors.

It seemed like an age had passed, and many kilometres, since Sammael had first left his cell, and although the Rock was large and he had ascended and descended several levels, something did not feel right. He wondered if his prey was a psyker, subtly manipulating his perception of time or distance.

This thought brought a strange stab of reality. Or rather a hyper-reality, as though acknowledging the possibility of psychic attack increasing the defences that had been implanted in his mind by the Librarians and the Chaplains. Everything suddenly appeared clean-edged, as if Sammael had pushed through a fog.

He could hear laboured breathing, still some distance away. His own breathing was slow and regular, like his heartbeat, showing none of the exertion or stress he had undergone since the interview had begun. The calm of the hunter had claimed Sammael, focusing body and mind onto a lone objective: capturing the escaped Fallen.

Sammael stopped, alert to danger, and thought back over what he had seen in the previous minutes. He had never been in this part of the Rock, as far as he knew, not even when escorting a prisoner to the handover with the Deathwing. Yet despite this there was something familiar about his surroundings. Sammael realised that he was still being manipulated.

The cross-roads of corridors he was in had smooth stone walls, mortared, the floor lined with pitted flagstones. It reminded him of the chambers higher up in the Tower of Angels. More specifically, he seemed to be in the passageways outside the Reclusiam. And the tunnel he had just run down a few moments before, metal grilles underfoot, ferrocrete bulkheads, that had been aboard a starship. And before that, the earthy smell of the caves of Glodinium where he had fought orks four decades earlier.

Everywhere had been pieced together out of fragments of his memories.

Had he moved at all since leaving the wounded Deathwing Knight? Was the psychic attack because he was close to his foe? Sammael raised the chainsword, thumb lightly touching the ignition stud.

The air wavered and parted like a pair of curtains, revealing the dry, roughly hewn stone of the Rock. There was a cell door just ahead, letting out the flickering light of candles onto the uneven tunnel floor. A shadow briefly eclipsed them and Sammael heard the flap of bare feet. He padded forward, weapon at the ready.

Reaching the door, he looked into the cell. There was a bulky figure hunched over in the corner, wearing a tattered Chapter robe. Bone-white, the colour of the Deathwing. The Space Marine stood up and turned to look at Sammael, chainsword in one hand, bolt pistol in the other.

He had the face of Sergeant Belial, one of the Deathwing Knights and long-time duelling opponent.

‘You can never best me,’ Belial sneered, saluting with the chainsword. ‘You are a lesser warrior.’

‘You can never best me,’ Belial said solemnly, raising the training blade to the salute. He did not seem to take pleasure in the lecture, but felt compelled to pass on the lesson. ‘You hope that a moment of genius will best a more efficient, superior swordsman.’

‘It takes only a moment to win,’ replied Sammael, replicating the salute.

Around them the rest of the Tenth watched. The honour of being this year’s Company Seneschal, the Scout Blademaster, was to be decided again. Belial had held it for the last six years, and Sammael had been the defeated finalist for the last three. Before Belial’s arrival, Sammael had been Blademaster for seven years.

The two of them lowered their weapons to the guard and started to circle, eyes fixed on each other. Sammael darted a feint towards Belial’s right shoulder and then straightened his blade, aiming for the throat. Belial batted aside the thrust with the flat of his sword and stepped back, waiting for the next attack.

Sammael checked his next lunge as he moved his weight forward, but Belial would not be baited. Sammael stepped to the right, lowered his left shoulder and then turned sharply back, slashing his sword at Belial’s knee. The other Dark Angel’s sword was there to meet the attack, easily blocking the blow. Some might say it was with contemptuous ease, but there was nothing but respect and sincerity in Belial’s expression as he parried yet another attack, eyes focused on the tip of Sammael’s sword.

Gritting his teeth, Sammael forced himself to hold back, trying to tempt Belial into the offensive. Sammael was convinced he had the greater hand speed, and would win if he could draw his foe into an attack-parry-riposte sequence, but Belial was ever precise in his movements and tactics, never over-extending himself. It was as infuriating as it was successful.

Sammael let his guard drop for a moment, leaving an opening to his left side, ready to dodge should Belial make the attack, but his foe still would not take up the offensive stance.

‘You are too good to leave such opportunity by chance,’ Belial said quietly. ‘Unlike many, I will never underestimate you.’

‘Dull,’ snapped Sammael, launching a blistering series of strikes towards the head and chest, forcing Belial back step by step to the edge of the circle. ‘Dull, dull, dull! You have no élan, brother!’

‘And you have no patience,’ said Belial, slipping aside from Sammael’s last strike, the edge of his practice blade scoring a red welt across Sammael’s left cheek, nearly breaking the bone.

Sammael staggered back, blood filling his mouth. His anger flared, directed not at Belial but himself.

Though his pride was hurt, Sammael raised his blade in salute.

‘You are the Blademaster once again, brother.’ The loss hurt more than Sammael’s jaw, but there was form to be observed. ‘I am again my own worst foe. But the honour is well-deserved.’

‘Too much show,’ Belial told him, returning the salute. ‘Always looking for the glorious victory, risking defeat in doing so.’

The memory had been more than simple recollection. It felt as though he relived the duel with Belial, and every other duel fought between the two Space Marines. Coming back to his senses, Sammael found himself alone in the cell and wondered why the Fallen who had taken the face of Belial had not killed him.

He still had the chainsword and concluded that the vision of Belial had been a phantasm, conjured in his mind by the renegade, rather than a glamour upon the Fallen himself. Sammael was no expert in psychic matters, but as a Black Knight he had learnt enough to understand the wiles of the Librarians that had turned against the Emperor and the Lion. The escapee had to be close at hand to use that kind of mind-altering power, perhaps even within sight, and that gave Sammael confidence. His prey was getting desperate, his power weakening through use or his injury.

Leaving the cell, Sammael followed the trail of blood droplets to the left, past several tall archways, heading up a spiral stair to the level above. His prey must have gleaned something of the dungeons and the upper levels from the mind of the wounded Deathwing Space Marine, and the further the Fallen ascended the closer he came to the Tower of Angels. Although this brought the fugitive nearer capture Sammael could not avoid thinking about the consequences of a Fallen Angel running loose in the Chapter monastery.

Most of the Chapter was, as usual, away on deployment at various warzones nearby, but there were still several dozen battle-brothers in the Tower of Angels, Space Marines that had not been brought into the smaller cadre of warriors that knew the truth about the Dark Angels’ ancient history. If the Fallen confronted them it would cause untold harm, perhaps irreparable damage to the cohesion of the Chapter. The Dark Angels survived only by considered introduction to the Hunt and the true nature of the Chapter’s fight during the Horus Heresy. Should the bulk of the battle-brothers learn that truth, should they be aware of the deception that had cloaked their learning since they had been brought to the Tower of Angels, it would finish the Chapter.

Spurred by this terrible thought, Sammael broke into a run, sensing that he was close on the heels of his prey. Along another corridor and down another flight of steps, the chase brought him onto a balcony above a large space where several passageways joined.

The far end of the balcony was blocked by a wooden door, which was being subjected to heavy chainsword blows by a semi-naked figure. Wary of being tricked again, Sammael dashed in to the attack, seeking to land his first blow before his target knew of the danger.

Some sixth sense warned the Fallen, who spun around, chainsword locking teeth with Sammael’s weapon in a clash of sparks and screeching metal. The parry threw Sammael back a step, but he lunged again, driving the whirring chainsword at his opponent’s gut. This attack was also turned aside, and it was only as he raised his weapon for another strike that Sammael looked at his foe’s face.

He stared into the dead gaze of Gideon.

‘You were not worthy,’ the former Grand Master told him, skin peeling from his bones, a maggot chewing its way out of a bloodless eye. ‘But for the happenstance of survival, another would have been leader.’

‘Not true,’ Sammael snarled, slashing his blade at the impostor’s throat. Gideon turned the clumsy blow aside and counter-attacked, swiping at Sammael’s chest and shoulders, forcing him to retreat along the balcony. Even though he knew it was a false apparition, Sammael could not help but think he was fighting the shade of his dead mentor.

Sammael saw that it was not a chainsword his opponent wielded but the fabled Raven Sword: the badge of the Ravenwing Grand Master.

The air was choked with dust and smoke and the afterwash of heat from the detonations was causing havoc with Sammael’s autosenses. At first he thought he had been buried completely, but as the smog started to drift, he saw that only his legs were pinned by a cracked stanchion that had fallen across the road. A few metres away another fractured buttress lay over the crumpled remains of Withermare. Leaking coolant had frosted the rubble around the crushed motorbike, making it appear as though the machine had been flattened by the club of a mythical frost giant. A little further away, patches of lubricant burned with green flame, adding to the sensation of the otherworldly.

Two buildings had collapsed almost in their entirety and the roadway was pocked with twenty metre wide craters from the gatling cannon impacts. The charge chamber of a plasma talon had detonated not far away, turning the surrounding ruin into a glassy molten splash. The beams of the turbo-laser flashed across the reflected surface, reminding Sammael that the Titan was not far away.

An internal sweep of his armour’s systems confirmed that the damage was light and Sammael was able to kick away the tangle of broken masonry and plasteel struts without much effort. He pushed himself to his feet and the full import of what had happened struck him.

There were broken mounts and riders scattered across the roadway, some almost completely buried, others smashed to pieces by direct shell hits. He adjusted his vox to a company-wide channel and a flood of disheartening reports crackled through the ether to his ear. The Titan had repulsed the initial attack with ease and left the company scattered again, individual squadrons doing their best to elude the enemy. Heavier vehicles were pressing from the perimeter and, along with the Titan, dominating the open spaces and wider roads. This had forced many of his company brothers into the narrower streets and alleys, where enemy cultists were able to use the dense terrain and their numbers for effective ambushes.

Sammael couldn’t raise the Grand Master on the vox and he cast about the ruins for any sign of his commander. It seemed that he was the only Black Knight to have survived the Titan’s fusillade as he inspected the black-armoured bodies littering the debris.

His autosenses picked up the thrum of an anti-grav motor off to the left. Something had veered off the street and broken through a plaster wall. Stepping through the gap, Sammael found Gideon’s jetbike half-buried beneath a collapsed ceiling, jerking and thrashing as its skim motors malfunctioned.

An arm stuck out of the tons of masonry another couple of metres further on. Forging up the sloping rubble, Sammael attacked the pile with his hands, pulling off pieces of shattered rockcrete and dragging away sheets of plastek insulation.

He revealed Gideon’s left arm and head. Neither moved. Doubling his efforts, Sammael dug out the Grand Master’s torso, tossing aside a chunk of masonry that weighed almost as much as himself, his armour boosting adrenaline-fuelled strength.

Gideon stirred a little, fingers flexing, but Sammael knew that his mentor was far from well. There was thick blood splashed across the sharp stone and the masterfully crafted artificer armour of the Grand Master was cracked and buckled in dozens of places.

The hand flapped uselessly across Gideon’s faceplate. One side of the helm was heavily dented. Realising his commander’s intent, Sammael bent down and turned the helm, breaking the seal. With a hiss of air, he pulled the helmet free, revealing Gideon’s bruised and blood-soaked face. Pieces of his skull showed through the wound in the side of his head and his ear was nothing but a gristly smear along his jaw.

The Grand Master slowly nodded and forced a smile, showing blood-flecked teeth.

‘I knew you had survived. The brothers were right, you were born for greatness.’

‘What are your orders, Grand Master?’ asked the Black Knight. ‘Do we continue the attack or withdraw?’

‘I cannot say,’ whispered Gideon. Groaning with pain, he freed his right hand from the rubble, presenting the Raven Sword to Sammael. ‘The company is yours to lead.’

With that final effort, Grand Master Gideon, veteran of six centuries of war, died.

‘No! I am right. You chose me.’ Sammael checked his retreat and brought his sword up to deflect his foe’s next attack. He was surprised to see that it was not a chainsword in his grip, but the hilt of the fabled Raven Sword.

Gideon’s tattered face twisted into a hate-filled snarl as the dead Grand Master launched a flurry of attacks.

‘You are not worthy to bear that sword,’ Gideon insisted, raining blow after blow against the meteoric iron of the blade. ‘Too rash, too clumsy, too weak. They are all better than you. Impatient, ill-disciplined upstart!’

The words had lost their venom. Sammael remembered the look in Gideon’s eyes as he had presented the Raven Sword as his final act. It had been relief. Relief that for Gideon the Hunt was over. He had been a good Master of the Ravenwing, but it was not the fate of warriors to die in peace. Sammael had seen something else in his mentor’s gaze, something that now leant strength to his sword arm.

Pride. Pride that it was Sammael who had lived to take the blade. It had been Gideon’s intent, surely, to name Sammael his successor in better times. It was not happenstance, it was not luck that Sammael had been the one chosen by Gideon, nurtured by the Grand Master for many years.

‘I earned this,’ Sammael whispered. ‘It is mine.’

The Raven Sword gleamed as Sammael countered dead Gideon’s next blow. The Black Knight grabbed the hilt in both hands and twisted his wrists to deliver a riposte. The top of the blade sliced across the forehead of his dead mentor, spilling not blood but maggots and filth. Sammael felt nothing as he sliced again, cutting open his foe from throat to ear.

Still Gideon would not fall. The reanimated corpse dribbled thick blood from rot-ravaged lips and lunged forward, seeking to pierce Sammael’s chest. Sammael moved, allowing the blade to penetrate his shoulder, but in doing so he opened up the space for a swing at his opponent. With one last slash of the Raven Sword, Sammael cut Gideon’s head from the shoulders.

Still the thing was not wholly dead. From the ground it spat its hate at Sammael.

‘Tell me, coward, how you despoiled my legacy! How did you survive when I did not?’

‘I was no coward, nor braver than you,’ Sammael replied. ‘Just better.’

Sammael connected his vox to the command broadcast via Gideon’s downed jetbike. He took a deep breath and then issued his statement.

‘This is Sammael. Master Gideon is dead. The rest of the Black Knights are dead. I am assuming command of the Second Company. Orders to follow.’

Sammael’s priority was to get mobile again so he could see for himself what was happening. The Titan had directed its attention elsewhere and he was able to scour the rubble for a functioning steed. He recognised the markings as the bike that had belonged to Redevere. There was no sign of the former owner beneath the tumbled ruins.

Mounted and moving again, he pieced together what had happened from the bike’s auspex records. The Titan must have detected the energy signature of the Black Knights’ plasma talons, and calculated that they were the greatest threat despite the diversionary attacks. It had deliberately exposed itself to the assault, luring Gideon into the charge before turning to fire its gatling blaster.

Sammael recalled his last question to Gideon, one that he now faced. Did they stay or withdraw?

The Titan still dominated Vespengard and if the Ravenwing exited the city it would take a lot of effort and lives to retake it. The Titan was really the only thing stopping the company controlling Vespengard, nothing else the enemy possessed was fast enough or powerful enough to keep the Ravenwing contained. Weighed against that was the fact that it was a Titan and one assault had already failed.

The first matter was to steady the company following the recent setbacks. Issuing his orders in the same clipped, calm tone he had heard from Gideon so many times, Sammael started to wield the Ravenwing as if it was his own, trusting to the squadron leaders to interpret and carry out his orders according to their individual situations. The Ravenwing prided themselves on their independence of thought and Sammael was not going to fight against that nature.

Land Speeders and aircraft concentrated their attack runs on the Titan, keeping it occupied in the central part of the city. They were fast enough to elude its counter-fire, and the enemy still had not moved in other units to support the war engine against these attacks. It seemed they thought it was so powerful that it could fight anything by itself, but they were wrong. Sammael would show them just how wrong.

Sammael brought in Darkshrouds to cover the movements of the bike and attack bike squadrons. Under the utter blackness of the ancient shroud generators he brought the company together in the warren of streets, warehouses and marshalling yards that dominated the western part of the city.

Although utter destruction had been prevented, there were few facts to lighten Sammael’s mood. He had received word from the Implacable Justice in orbit that the battle-barge had detected two more traitor vessels emerging from the cover of an asteroid field. There would be no orbital support for the moment while the ship engaged these new foes.

Thirty per cent of the company’s warriors were dead or too badly injured to fight. The two remaining Thunderhawks were used to evacuate them from the contested city. A similar proportion of machines were also destroyed or damaged, but a hasty reorganisation brought some semblance of structure back to the force, matching functioning mounts with capable riders. Sammael now appreciated fully the many days of training he had undergone on bike, Land Speeder, attack bike and aircraft and the versatility of the company’s tactics proved its worth now.

Concentrating on the grander strategy, Sammael left it to his subordinates to implement the improvised reorganisation. His time was better spent drafting fresh orders and assimilating the latest intelligence reports from the Land Speeder recon sweeps and the last orbital augur scan.

When order had been restored, Sammael made the decision he had been delaying for the best part of a day: to fight or leave.

To admit defeat, to preserve life only to expect others to sacrifice theirs for the victory abandoned, was not in Sammael’s mind. It would be an insult to the Dark Angels that had already made the gravest sacrifice. Worse, it would be a condemnation of Gideon’s decision to attack – a condemnation that Sammael did not feel.

Gideon’s reasoning had been right even if his execution had ultimately proved to be flawed. Sammael would now perfect the plan.

The attack began with Darkshrouds circling the city centre to come at the enemy from the north, moving as though they were screening an attacking force. At the same time Land Speeders and attack bikes approached from the east, fighting their way through some of the more lightly contested streets.

Both manoeuvres were a diversion.

Sammael and a few of the company’s best riders roared towards the Titan through the blazing remains of the central power station, turned to a ruin by the Titan’s bombardments. Here plasma reactors and burning power lines masked the energy signature of the half a dozen bikes approaching at speed. Only the best could negotiate the tangle of molten ferrocrete and shattered plastek, the undulating turns of roadway and cratered earth. Where Gideon had launched a massed attack, Sammael sought victory with just a handful of warriors. It was counter-intuitive to take on the Titan with less firepower, but it was the only way Sammael could see that the Titan’s sensors could be fooled.

Their timing was perfect. The Titan was turning to the east, moving away from the feint attack in the north, just as Sammael and his squadron burst from cover.

Static blurred and fizzed at Sammael’s autosenses and his skin crawled as he crashed through the half-seen boundary of the Titan’s void shield. Point defence turrets of heavy stubbers and autocannons opened fire from the body of the Titan but the bikes were coming too fast for the weapons to track, their fire trailing across the pocked ground behind the charging riders.

Forming a line behind Sammael, shells screamed past just centimetres away, and the squadron raced along just a couple of metres from the Titan’s leg, riding one handed. They threw melta-charges as they passed, the magneto-clamps of the anti-armour bombs attaching to the Titan’s artificial skin.

A bestial roar of annoyance split the sky as Sammael peeled away. More turret fire cracked the air around the commander as he sent the detonation signal.

Sammael turned to see the chain of explosions tearing through the armour and struts of the possessed Titan’s lower leg. Oil and ichor poured from the wound like blood while the half-organic matter within fractured, toppling the Titan sideways.

A plaintive wail of war sirens heralded the Titan’s fall as it ploughed into a burning factory and disappeared in a plume of dust and fire.

A moment later an explosion like a star being born tore out the heart of the city, levelling buildings as a dome of plasma rose into the air. A half-circle of golden energy burned itself into Sammael’s memory.

The vision faded as Sammael staggered back, looking to steady himself against the balustrade. Instead of carved stone, he felt his spine touching wood, and as his vision cleared he found himself staring into a single golden eye.

Reality resolved from his swirling thoughts. The cell reasserted itself into his conscious mind, along with the chairs and the table.

Ezekiel leaned back and nodded, finally breaking his gaze.

‘The test is passed,’ the Librarian announced.

Sammael shook his head, trying to clear the last vestiges of the nightmare that had been visited upon him by the psyker. His eye caught the look of Azrael, who was standing to one side as he had been all this time. Sammael’s memory, his real memory, welled up like a spring, filling in the last few minutes; he had not moved from the chair the whole time.

‘Congratulations,’ said Azrael. He smiled, the expression full of warmth and pride. ‘Gideon’s choice was wise. You are worthy of becoming Grand Master.’

HONOUR OF THE THIRD

‘Seventeen worlds have drowned in blood. Seventeen worlds and countless millions hewn down by the battle-lust of a single man. Now that rage incarnate has beset Durga Principe. Here we will halt the tide.’

So had been the last command of Master Nadael of the Dark Angels Third Company before he too had fallen to the horde of the arch-traitor Furion. In the darkness they had come, cleaving through the outer perimeter like a blade.

Now the warriors from the Tower of Angels looked to Sergeant Belial for leadership even as the night was torn apart by distant battle cries and the baying of Furion’s manic Skull-scythes. In the ruins of the Temple Saturnis, a complex of sandstone and marble that covered several square kilometres, looked down upon by cracked statues of the Emperor and his saints, Belial held swift council with the veterans of the company.

‘We cannot hold the temple. Master Nadael had hoped to fortify before Furion’s arrival, but it is too late. The naves and galleries provide too much cover for the foe and our superiority of firepower is for nought.’ Belial gestured westward to the palace-topped hill that overlooked the Temple Saturnis. ‘We must withdraw to the flanks of Mount Dawon and await the dawn.’

‘Fine strategy, but flawed,’ countered Sergeant Meneus, chosen representative of the company’s Devastator squads. ‘The enemy will fall upon our turned backs before we can quit this place. It will become our mausoleum.’

‘True, brother, but only if we turn tail and flee like rats. This will be a withdrawal, not a rout. A rearguard will entertain the Skull-scythes while the remainder of the company relocates. I shall lead the defence.’

There was no further argument from the others. They well understood the need for rapid action and the sacrifice Belial was willing to make. Returning to his squad, Belial ordered his warriors to break out from the Dark Angels line, heading towards the foe. Augur readings showed the traitors were less than a kilometre away and closing swiftly.

‘I am resolved to my death tonight,’ remarked Lederon, second only to Belial in seniority amongst the squad, ‘but is it wise to hasten that moment with our own advance?’

‘If we cannot hold, we must attack, it is that simple,’ explained Belial as the ten Space Marines marched through the tumble of toppled pillars, collapsed shrines and broken chapels. The skies were clear, allowing the three moons to bathe the ruins in pale blue light. ‘Every second and every metre are vital.’

They met the first traitors in a crumbling, plant-choked cloister. Clad in white armour marked with handprints and smears of dried blood the Skull-scythes spilled through an archway. They were met by the fire of the squad’s bolters, missile launcher and meltagun.

‘No forgiveness! No retreat!’ Belial roared as the enemy tumbled to the ground amidst the torrent of bolts and blasts.

The firefight was brutally short, but the peace that followed was only momentary as more of the slaughter-hungry foe converged on the Dark Angels. To tarry was to invite encirclement. Belial led the squad through the archway into the courtyard beyond, laying down fire with his bolt pistol. Like moths to a flame the Skull-scythes were drawn to the fighting, howling for blood and death.

The Dark Angels took a heavy toll, manoeuvring through the ruins for ambuscades and crossfires that cut down the traitors as they plunged headlong into the attack. Through streaks of pale light and shadows in roofless cathedrals and across devastated quadrangles Belial steered the squad, always seeking open ground, knowing that at close quarters his warriors would be overwhelmed. Building by building, street by street, they gave ground to the enemy advance, stopping to give fire when possible, moving back towards their battle-brethren when they could not.

‘We have drawn their sting, brother-sergeant. It would be unwise to remain any longer,’ said Lederon. The veteran’s observation was correct: the rest of the Third were clear of the ancient Ecclesiarchy buildings and the squad was almost at the edge of the ruins.

‘Agreed, brother,’ replied Belial. ‘We fall back to the company.’

As soon as he uttered these words, another force of Skull-scythes appeared in the darkness. At their fore strode a beast of a warrior. His plate was adorned with spiked chains, and from the chains hung trophy-skulls that clattered as they swung. In both hands he bore a massive chain-axe, its teeth glinting in the wan light.

Furion, arch-traitor, thrice-cursed slaughterer.

‘Your little game of hide and seek is over, son of the Lion!’ Furion bellowed as he broke into a run. Behind him, the Skull-scythes screamed dedications to their dark god and followed their champion’s charge.

The Dark Angels opened fire, standing their ground to blaze away at the approaching enemy. Furion ignored the detonations of bolt-rounds on his armour, sprinting through the storm without pause. His axe took Brother Mendeleth’s head clean off in one sweep; the traitor’s return swing eviscerated Lederon in a welter of blood and shattered armour.

‘Keep firing!’ Belial snarled as he bounded forward to meet the attack. He was too late to save Brother Sabellion, whose torso was cleaved from waist to shoulder. Belial would atone for his slowness if he survived.

As shots from Belial’s pistol exploded across his armour, Furion turned to meet the sergeant’s counterattack. Raising his chainsword for the strike, Belial ducked beneath Furion’s blade as the traitor swept it towards the Dark Angel’s throat. The teeth of the chainsword bit into armour, screeching as they chewed into Furion’s left arm.

Furion lashed out as blood spurted from his wounded limb, smashing the haft of his weapon into the side of Belial’s head. Out of instinct, the sergeant raised his blade to ward away the next blow. Razor-sharp shards of metal showered around him as chain-blade met chain-blade. Furion’s next strike shattered Belial’s weapon and sent him stumbling to his right.

Lifting his axe in victory, the Skull-scythes lord loomed over the sprawling sergeant.

‘Blood for the Bl–’

Furion’s triumphant roar was cut short by the bark of Belial’s bolt pistol. The explosive round pierced the collar of the traitor’s armour and detonated inside his throat to send his head arcing away into the darkness. For a moment Belial was taken aback by his deadly reflex shot.

The headless corpse crashed to the ground and Belial recovered, realising that only he and Brother Ramiel remained standing amongst friend and foe. Thermal registers betrayed the presence of other enemies close at hand.

‘The death of the Skull-scythes’ leader will cause our foe some strife, and let us hope the search for his successor delays them further,’ said Belial. ‘Our duty here is done to my satisfaction, brother. To Mount Dawon, where the guns of the Third wait to greet these traitors.’

HOLDER OF THE KEYS

‘I did what I had to do. I did what I had been trained to do. What I had been created to do. I killed them. I fought as hard as I could against my enemies. I focused my lethal attention on them to the exclusion of all other concerns until they were destroyed.

‘They came at us, in armour chipped and cracked by countless previous battles. Veterans of war, their anger and hatred honed to a razor’s edge. The sky burned and the ground buckled beneath their rage as they tried to wipe us out. No price was too high to pay for our deaths.

‘They wore our blood as a trophy. It glistened on their black armour and slicked their bared silver blades. With eyes of red they gazed upon us and thought nothing of the slaughter. Heartless, merciless, deadly. They hungered for the kill. For our lives. Nothing would stop them.

‘The thunder of their bombardment continued and the fury of lasers and tracers lit the night sky as bright as day. Such a war-tumult I have never known. Not even during the misguided wrath of the Great Crusade was a world so wracked by such vigorous ire.

‘Beyond the red and blue and green beams that criss-crossed the sky the stars themselves paled beside the detonations of the continuing battle in orbit. The hulls of starships fell as comets. Fragments of armour descended in fiery hail, hissing and burning. Where they landed, the ancient forests around our cities blazed.

‘None could be spared to quell the spreading flames. The arcologies were wreathed in the smoke, those within choked by the fumes. Hundreds of thousands suffocated, lungs seared by hot smog. There could be no evacuation. Outside was as lethal as within. Thousands more died in the panicked stampedes. We watched our homes reduced to ashes.

‘Such were the blessings of Terra in that anointed age.

‘The vox-channels were a-howl with the cries of the dying and the wounded. Even those of us hardened by centuries of battle could make no sense of the anarchy. Nobody was in command.’

A face from nightmare loomed out of the darkness. It was a skull sheathed in flowing blood, sparks of golden fire for eyes. When it spoke, the sparks became intense flames, searing his soul. The voice echoed inside his head, coming from within.

+How did you kill them? The attack. Remember the attack. I am the key to the prison of your guilt. Repent of your crimes and know peace.+

Memories fluttered to the surface and he could not resist the urge to speak, to give voice as witness to the terrible events.

‘Amongst the plasma and torpedoes fell drop pods, filled with warriors thirsting for blood. The outer brochs and ravelins had been silenced, reduced to slag. The capital still stood proud and tall amongst the ruins of our lands. The Gorgon-forged aegis-ward was still operational. As our foes’ anger fell upon it the sound was as of a myriad of roaring dragons. Two gunships, shadows against the darkness. They saw us, our thermic signatures stark to their artificial eyes. We sought shelter amongst the broken keeps and shattered curtain walls.

‘The flare of their missiles cut the darkness. Nemethiel died then, torn in half by the strike. Galderian lost a leg and we had to abandon him. He insisted and we had no choice but to comply. His bolter rang out in defiance until another missile struck.

‘We sought shelter within an orillon at the Bronze Gate. Once we had paraded on the training grounds east of that immense bastion. Now the open mustering field had become a cratered, plasma-scorched wasteland. The five thousand banners that had lined the field had been toppled. The mighty stands where thirty thousand cheering brothers had watched the jousts and duels were charred splinters and puddles of molten steel.

‘It was temporary respite. The gunships knocked, their battlecannon shells an insistent request for entry. The Bronze Gate was sterner yet than their attacks, with deep foundations and thick walls. In time they disgorged their bloodthirsty cargo, who set to the tower portals with lascutters and melta charges.

‘We welcomed them with lascannon and bolter. The crackle of Hereth’s tempest lance illuminated our hunters with an azure flare before shattering the armour of the first through the breach. Such a storm was our defiance that the assault relented and the enemy withdrew.

‘And then the horror was unleashed, as the gunships pounded our position with phosphex shells. The deadly purple fire lapped at the gate tower and streamed through the breach. It was drawn to us, filled with a disturbing hate of its own.

‘We fell back again, but it followed, spreading, pooling, searching for us, filling every room with a fire that gave off no smoke. If I had doubted it before, I did not doubt then that our enemies were truly vile. They were possessed of no emotion at all and showed no compunction in the deployment of such hideous death.

‘But for the grace of the universe, we would have died. A terrible death, agonising, lingering, as the hungry flames ate through our armour and devoured our flesh.

‘Who could ever say we were not right to defend ourselves against such horror?’

The face loomed larger, shifting, growing flesh over the bone. A monstrous wolfshead it became, snarling, breath as hot as the crawling phosphex, its jaws dripping fire like saliva. Its golden eyes reflected the prisoner’s bloodied, scarred face. Yet in that reflection he was twisted, eyes missing, flesh torn even more, weeping. It was not a mirror of what was, but a reflection of what was to come.

+A lie! Justice was meted out. A fate you deserved. What happened before the gunships? What had you done to deserve such retribution? We will unlock the truth, you and I.+

‘Nothing!’

He became aware of a pain, a dull ache. It nagged at him, like a rat gnawing at the base of his skull.

+Do not avoid the question. Admit your crimes. Tell the truth and be set free.+

The gnawing became more insistent. To distract himself he stared at the apparition floating just in front of his face. The eyes of the wolf were growing larger, engulfing him, mesmerising. The desire to confess was strong. The panting of the wolf revealed itself as his breaths, coming sharp from bloodied lips, become vapour in the chill air.

He shuddered.

‘They had chased us from orbit. There they had spat their hate upon us, spewing fighters from burning flight decks. Like a storm of swords they fell upon our station. We manned the defence batteries. Macro-cannons and mass-fusillade laser barrages. A wall of fire, a barrier of lightning and plasma and missiles to fend off the rage of a demigod.

‘Somehow they made it through. Torpedo bombers targeted us, destroying the cannon galleries and upper platforms. Assault pods crashed into the lower decks. We stayed at the guns as long as possible. We had orders and followed them. We would make the traitors pay. Slay them. Teach them that we would never again be slaves.

‘We fired until the power cells melted. We fired until the barrels of the rotary cannons glowed. We fired even as bulkhead after bulkhead was breached and the foe swarmed towards us.

‘When the enemy was at the door we stopped firing and took up our bolt pistols and power swords for close work. Landevort had a volkite carbine he had kept since the Two hundred and thirty-first Expedition. Took it from the dead hands of an Ultramarine. “For the battle to end all battles,” he used to say when he polished it and gloated to the newer recruits.

‘And that battle was upon us, we knew.

‘We opened the doors and charged. Bolt pistols barked, swords hissed and Landevort’s carbine spat archaic fire. They had not been expecting a counter-attack. Up we fought, up through seven decks of death and hell and the clamour of close battle. Six of us made it to the saviour pods, and not before we had accounted for twenty of the foe. The station was lost. We knew it would be.

‘Fight hard, withdraw quickly, form the line again. That was the strategy. We would keep back the rage of a whole empire as long as one of us remained to keep up the fight.

‘Even as we sought to leave a fresh onslaught fell upon us. Hadreus was the best of us, master of blades, and he leapt to our defence while others of the garrison departed in the saviour pods. His chainsabres held the door for three full minutes. There was a lull and we called for him to come back. We would not desert him. But then we saw who led the foe and knew that Hadreus had left it too late.

‘Arch-traitor, once the noblest of us, who should have stood at our lord’s right hand. Caliban’s glorious son. Now lickspittle to the filth of Terra. Paladin. Pure Blade. Houndlord. Dread Corswain.

‘In beast’s mantle he approached, a greatsword in his grasp, its edge spilling white fire. Where such a sword came from, what debts he owed for its gifting, who would dare say? Hadreus knew better than to wait for the attack. He threw himself at the Pure Blade and his guard. Corswain was there in a moment. His sword rose and met Hadreus’s descending blades. The ring of their clash echoed back to us and we knew that Hadreus had swung his last strike.

‘Corswain moved in a way I have never seen any warrior move. Even encumbered by his armour, he was past Hadreus in an instant. His sword parted our companion from gut to nape in one blow.

‘It was always part of the plan to leave the station. But I admit, freely, that we saw Corswain look upon us in that moment and we fled, for to remain was to die.’

+Your cowardice needs no confirmation. We have a list of those that held true and those that fell. Your treachery is all the proof we need of your low moral courage.+

He found himself in those dark forests on Caliban that he had called home. Darker even than he remembered. The trees crowded close together, leaving nothing but slanted shadows and moonlight. Hot breath steamed in the still. Eyes of golden fire gleamed in the night.

He started to run. The panting grew louder and his hearts hammered with effort. He could feel hot breath at his back. He blurted a confession, hoping it would allay the pursuing beast.

‘It was dishonourable to destroy the station! Scorched earth, that was the command. Leave no pursuing foe. The reactor was set to overload from the moment the battle started. It was not an honourable blow, but we were desperate.’

The wolf’s growl was so close, right behind him. He made the mistake of looking back. No wolf now, the apparition had become a monster outright. Its flesh was scaled, body sinuous, claws and fangs burning with golden flame. A beast of Caliban Lost, like he used to hunt as a knight of the Order. The monster’s roar was inside his head, a pain that threatened to split his skull apart.

+Lies! You are damned if you do not confess all! Not the victim, the brave defender. Murderer, cold-blooded slayer of brothers. Admit your sins and be free.+

The monster sunk its talons into him and the pain released a memory, torn from the depths of his mind.

+Starfire!+

+The word echoes in your thoughts. You hope that you will never hear it. A single word, dripping with so much meaning. But for all your regrets, you do not hesitate. That one word sets you into action.+

+Lured close by your fake protestations of surrender, a strike cruiser approaches your station. The others look to you, their leader. Even now, with so much at stake, you have a chance. Obey the order or stand down. They trust you.+

+Starfire!+

+You choose to listen to the lies of your lord rather than the oaths you had sworn to the Lion.+

+“Open fire,” you tell them. “Full barrage. Let these fawning oafs know that Caliban will die free!”+

+And the cannons open fire and the shields of the strike cruiser burst into red blossoms. Blasts from other platforms overload the shield generators and the target starts to turn away. But you are not satisfied with driving them off. There will be no mercy. The bombardment continues. The strike cruiser cracks, its armour pierced, the welter of hammerblows upon it from laser and shell too much to bear.+

+“No relent!” you cry. What a perversion of that great motto of your gene-father. “No relent.”+

+And your brothers die in their hundreds by your treacherous hand.+

The pain was all-consuming. He was engulfed by it. He could stand no more and realised that the shriek of the splintering warship was the scream from his lips.

A robed figure looked at him, one eye glittering with gold, the other a biomechanical replacement. It was his last vision as sanity faded and skull-faced armoured giants entered to drag him away.

RAVENWING

ONE

HADRIA PRAETORIS

VETERAN REBORN

How did the Lion die?

It was a simple question, innocently asked, and Brother Annael had wondered why, in over four hundred years of service to the Dark Angels Chapter, it had not occurred to him before. It was the question that had propelled him from an assault squad in the Fifth Company to the ranks of the Second Company, the lauded Ravenwing, and that was when he had found out the truth.

Horus, arch-traitor, thrice-cursed, had murdered the primarch of the Dark Angels.

So he had been told by Brother Malcifer, Chaplain of the Ravenwing, when Annael had been inducted into the lore of the Second Company. Annael had understood immediately why such knowledge was so closely guarded; that the Dark Angels had been brought to the brink of destruction by other Space Marines had been a testing revelation.

He had known that there were always the weak-willed, even amongst the Adeptus Astartes, who put themselves and their ambition above the call of duty and their oaths of dedication to the Emperor. He had fought against such heretics on eight different occasions, bringing the justice of death to them with chainsword and bolt pistol, but had never suspected the full horror of the temptations that draw good warriors away from the service of the Emperor.

Weeping, Annael had listened as Malcifer had related the tale of the Horus Heresy, a cataclysmic civil war that had threatened to destroy the Imperium at its birth. The Dark Angels, the First Legion, greatest of the Emperor’s warriors, had fought against the evil of Horus and those primarchs who had been corrupted by his silken-tongued promises, and they had triumphed. The victory had been won at great cost, and Lion El’Jonson, the primarch of the Dark Angels had given his life to defeat the enemy.

Now that he was a member of the Ravenwing, it was Annael’s duty to hold to that knowledge and keep it as a sacred fire in his heart to lend strength to his sword arm and to fuel his courage in battle. Armed with such understanding, it was the Ravenwing that sought out those traitors who had turned on the Emperor, so that they might be brought to account for their sins. As a Space Marine of the Dark Angels, Annael had never lacked conviction, honour or valour, but as a chosen warrior of the Ravenwing he now understood the importance of discretion and brotherhood even more sharply.

As the attack sirens sounded again across the strike cruiser Implacable Justice, Annael considered the sacrifice of the Lion and knew that he was willing to make the same sacrifice to protect the Chapter and the Emperor’s dominion. His existence was not for a normal life, but to be an instrument of the Dark Angels’ vengeance against those who had so wronged them.

While he pondered his change of perspective, Annael continued with his pre-battle preparations. He had already donned his armour, allowing the adepts of the Techmarines to perform their consecrations to the Machine-God before attending to his mount.

That machine, called Black Shadow, was as much a symbol of his position in the Ravenwing as the emblem on his knee and the markings on his shoulder pad. In the Scout Company he had been taught to honour his weapons and his armour, and they had served him well for four centuries of battle. Now that same honour extended to his steed, and Annael was attentive in his application of the unguents to the engine and suspension, and conscientious as he spoke the dedications to the spirit of the motorbike.

It was a fine mount, and it had a history no less acclaimed than his own. In the yellow light of the boarding bay’s lamps the black enamelled fairing gleamed with polish that he had applied himself only an hour before. A serf of the armoury was checking the belt feeds of the twin bolters housed in the front cowling above the handlebars, muttering invocations that would ward away jams and misfires.

‘Are you excited, brother?’ Still with a hint of his Lauderian accent, Zarall’s deep voice was unmistakable. Annael looked around and saw his squadron-brother standing at the back of Black Shadow, his helm in one hand so that his features could be seen. Zarall had a broad chin and rounded cheeks, a flat nose and bright, blue eyes, and his head was topped with white hair cropped almost to the scalp. His black armour was festooned with purity and devotional seals – strips of parchment on which were written the sacred oaths and texts of the Chapter, fastened with red wax. There were twenty-eight in all, each awarded by the Grand Master of Chaplains, Sapphon, for heroic deeds and clarity of faith; Annael had six and was one hundred and fifty years Zarall’s senior.

‘I am always excited by the prospect of purposeful endeavour,’ replied Annael, standing up. Zarall raised his eyebrows doubtfully and Annael relented in his attempt at nonchalance. ‘All right, I feel as I did the first time I dropped as a full battle-brother. It is as if the last four hundred years had never happened.’

‘You have a fine steed and attend well to its requirements, there is no need for apprehension,’ said Zarall.

‘I did not say that I was apprehensive,’ replied Annael. He patted the saddle of Black Shadow. ‘I said I was excited. I am accustomed to the drills and procedures of the squadron. I have no doubt that I will acquit myself with honour and courage.’

‘Yes, but you are to be blessed on your first drop with us,’ said Zarall. ‘Grand Master Sammael himself will lead the attack. Be sure that his eye will fall upon the deeds of his newest recruit.’

‘And his eye will see only that which pleases him,’ Annael assured the other Space Marine. ‘Did Sergeant Cassiel ask you to ensure I was aware of the importance of my inaugural performance?’

‘Not at all, brother,’ said Zarall. The Space Marine smiled, realising that his questions were intrusive. ‘I meant no disrespect. I wished to pay my regards and tell you that I am pleased to have you serve as my squadron-brother. The Emperor is equally pleased to count you amongst the First.’

Annael grasped the hand that Zarall offered, acknowledging the apology and the praise. It was unbecoming of a Dark Angel to feel prideful, but Annael gained some satisfaction from his battle-brother’s confidence.

‘We shall bring honour to the squadron and the company, together,’ Annael said. Another armoured figure appeared behind Zarall. ‘Brother Araton, have you word yet of when we embark?’

‘Sergeant Cassiel is still in briefing with the Grand Master,’ said Araton. Stepping past Zarall, Araton looked over Annael’s bike, his experienced eye taking in every detail at a glance. He was more slender of features than Zarall, his hair shoulder-length, nose regal and eyes deep blue. ‘You have yet to calibrate your sighting arrays, brother.’

‘I was about to attend to that,’ said Annael, opting to take Araton’s comment as observation rather than criticism.

He swung a leg over the saddle of Black Shadow and powered up the control panel set underneath the twin bolters. The screen flickered into life with a green light, showing a selection of scanning options. With a sub-vocal command Annael brought up the sighting display inside the lens of his right eye and activated the link between his armour and the machine. After a brief burst of static, the data from the bike’s array transferred into his autosenses, half of Annael’s view becoming a schematic of the mustering bay, the other members of the squad and their bikes highlighted by glowing red runes.

Annael deactivated the link and stepped off the bike, returning his attention to his companions. Brother Sabrael had joined the group, the white of a freshly painted chevron bright on his right greave amongst several other battle honours. Annael had heard at length from Sabrael how the honour had been earned against the orks of Pahysis; several times, in fact.

‘Be sure to keep up when we attack, brother,’ said Sabrael, the hint of a laugh in his voice. His aristocratic tone had become familiar to Annael during his induction into the company, a remnant of the Dark Angel’s upbringing in the privileged classes of Aginor Sigma. How the son of a coddled elite had managed to pass the harsh initiation tests of the Chapter was a mystery to Annael, but Sabrael had proven himself a capable, if impetuous, warrior over decades of battle, his name frequently appearing in the Honoris Registarum. ‘And try not to fall off that fine machine.’

‘I will take especial care,’ replied Annael, wondering when the novelty of his induction would cease to provide amusement for his squadron-brethren. ‘When you dash into more trouble than you can handle, be sure that I will not be far behind to drag you out.’

Sabrael laughed and walked away to his own machine, his armour managing to replicate the slight swagger in his step.

‘Forgive Sabrael’s exuberance,’ said Zarall. ‘He is a good warrior, despite the constant vexation he causes the Chaplains.’

‘Do not be too swift to follow his example,’ said Araton. ‘We fight as a squadron. The line between enthusiasm and foolhardiness can be crossed all too easily.’

‘I can hear you over the vox-net, brothers,’ Sabrael’s response came to Annael’s ear via his helmet communicator. ‘I know well the time for action and the time for contemplation, in right proportion.’

Annael was about to reply when Sergeant Cassiel’s voice broke over the comm.

‘Embarkation in ten minutes, stand by your mounts. Final briefing in five minutes. Be glad, for Grand Master Sammael has found us a worthy target of attention. There will be honour aplenty to spare for all of us.’

Zarall and Araton departed to their machines, leaving Annael to complete his pre-battle checks. Mounting Black Shadow he ran a series of diagnostic tests on the bike’s systems and all seemed to be functioning within tolerable parameters. He made a vocal note in his battle log to commend the Techmarines of the armoury on their diligence in preparing the machine for its new rider.

When he was ready, Annael thumbed the ignition rune and the engine of his mount growled into life. Black Shadow came alive beneath him, trembling with suppressed power. Gunning the engine, he monitored the performance display in front of him and was satisfied that all was in working order. In time, he had been told by Cassiel, he would know by sound and feel whether all was well with his steed, but for the moment he relied upon the internal systems to warn him of any cause for concern.

Engaging the gearbox, Annael allowed Black Shadow to roll forward a short distance, thick tyres gripping the meshwork of the deck, blue-grey smoke chugging from the exhausts. He wheeled the bike around and saw that the other squadron members were lining up by the gateway to the docking hangar.

The attack siren sounded three times: five minutes until the drop would begin. Easing into his place at the back of the squadron, Annael felt his excitement rising again. Inside his helm, he grinned, amused at himself for feeling like a neophyte at his first battle.

MUSTER

Accompanied by the calm voice of Grand Master Sammael instructing his warriors, the rising and falling attack siren filled the decks of the Dark Angels’ strike cruiser Implacable Justice. All across the two and a half kilometres-long ship motors were growling into life and anti-grav engines whined. Hydraulics wheezed so that immense pistons moved Dark Talon and Nephilim fighters from their transport berths into the launch hangars that took up the majority of the ship’s bulk. The clank of chains and thump of pneumatics moved cascades of specially-constructed drop pods into position above yawning bay doors.

Exhaust smoke billowed along wide corridors and across the metal aprons of the mustering halls; the clouds sucked away through atmosphere processors that would reclaim trace elements of minerals before the raw gases were shunted back into the air refinery plant and moisture extracted to keep alive those aboard the spaceship. Built to patrol for decades at a time, the Implacable Justice wasted nothing.

The growl of engines became deafening as ten bike squadrons assembled, their high-density tyres leaving marks on the ferrocrete-lined passageways. Black as night were these machines, and black as night were the warriors that rode them, clad in armour of thick, rounded plates. Such was the nature of the Space Marines’ power armour that they seemed as much machine as the heavy motorbikes on which they rode; half-mechanical, half-living avatars of the Emperor’s vengeance.

Each rider bore the markings of his Chapter: a white-winged sword upon his left shoulder guard, squadron markings and rank identifiers on the right. Each machine was marked with the symbol of the company upon its armoured flanks and wheel guards. Some bikes bore devotional scripts painted by the riders. Others were decorated with intricately painted wings and feathers in white. Each bike bore a name, an honorific given to the machine by the armourium when it was built. The riders knew the names and deeds of their mounts as well as they knew their brothers, though the secret of the name was shared only by the rider and the Master of the Forge.

In the launch bays, Land Speeders glided into position to be locked into their drop-shields, the crews and machines encased in slabs of reinforced ceramite and plasteel. Warning lights flashed red as the drop-bay doors opened, the air within the launch chambers expanding into the vacuum as pale gusts of vapour and glittering ice.

Every warrior was filled with purpose and the comm-net was quiet of chatter as Sammael steered his mount into the fuselage of a waiting Thunderhawk gunship. A relic of the ancient past, Corvex was a larger, more heavily armed and armoured cousin to the bikes ridden by the rest of the company, suspended a few feet from the ground by powerful anti-grav engines, the workings of which had defied replication by the Chapter’s Techmarines. Upon the front fairing, above the polished white rendering of a great eagle with wings unfurled, was bound the Liber Corvus, the pages of which were inked the names of all the Ravenwing who had died on the hunt. Corvex’s power plant growled quietly as the jetbike slipped forward, energy pulsing through armoured cabling to the plasma cannon and storm bolters mounted under the cowling.

Unlike the other machines of the Ravenwing, Corvex’s name was well-known to all, its history entwined with the myths of the many Masters of the Ravenwing that had come before. It was this lineage, this legend, that Sammael now continued.

Sammael was garbed in the black armour of his company, adorned with personal heraldry in red and white, inscribed with litanies of remembrance and devotion. Over this he wore the white robes of a veteran of the Deathwing, for no Dark Angel could become a company Grand Master without first passing through the ranks of the First Company. Gilded skulls and scrolled honours upon his ebon plate stood testament to centuries of battle and victories. From his backpack flowed his adamantine mantle, the white cloak woven with fibres taken from the cloak of the Lion himself.

Within the transport compartment of the drop-ship his command officers waited for him on their bikes: the company Chaplain, Brother Malcifer; Brother Gideon the Apothecary; the honour guards Athelman and Daedis; and with them in the blue armour of the Librarium sat Epistolary Harahel. The command squad raised fists to welcome their leader. The ramp closed behind him, sealing them into the ruddily-lit belly of the Thunderhawk.

Acknowledging their salutes of fealty, Sammael killed the engine of the Corvex so that the machine drifted gently down to the deck. Locking bolts rose up in response to its weight on the floor, fastening the jetbike with padded grips, embracing it as tightly as a lover. Dismounting, Sammael activated his vox-caster and switched to fleet address so that his words would be heard by all aboard the Implacable Justice and the companion strike cruiser Penitent Warrior.

‘Warriors of the Ravenwing, honoured brethren of the Fifth Company, we stand upon the brink of battle. All here have proven their worth to the Emperor time and time again, and it falls to us to honour oaths once more. On the world below us, vile rebellion has slithered like a serpent into the hearts of men who once dedicated their lives to the Emperor. This snake has bitten hard and its venom flows deep, so that only the most bloody excision of the wound will rid the populace of its fatal taint.

‘We each know our measure and we acknowledge the duty expected of us. We are the Dark Angels, the First, who carry the pride of the Emperor upon our shoulders. In wars uncountable we have prevailed against the heretic, the alien and the mutant, and today shall be no different. Justice demands that we seek reparation for the wrongs done to the servants of the Emperor on this world. Let us be about our purpose with bold hearts and faith in our brothers. Look to your armour to protect you, your steeds to carry you and your weapons to honour you. Turn thoughts to those oppressed and fragile men we will rid from the tyranny of heresy, and be righteous in the knowledge that we do the Emperor’s bidding. Only in death does duty end. Only in death can justice be earned.’

Sammael paused, waiting for the chronometer displayed above the assault ramp of the gunship to reach the appointed hour. As the red numerals ticked over and turned green, he laid a hand upon the aquila symbol embossed upon the gorget of his armour.

‘Warriors of the Dark Angels, attack!’

THUNDERHAWK INSERTION

Sitting on the inner bench of the Thunderhawk’s transport chamber, his armour joints locked into position, Brother Telemenus barely felt the swaying and buffeting of the drop-ship as it crashed down through the planet’s atmosphere. Beyond the armoured window opposite he saw the sky on fire, a sheet of orange and yellow carpeting the heavens as the Penitent Warrior powered out of the upper atmosphere on plumes of plasma.

As the dark of near-space resolved into the cyan hue of thicker gases, Telemenus caught glimpses of drop pods, hurtling past as dark blurs, and the shape of other Thunderhawks plunging towards planetfall. Dragging his eyes from the stirring view, Telemenus attended to the bolter held across his lap. Around him the other members of the three squads embarked upon the gunship made their final checks too. Though he had thrice run through the rituals before boarding the Thunderhawk, Telemenus once more cleared the magazine and inspected the breach for obstructions. He disengaged the locking pins and used the magnification of his autosenses to look for small pieces of dirt that may have been picked up from the exhaust smoke of the Ravenwing’s vehicles. Satisfied that his weapon was clean, he locked the magazine back into place.

‘Let us hope that the Ravenwing leave some foes for us,’ he said, turning his head to the right to look at Sergeant Amanael.

‘The Second Company are not famed for their generosity,’ replied Amanael. ‘We can but wish that the enemy see sense and flee from their attack into our deadly welcome.’

‘I am convinced that it shall be as you hope,’ said Brother Cadael, sitting on Telemenus’s left. ‘These rebels are cowards at heart. They will attempt to fall back at the first sign of retribution. Such faithless men lack true conviction of purpose.’

‘And we shall not be swayed from ours,’ said Telemenus. ‘I am but seventeen kills from achieving the honour of First Marksman. I would see that accomplished before the mission is complete.’

‘An honour that would bring credit to the whole squad,’ said Amanael. There was good humour in his voice. ‘Yet do not think that we will leave our targets to your attention to see it bestowed.’

‘I shall endeavour to leave some foes for you to practise your art upon whilst completing my tally, do not fear,’ Telemenus replied with a laugh. ‘My glory will be tempered by the knowledge that if I miss my mark you have opportunity to improve lacking aim and might one day equal my standard.’

‘Take not credit for yourself that belongs to the artifice of your helm,’ argued Brother Daellon, who had long contested that Telemenus’ remarkable accuracy was the result of superior optics in his battlegear rather than the result of long hours’ dedication to firing drill coupled with a calm head.

‘And do not be so eager for painted honours that you are sparing in your attention to wider battle,’ said Amanael, his voice carrying soft warning.

‘Put aside such fears, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus. He raised his right arm, showing on the vambraces a winged sword picked out in silver, a red star upon the blade. ‘I would not add laurel to this at expense of duty. Nor would I see such honour engraved upon my tomb slab in place of decoration for my armour.’

A data-screen flickered into life at the head of the compartment, silencing the talk. The display resolved into a schematic of Hadria Praetoris, the rebel-held city that would be the target of the Dark Angels’ attack. The view zoomed in and panned across to the eastern flank of the city, where the insurrectionists had made their stand in a series of fortified villas on the city outskirts. In the absence of the company commander, Grand Master Zadakiel, mission leadership of the Fifth Company had been conferred to Sergeant Seraphiel, the most senior warrior present. It was his voice that sounded over the comm-net, repeating the briefing given aboard the Penitent Warrior.

The battle plan was simple but had proven effective in countless joint-company actions in the Chapter’s past. The Dark Angels of the Fifth Company were being deployed under cover of darkness, in a line to the north and west of the target buildings, where they would create prepared positions. The Ravenwing would assemble to the south and east and attack in a dawn spearhead, driving the enemy towards Telemenus and his fellow Space Marines. The shock and speed of the Ravenwing assault would swiftly break the enemy’s fighting spirit and the resultant rout would take any survivors directly into the guns of the waiting Dark Angels. If the Ravenwing were to meet stubborn resistance and their attack stalled – an unlikely circumstance in Telemenus’s experience – the Fifth Company warriors would push in from their positions and catch the enemy between the two forces.

As each sergeant sounded off the deployment schedules and dispositions of their individual squads, runes denoting each group of warriors flashed into existence on the schematic. Telemenus noted that he and the rest of Third Squad would be at the western end of the line, flanked only by Sergeant Athrael’s devastators. Theirs was a lynchpin position securing the flank of the force, and it was proof of Sergeant Seraphiel’s estimation of their resolve that they were assigned such an honourable duty, but Telemenus considered his chances of achieving his First Marksman’s honour diminished; the fiercest fighting would be at the centre.

Outside, the sky darkened again as the Thunderhawk formation passed across the terminator into night. An alert in Telemenus’s helm display warned him that they were fifteen minutes from planetfall. All intelligence had suggested that the rebels lacked long-range monitoring equipment and the passage of the gunships would go undetected, but there was always the risk that some observant lookout might see the streak of engines in the upper air and not mistake them for shooting stars. The dropsite would be considered hostile until secured, and the strike force would be on constant alert from the moment they touched down, anticipating enemy attack.

‘Let the Ravenwing race and roar about as is their wont,’ concluded Seraphiel. ‘We gladly bestow to them the mantle of hammer to our anvil, for the hammer is worthless without a foundation against which it will strike. Stay true to your oaths and to your brothers and we will return to Grand Master Zadakiel with a new honour to place upon the battle standard of the Fifth.’

‘Praise the Lion!’ Telemenus added his voice to the time-honoured chorus that concluded the briefing. ‘For the Emperor!’

FIRST DROP

Situated atop three hills, the compounds of the rebels were grey, walled forts ringed with towers connected by covered trenchworks. Gun emplacements broke the line of the walls and armoured gatehouses barred the road bridges between them.

As the first glow of dawn touched upon the walls of the easternmost fort, the fury of the Dark Angels fell upon the keeps of Hadria Praetoris like a storm of vengeance. In the skies above the compounds, attack craft plunged down, appearing as a storm of shadowy blades against the gold-tinged clouds. Black-hulled Thunderhawks swooped after the fighters, plasma jets bright in the dawn. Around them plummeted drop pods and entry-shielded Land Speeders.

As the arrestor thrusters of the drop-craft fired, dark blurs streaked past them, slamming into the curtain walls of the compounds: high-velocity munitions from the strike cruisers’ bombardment cannons. The impact of the shells hurled rock and ferrocrete into the air and sent a cloud of pulverised masonry blooming over the citadels.

The blast wave from the bombardment uprooted trees lining the roads that wound up the hills and slashed through gun pits and bunker slits, shredding those inside with shrapnel and debris. Those who survived suffered blasted ear drums and internal compression, doomed to a slow death of internal bleeding and organ failure.

Grit and boulders fell like rain across the hillsides and the thunderous detonation rolled across Hadria Praetoris setting flocks of birds to flight above the city.

Missile and battle cannon fire raked the entrenchments as the aircraft of the Ravenwing strafed through the boiling cloud engulfing the compounds. Shells and las-fire flickered into the heart of the nearest fort as gunners picked out their targets on thermal scanners and high-acuity sensor arrays.

In the skies above the devastation, the remains of ablative drop-shields peeled away from plunging Land Speeders. Descending on their anti-grav engines, the anti-grav craft spiralled around the diving Thunderhawks, spewing fire from assault cannons and heavy bolters. Vengeance-class speeders spewed a torrent of plasma fire at the smoke-shrouded walls while rockets slammed into the ferrocrete barrier from the Tornadoes.

As the Land Speeders circled the compound, Darkshrouds followed the descent. Modified from the standard Land Speeder chassis, each anti-grav vehicle carried a pitted, ancient statue from the Chapter’s fortress-monastery. The solemn hooded figures glowed with power, coils of cable sending nascent warp energy through arcane generators that threw out an all-concealing blanket of darkness. As they joined the attack, the shadow of the Darkshrouds enveloped the dropsite, obscuring the Thunderhawks as they touched down on plumes of plasma.

Protected from attack by the fire of their brethren and the screen of the dark-generating Land Speeders, the bike squads of the Second Company disembarked, racing from their gunships. Joining the squadrons were two-man attack bikes, their heavy weapons directed at the rebel fortress. Above them a flight of three Dark Talons took up station, pouring a torrent of fire from their hurricane bolters into the rebels trying to muster on the broken ramparts of the wall. A flight of Nephilim fighters swept over the compound, their Avenger weapons systems raking the open space between the wall and inner citadel with explosive bolts while Blacksword missiles streamed from their wings, turning the courtyard into a killing ground.

The assault ramp of the Thunderhawk carrying Annael’s squad slammed down even while the gunship was still shuddering from landing. He saw a pink and scarlet sky silhouetting the hills, across which billowed a swathe of smoke that was swiftly blotting out the dawn light. The nearest citadel was two hundred metres away, a massive breach in its curtain wall like a broken-toothed smile.

‘Full speed,’ ordered Cassiel.

Within seconds they had plunged down the ramp. The sergeant was the first to disembark, the smoke of his exhausts filling the gunship as Annael and Zarall followed, Sabrael and Araton taking up the rear. Reaching the ground, the squadron spread into a V-formation to avoid the dirt and rocks thrown up in the wake of the others’ bikes, engines roaring as they charged towards the opening made by the bombardment. Moments after they had left, the Thunderhawk’s engines fired again, lifting it skywards on columns of flame, its weapons ready to provide supporting fire.

As he charged up the slope of the hill with the others, Annael’s vision was filled with a superimposed view of the landscape ahead. The dust and smoke obscured normal sight, as did the cloaking field of the Darkshrouds, but those were no barrier to the surveyor array built into Black Shadow. With soft movements he guided the bike around jutting boulders and piles of shattered ferrocrete, seeking the telltale blur of red and orange that signified a heat source. He saw the smudge of colour amongst the ruin of the breach, but nothing that moved; the warmth leaking from the bodies of the dead quickly turned from yellow to orange.

His armour easily compensating for the jolt of his bike as it crashed over fallen slabs and blocks, Annael looked left and right, searching along the top of the remaining wall for threats. A squadron of Land Speeders curved around ahead of him, lifting up to the height of the rampart, their weapons unleashing a blaze of fire at unseen foes.

‘Lance.’

The command from Cassiel was calmly spoken as the closest shadow-wreathed Speeder pulled back to cover the second wave of the attack. Annael slid into place behind Zarall as the squadron narrowed its formation to take the breach. He glanced back to see a squadron of Black Knights following fifty metres behind. The elite of the company, Sammael’s chosen warriors, carried hammers with beaked heads and the gleam from the muzzles of their bikes’ plasma weapons shone from beneath black cowlings. He glimpsed their Hunt-master raising his corvus hammer to point to the left, the squadron curving away as they were swallowed by the black cloud of the Darkshroud.

Just twenty metres ahead, the bikes of Sergeant Hephrael’s squadron raced across the tumbled masonry, disappearing into the smoke and fire. Muzzle flashes flared in the gloom and Annael heard the echo of the squadrons’ bolters ringing back from the broken wall.

In front, Cassiel and then Zarall dropped from view. A second later Annael hit the rim of a crater and for a moment he felt weightless as Black Shadow became airborne, plunging down into the smoking dip. With an impact that tested the reinforced suspension of his steed, Annael hit the sloping side of the crater, the tyres skidding him sideways for an instant as they regained traction. Hauling hard on the handlebars he righted his course, just three metres behind Zarall.

The explosion had torn a hole almost two hundred metres wide, most of that inside the compound. As soon as the squadron were through the breach they were greeted by a storm of flickering projectiles from within the central fortification. Few of the poorly-aimed volleys hit, but now and then something pinged from Annael’s armour or the slanted fairing of Black Shadow. Something heavier – autocannon shells probably – threw up clods of earth just ahead of the onrushing squadron.

A brighter flash of red pulsed from a firing point on the citadel’s roof and seared into Hephrael’s squadron. From its elevated position, the lascannon shot punched through the leg of one of the riders and exploded into the engine of his mount. Fuel ignited, sending the unfortunate Space Marine spinning through the air as his bike’s engine blew up.

Retribution for the loss was near-instantaneous. A ripple of missiles from a Land Speeder converged on the firing port from which the lascannon bolt had come, turning the embrasure into rubble and smoke. Heavy bolter rounds from another skimmer sparked amongst the debris, turning shattered ferrocrete into lethal shrapnel.

‘Hard right.’

Leaning his weight over, Annael followed Cassiel and Zarall as they steered down a ramp into the trenchworks. The sergeant’s bolters flared along the curving path, cutting down men hunkered against the wall ahead. Easing his bike towards the right-hand wall of the trench, Annael staggered their formation, allowing him to see past Cassiel. He saw a rebel in grey and green fatigues running for the cover of a shell slit. Pressing the trigger pad on the grip of the handlebars Annael opened fire, unleashing a short salvo of six bolts. The sparks of their propellant charge shrieked along the trench, ripping holes into the wood-reinforced wall and tearing three fist-sized chunks from the man’s back.

In a moment Annael had raced past, but he knew that the shots had been fatal – no normal man would survive such injuries. The bike controls juddered in his grasp as he rode over the uneven footing planks and bumped over the bodies of those slain by Cassiel.

Another squadron of Land Speeders zoomed overhead, weapons spewing death, the wash of their jets momentarily flaring across Black Shadow’s sensors. They recovered in time to show a blur of orange fifty metres ahead; a rebel soldier pulling up some kind of heavy weapon. The man fired as Annael activated the bolters, the missile from his launcher screaming down the trench towards the squadron even as Annael’s fusillade turned him into scattered body parts.

The missile passed between Zarall and Annael, exploding on the wall to the Dark Angels’ left. The blast showered Annael with dirt while pieces of shrapnel clanged from his backpack and left shoulder guard.

‘You’ll be spending some time repainting that,’ came Sabrael’s voice from behind. ‘Consider it your first honour scar.’

‘Back up top,’ ordered Cassiel before Annael could throw back a reply.

The squadron turned up a ramp used for bringing supplies down into the trenches, racing past the burning corpses of half a dozen rebels caught by a heavy flamer. Just a little further up the trenchworks a blossom of flames rose into the air as an ammunition depot detonated; secondary explosions continued to bark and snap as Cassiel led the squadron around the smouldering wreck of an armoured ground car pulverised by a Black-sword missile, curving back towards the main building.

Hitting open ground, Annael could see the battle in its full fury. The compound, stretching three hundred metres from wall to wall, was carpeted in drifting smoke and ash. Whirling contrails cut through the gloom as bikes and Land Speeders converged on the central citadel. From above, gunships and strike craft continued to rain down fire, pinning the rebels inside the shell-pocked building while the rest of the company advanced.

‘Battle speed,’ commanded Cassiel, slowing at the head of the squadron. Annael eased down on the throttle and glanced at the surveyor sweep on the display. There was a mass of enemy contact returns several hundred metres ahead, flooding towards the bridge leading to the next compound; left intact to allow such a retreat.

Cruising through the smog and fire, Annael was alert, blood pumping hard through his body. In four centuries of battle he had raced into the fight shooting from the hatch of a Rhino transport, and he had performed jump pack drops from a hovering Thunderhawk, but nothing matched the exhilaration of the mounted charge. The machine beneath him was an extension of his armour, responding to the slightest nudge and touch, bumping over the uneven ground and curving easily past shell craters and the tangled ruins of gun batteries.

‘With the Emperor as my witness, this is the way to fight!’ he told the others.

‘Our newblood has found his calling at last,’ replied Sabrael. ‘Who would have thought that such youthful joy lingered within such old bones?’

‘A fine calling it is, to bring swift death to the Emperor’s forsaken,’ said Zarall. ‘Many are the blessings we must give thanks for.’

‘Enemy, third sector, two hundred metres,’ said Araton. The position indicated was almost at a right angle to their line of attack, behind the lead elements of the force.

‘Put tongues to rest and weapons to purpose,’ chided Cassiel as he steered the squadron to the right.

Annael could see nothing, on display or in his helm view, but the sergeant trusted the report of his brother without question. Several seconds later Annael caught a glimpse of a multi-barrelled weapon beneath a camouflaged canopy, turning towards the lead squadrons. Annael admired the courage of the gunners, to remain hidden while the ferocity of the Dark Angels passed them by, though he cursed them for the cause they had chosen.

‘The net must be woven of some kind of scrambling material,’ he said, still not seeing any reading on the bike scanner. ‘How did you see it, brother?’

‘By putting mind to task and not to chatter,’ replied Araton.

The timely chastisement focused Annael’s thoughts, putting him in mind of the instructions he had received in the Scout Company.

‘Apologies, brothers, if novelty of experience softened my discipline,’ he said, accelerating to come alongside Zarall.

The cannon opened fire before the squadrons’ weapons could be brought to bear, unleashing a stream of las-fire at one of the Land Speeder squadrons swooping around the right side of the citadel. Smoke billowed from one of the craft and it veered wildly to the right, dipping towards the ground. Annael glimpsed the two crew leaping from the dropping machine moments from its impact, hitting the ground hard as the Land Speeder exploded against the inside of the wall.

‘Avenge the spirit of our fallen steed,’ snapped Zarall. A flurry of bolts screeched from his bike’s weapons, slamming into the embrasure of the gun pit concealing the weapon. Annael looked directly at one of the gunners, his left thumb pressing a targeting rune. The guns on his bike elevated and swivelled to follow his gaze. A red lock-on gleamed in his view and a chime sounded in his ears. Muzzle flash lit up the front of his bike as he opened fire, the machine-spirit of Black Shadow keeping the bolters on their target even as the motorbike bounced across the ground and Annael strafed left and right.

Men and cannon were engulfed by a hail of bolts, ripping through padded jackets and metal, filling the gun pit with blood and splinters. Annael fired another burst to be certain, brick dust from the embrasure and fragments of torn cloth and shattered bone spraying across the snaking power cables of the multi-laser.

‘The enemy are abandoning the citadel.’ Grand Master Sammael’s report was softly spoken, yet clearly heard over the din of war. ‘First wave to encircle and contain. Second and third waves to follow across the bridge. Resistance faltering.’

Annael’s squadron were part of the first wave, and it was their duty to cut off further escape across the bridge, while those that had already fled would be herded towards the second compound, providing pause for the gunners within and cover for the following Dark Angels.

‘Be vigilant,’ warned Sergeant Cassiel. ‘The cornered animal fights without fear. This battle is not yet won.’

RETRIBUTION

The bridge was wide enough for three dozen men to walk abreast, yet it was still a killing ground. Many of the rebels that had fled at the very start of the attack had reached false sanctuary at the far end, and those wise enough to commandeer half-tracks and ground cars were racing across the half-kilometre span. There were scores still on foot, ill fate, or perhaps misguided bravery, keeping them in their positions for minutes longer than their wiser or more cowardly companions.

The barrel of the storm bolter mounted on Sammael’s steed was glowing hot from firing and he ceased the fusillade unleashed into the mass of humanity pouring onto the bridge. Some rebels, desperate men who at the last chose to spit back at their attackers, turned to fire their weapons at the oncoming Ravenwing. Gunfire flashed past Sammael as he angled Corvex between the towers that guarded entry to the bridge. Smoke poured from the summits of these thirty-metre high bastions, and their upper storeys were cracked and pitted from battle cannon and missile hits. Most importantly, their gun batteries were silent, as were those at the far end.

Sammael’s command squad fanned out to either side of him, guns roaring. The men ahead were cut down in twos and threes, legs ripped from beneath them, bodies shredded by explosive bolts. Drawing his power sword, the Grand Master of the Ravenwing fell upon the rearmost stragglers. His blade cut the head from the first, who had not the time to turn to see his death approaching. The next, a brief moment later, was sent tumbling to the ferrocrete with spine severed and arm spinning through the air.

On Sammael’s left, Epistolary Harahel held a gleaming force axe, psychic fire licking along its edges. He swung the blade between the shoulders of a fleeing rebel and wrenched the axe free in a mist of steaming blood. Chainswords snarling, Brothers Daedis and Athelman slashed and hacked as the squadron caught up with a group of fleeing rebels. The aquila-headed crozius arcanum of Chaplain Malcifer shimmered with a powerfield as it smashed in the skull of another running trooper.

Alerted by a warning signal in his ear, Sammael swerved Corvex to the right, moments before a rocket sent up a shower of ferrocrete shards from the road ahead. It had come from a small half-tracked wagon halfway along the bridge; a litter of broken track links from a weapon hit testified to the reason for its immobility.

More rockets screamed from the launcher atop its rear compartment, many of them passing overhead to explode between the towers behind Sammael. One rocket impacted on the high guard wall to the left, showering Daedis with blocks of jagged ferrocrete. Fighting to control his bike, the Dark Angel veered into a clutch of bodies piled on the roadway. Bone splintered and flesh spattered across the ferrocrete as the heavy bike ploughed through the human debris. Smoke dribbled from damage to the bike’s engine.

‘Lion curse it,’ snarled Daedis as his mount slowed to a halt and the command squadron swept on.

Sighting on the half-track as two crewmen appeared on its roof, hurriedly trying to reload the rocket launcher, Sammael powered up his steed’s plasma cannon. He felt the shudder of the energy coils peaking through the constant throb of Corvex’s anti-grav engines and pushed the firing rune. The plasma cannon spat a ball of azure-and-white lightning that slammed into the side of the half-track a few moments later, rocking the vehicle and hurling the half-disintegrated remains of the crewmen from the top. Another second passed before a lascannon beam from a circling Thunderhawk punched through the armoured compartment.

Pulling back on the controls, Sammael soared over the flaming ruin of the half-track and plunged down on the other side; straight into a knot of men who had been heading for cover behind the vehicle. One was flung aside, body smashed by the prow of the Corvex. Acting without thought, Sammael lashed out with his sword, slicing through the chest of two more.

Arrestor vanes flared as he hauled his mount sideways and braked, spinning to confront the three survivors, the storm bolter stitching a line of small explosions across the side of the half-track before the cannonade cut down the men. Maintaining the momentum of the turn, Sammael wrenched Corvex full circle before firing the thrusters.

Within seconds he had caught up with the rest of his squadron.

Ahead, the second citadel loomed large, its light grey walls lit by the rising sun. Sammael activated the command link to Sergeant Seraphiel.

‘Closing on second objective, commander,’ he said. ‘What is your status?’

‘The rebels started fleeing the third objective right after the bombardment, Grand Master Sammael,’ Seraphiel reported. ‘They are heading straight for us.’

‘Good. Let your guns give them the greeting they deserve.’

ESCAPE THWARTED

To the north of the fortresses the hills banked up into wooded mountains with snow-capped peaks. It was from hidden caves and secluded valleys that the rebels had first attacked, and they would return to these lairs if given the chance. To prevent escape, the squads of the Fifth Company had landed alongside the road that looped around the outskirts of Hadria Praetoris, and stretched twenty warriors on patrol across the heathland directly north of the compounds.

Squad Amanael had been assigned to the road, and were deployed alongside the Devastators of Sergeant Athrael. The heavy weapon-armed Space Marines were split either side of the road, sited with a view down a straight stretch coming down the hill from the forts. Telemenus and the others were sweeping the woods to the south, right of Athrael’s position, to intercept any rebels trying to escape cross-country. Sergeant Amanael had split his squad into two combat teams, each five-strong, to cover more ground, with Telemenus in the sergeant’s section along with Menthius, Daellon and Apollon.

Century-old pines speared into the sky across the hillside, but there was little undergrowth beneath to block visibility. The crisp chill of autumn created vapour from the heat exchanges in the Space Marines’ backpacks as they advanced across a carpet of brown pine needles. Apollon held the auspex, gently swinging the scanning device left and right seeking a return. The distant boom of cannons had put all of the birds in the vicinity to flight, so the woods were tranquil as the combat squad advanced.

‘Let us hope that the rebels seek cover beneath the canopy,’ said Daellon. ‘If they are foolish enough to use the road Athrael’s squad will score a great tally.’

‘Concerned for my honour badge, brother?’ asked Telemenus. ‘Your support will be remembered in my litany of acceptance.’

‘Apologies sergeant, for swelling his damned head further, but it was not my intent,’ said Daellon.

‘I shall inform the armoury that Telemenus’s helm will need replacing on our return,’ replied Amanael. ‘He can pick it up when he has made suitable recompense to the Chaplains for his prideful words.’

‘It is not pride to take pleasure in the slaying of many foes,’ argued Telemenus. ‘My accomplishments increase the honour of the Chapter, not diminish it.’

‘Contact, four hundred and fifty metres.’ Apollon’s warning silenced the Dark Angels, who waited for further information. It was forthcoming a few seconds later. ‘Definitely enemy, moving at an angle to our advance. Large mass, I would say twenty or more. On foot.’

Amanael held a hand up for the squad to stop and joined Apollon to read the display for himself. The sergeant looked around and pointed to a rise in the ground off to the squad’s right.

‘They will have to cross that ridge. We shall wait for them at the top.’

Now with a focused purpose, the Dark Angels lengthened their strides and moved swiftly up the slope, their dark green armour blending naturally with the gloom beneath the canopy. Ten metres ahead of Telemenus, Apollon came to a sudden stop.

‘Something else in the woods ahead, below the lip of a cliff. Getting high metallic readings.’

The sergeant ordered them into a run to investigate, leading the squad along the ridge line as it rose up from the forest floor, with the ground on their right dropping away steeply until it became a near-vertical gorge. Keeping watch along the line of the enemy advance, Telemenus saw nothing of the rebels, though a check with Apollon confirmed that they had not deviated from their route.

‘I see nothing,’ said Telemenus. He intensified the magnification of his autosenses and scanned between the trunks of the trees, but the slope of the ground worked against him and he could see no more than two hundred metres.

‘I have found their destination,’ declared Menthius, who had moved ahead several dozen metres. ‘A small facility, built into the face of the cliff. Some kind of bunker, I think. No weapons systems visible.’

They caught up with Menthius, who stood at the edge of the precipice looking down. Joining him, Telemenus saw a ramshackle collection of outbuildings with sheet metal roofs surrounding a ferrocrete emplacement that looked as though it had been extruded from the rock of the cliff. Just beyond the shacks was a circular expanse of black plascrete, the trees cleared for it. A two-rotored gyrocopter sitting on the landing apron made its purpose obvious.

‘Tunnels,’ said Apollon, attracting the looks of the other squad members. ‘The readings are indistinct because the enemy are approaching via tunnel. They seek to slip away without attention.’

‘Perhaps the tunnels stretch all of the way back to the fortresses,’ said Telemenus. ‘An escape route long-planned.’

‘And likely known only to the upper hierarchy,’ concluded Amanael. He strode to the lip of the ridge and examined the drop. ‘Too deep to jump. Too far to go back down and come around below. We must trust to our aim from here. Achamenon, new orders. Converge on our position with all haste. Keep to the low ground.’

An affirmative returned over the vox from the leader of the other combat squad.

‘They are almost here,’ said Apollon. He hooked the auspex to his belt and gripped his bolter in both hands. ‘One hundred metres behind us, seventy metres below.’

Telemenus lowered to one knee at the very edge of the cliff and brought up his bolter to the firing position. In his right eye the aiming reticule of his targeter sprang into life as his finger settled on the trigger. The angle made it hard to see the opening of the tunnel, but the atmospheric craft was in plain sight.

‘Hold fury until my word,’ said Amanael. ‘We must wait until they are too far to retreat back to their hiding place, in case there are other exits to which they will head. I have no desire for a sewer hunt.’

Taking his sergeant’s words to heart, Telemenus lowered his weapon a fraction, lest the instinct to fire betrayed him. He watched as two men clad in camouflaged fatigues walked from the fortified tunnel entrance. They carried lasguns at the ready but were poor lookouts, their gazes turned to the forest floor around them rather than the clifftop above. One of them turned and waved and a few seconds later three more men emerged, to move out through the outhouses into the woods to either flank in an amateurish attempt at creating a perimeter.

Another half-dozen rebels followed, running across the apron to the low, broad form of the gyrocopter.

‘We risk discovery,’ said Menthius. ‘If they reach their transport we have no weapon to bring them down.’

‘Hold fire,’ replied Amanael, speaking calmly. ‘Wait for my command.’

Three of the rebels clambered into the cockpit of the aircraft and soon the whine of its engines drifted up to the Space Marines, accompanied by the acrid smell of poorly refined fuel. Thick smoke chugged from the exhausts as the twin rotors began to turn, gathering speed as the pitch of the engine increased.

‘Sergeant?’ said Telemenus, lifting his weapon once more. He moved his aim until the visor reticule settled on one of the rotor hubs. A good hit would be enough to ground the craft. ‘An immobile target is much easier to hit.’

‘I thought your aim better than that,’ said Amanael.

‘The rebel leader may already be aboard,’ said Telemenus. ‘We should attack now.’

‘Not so,’ said Apollon. ‘The verminous traitor makes his appearance.’

Looking below, Telemenus saw a huddle of men dashing from the tunnel entrance. Most were garbed in the military gear of the others, but two wore black robes threaded with gold and silver. They certainly had the look of demagogues as they hurried towards their aircraft.

‘Open fire.’

The words from Amanael came as a relief to Telemenus.

He softly squeezed the trigger, sending a single bolt flaring down the cliff side. The round hit one of the minders in the shoulder, its detonation blowing off his arm. Even before the rebels had reacted, Telemenus’s next shot took another bodyguard in the back, ripping out flesh and organs just above his hip.

Panic gripped the gaggle of rebels, but the guards stayed true to their purpose and closed around the two robed men as they broke into a run for the landing apron. Bolts from the other Space Marines cut through the air, striking down the men sent out on sentry as they turned their lasguns up to the clifftop. The bark of the squad’s bolters echoed down the gorge and from the trees around them while bolt propellant cut criss-crosses of fire in the air around the tunnel entrance.

Telemenus ignored everything else as he focused on the patches of gold amongst the reds and browns of the camouflaged bodyguards. He fired another single round, aimed at the bald head of one of the leaders. Even as the bolt sped from his gun a minder stepped unknowingly into its path. A second later the rebel’s skull exploded, spattering the demagogue with blood and brains.

‘Caliban’s fate,’ Telemenus cursed as he took aim again. ‘Luck guards these men better than any armour.’

There were exchanges between the other Dark Angels as they fired, passing information on the positions of their targets and voicing alerts to return fire. Telemenus absorbed the talk without consciously hearing the words, his focus on the group heading for the gyrocopter. The party had made it to the apron and was splitting apart as bodyguards fell to fire or turned to bring their weapons to bear on their attackers. Las-bolts spat up to the clifftop but they were of no concern to Telemenus.

‘Speed death to the unworthy,’ he whispered to his bolter, settling the sighting reticule once more on a black-robed figure.

This time there was no intervention to prevent the bolt striking the bald-headed man in the back of his neck. The demagogue’s head flopped to one side, spine shattered, as his body crumpled to the plascrete.

‘All fire on the craft,’ declared Amanael. Shifting his view, Telemenus saw the blur of black robes disappearing into an open hatchway just behind the cockpit. He silently cursed that he had missed his second mark.

The scream of the engines increased even further as the gyrocopter lifted off, the downdraught of its rotors sending the men remaining on the apron tumbling to the ground. With a flick of his thumb, Telemenus switched his bolter to burst fire and unleashed a salvo of three rounds into its hull, slivers of metal and paint spraying around the door where the leader had climbed aboard. He stood up as the aircraft rose straight up from the apron. It was slowly turning towards the Space Marines and Telemenus took aim at the canopy. Bolter fire from the others sparked from the rotors and fuselage, to little effect against the armoured plate.

Slowly the cockpit was swinging into view as the gyrocopter lifted higher and higher, bringing the pilot towards Telemenus. It would be almost level with the clifftop before Telemenus could see inside. He waited, the reticule dancing a little as the ground shook from the thumping of the rotors.

Two more seconds would bring the pilots into view. Telemenus’s finger was tightening on the trigger in expectation.

‘Assault cannon!’

Menthius’s shouted warning came a moment too late. Angled as far as its mount allowed, the multi-barrelled gun slung beneath the gyrocopter’s nose came to bear before Telemenus’s target came into view. A storm of shells scythed along the clifftop and engulfed him, slamming into his armour. The outer layer of his suit shattered, sending shards of ceramite spinning in all directions. The impact of the heavy shells on his left side turned him slightly as he fired, sending his salvo of bolts flaring past the canopy without effect. His autosenses picked up the rip of the cannon’s fire a split-second later.

Pain flared through his left arm. He ignored it as he sighted again, but the distraction had cost him his shot. The gyrocopter soared up over the trees, its nose dipping as it accelerated towards the north.

‘Brother, are you wounded?’ said Menthius, glancing back at Telemenus. He looked down at his left arm. His shoulder guard was nothing more than a few scraps of ceramite attached to the actuators. Blood poured from the cracks in the armour around his upper arm. He became aware of four neat holes punched into the left side of his breastplate, the shells from the assault cannon buried within, deep, but not enough to penetrate to flesh.

‘It is usually better to fire first, you damned idiot,’ said Daellon.

‘Noted, brother,’ Telemenus replied sourly, turning his attention back to the soldiers still firing from below as Amanael broadcast on the company-wide channel.

‘All command, we have priority target escaping in airborne transport. Last heading approximately twenty by fifteen.’

‘Already aware, sergeant,’ came Seraphiel’s reply. ‘Paladin Four tasked for intercept.’

Telemenus glimpsed the head of a rebel glancing around the corner of a shack below and fired his bolter one-handed. The rounds tore through the flimsy walls and two men in fatigues staggered away, one holding the stump of his right wrist, the other with a hand clamped to a wound gushing blood from his thigh. Telemenus emptied his magazine with two more bursts, cutting down the injured men.

He looked up as he heard the scream of plasma jets above. His hands moved on instinct, ejecting the spent magazine and inserting another as he followed the dark blur of a fighter soaring overhead, the dull ache in his arm ignored. With a flare of light, the aircraft fired a missile, which left a curving trail of vapour as its internal cogitator steered it after the departing gyrocraft. A few seconds later a distant but distinct crack was picked up by Telemenus’s autosenses.

‘Target has ditched in the foothills,’ announced the pilot of Paladin Four. ‘Crash-landed. Survivors probable. Grid epsilon-four-eighty.’

‘Get ready to move to the crash site,’ announced Sergeant Amanael. ‘Sergeant Seraphiel, Squad Amanael preparing to investigate crash. Brother Achamenon and the others can finish off the stragglers here.’

‘Negative, brother-sergeant,’ Seraphiel replied quickly. ‘I have received orders from Grand Master Sammael. All Fifth Company squads attend to your orders. Hold the line against rebel evacuation. Do not approach the crash site. Ravenwing forces despatched to investigate survival of the priority target and will advise if assistance is needed.’

Amanael looked at Telemenus and then the others before replying.

‘Please confirm, brother-sergeant. Squad Amanael is less than five kilometres from the crash site.’

‘Orders are confirmed, brother. Acknowledge.’

‘Acknowledged, brother,’ said Amanael. His next words came from the external speaker of his helm. ‘Looks like the glory hounds of the Ravenwing want to have a hunt.’

THE HUNT

As the squads of the Fifth Company swept through the woods towards the final citadel, Squadron Cassiel received orders to make all speed to rendezvous with Grand Master Sammael on the road leading north. There was little resistance at the first objective and they were able to withdraw from the fortification without incident before speeding down to the main highway that ran between the citadels and Hadria Praetoris. On the open road they opened up their engines, the wooded embankments lining the road speeding past in a blur, the growl of engines loud in Annael’s ear.

‘This is the truth of the Ravenwing,’ said Sabrael. ‘A foe to hunt, a fine steed and an open road.’

Annael admitted to himself that the sensation was uplifting, almost as pleasurable as the heat of battle. Despite the light spirits of the squadron they remained alert for possible ambush and rebels fleeing the fighting. Occasional flutters of scanner returns flared in Annael’s display, but they were not conclusive enough to warrant investigation. Their orders had been specific: make all speed to rendezvous with their commander en route to the priority target’s crash site.

Three kilometres north of the final citadel, the highway was joined by a smaller road winding down from the heights. Just as the squadron reached the junction, Grand Master Sammael and his command squad powered into view. Cassiel slowed the squadron a little, allowing the Grand Master and his attendants to come alongside.

‘Well met, brothers,’ said Sammael, glancing across towards Cassiel and his warriors. ‘Let us run down this traitorous dog and his henchmen. We shall discover the truth behind this unseemly insurrection.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ replied Cassiel.

‘I see that you have fine company, Brother Annael,’ remarked Chaplain Malcifer, steering his bike to ride beside the Ravenwing’s newest recruit.

‘I am honoured,’ replied Annael, keeping his answer short so that he could concentrate on controlling his mount; the experience of the others allowed them to steer their bikes guided by instinct alone. Short answers also gave the Chaplain less opportunity to find fault.

The highway started to curve westwards, away from their objective, and the two squadrons moved off the road, racing up the embankment before plunging into the shadows of the forest. The squadrons split further to negotiate the rough terrain. Annael kept his gaze fixed on the scanner return, using its artificial eyes to guide his bike between trees, avoiding ruts and boulders that were too large to traverse.

‘Do you think we should slow down for our new brother?’ said Sabrael. ‘I would not see a good machine ended on a tree.’

‘Would that you should suffer such a fate to spare us your prattling, brother,’ said Malcifer. ‘If you could control your tongue as skilfully as you master your steed we would be blessed by your silence.’

‘I must reveal that the secret of my skill is to let both mount and tongue free to follow their own spirit,’ said Sabrael. ‘I simply let them take me where they wish to go.’

‘Is he always this boastful?’ Annael asked, his bike dipping down a shallow incline, dead leaves and mulch spraying in its wake. He glanced across to Malcifer. ‘Have not the penitent cells taught him good manners by now?’

‘Sabrael is the bane of the Chaplaincy, it is certain, but enthusiasm is not a crime,’ said the Chaplain. ‘It is the nature of the Ravenwing that it provides home to those of restless or wayward spirit.’

‘Is that what I am now?’ asked Annael. He leant to his right and guided his bike past a moss-covered fallen tree. ‘A wayward spirit?’

‘You take reproach where none is intended. Your inquiries revealed a questing mind seeking answers best provided by service in the Ravenwing. As now we hunt a physical foe, so we also run the truth to ground.’

‘Then I shall be content that I have found my place.’

‘You are welcome amongst us, brother,’ added Sammael. ‘It was not chance that I picked your squadron, Annael. I would have you experience the deepest nature of the Ravenwing and set before you the reward of service in the Second Company.’

‘I am doubly honoured, Grand Master, to be in your consideration,’ replied Annael, humbled by the attention of his superior.

‘Good, for the matter will swift come to resolution,’ said the Grand Master.

A warning chime attracted Annael’s attention to his scanner. They were within two kilometres of the crash site, which showed up on the display as a reading of dense artificial materials and heat; the burning wreck of the traitor leader’s aircraft. Glancing up, the Dark Angel could see smoke drifting across the cloudless sky through gaps in the forest canopy. Even though he had looked away for only a moment, when he returned his gaze ahead he was forced to duck down to his handlebars to avoid a low-hanging tree limb. Smaller branches snapped around him, raking across his backpack as he powered through the thick foliage.

‘Rightly it is that the Chaplains warn of eternal vigilance,’ said Malcifer, who had seen Annael’s close call. ‘Let us put distraction aside and focus on the hunt.’

They soon came across a scatter of broken branches and pieces of snapped rotor blades, and a short distance away Sammael signalled as a crackle of flames and a cloud of smoke drifted through the trees. A check of Black Shadow’s scanner showed no sizeable life forms nearby, only the heat from the fires.

The two squadrons slowed as they reached the downed gyrocopter, its mangled wreckage propped against a thick trunk, debris scattered all around. Fire had licked up from its engine, scorching the tree trunk and setting fire to the leaves of the tree. A corpse dangled halfway out of the shattered cockpit, skull smashed.

Cassiel ordered his squadron to form a perimeter around the wreck while Sammael and his squadron circled the site, checking for survivors. None were evident within the crashed gyro, and the Grand Master confirmed as such.

‘Three more bodies inside,’ said Sammael, bringing his jetbike to a halt not far from the wreckage. ‘Focused heat scan shows a residual trail leading west. Someone escaped the crash. One, possibly two targets. Spread out, echelon primus.’

The riders fanned out into their search formation, twenty metres between each Dark Angel. Annael narrowed his scanner array to detect the slightest variation from the ambient temperature and his vision lit up with signals of birds and small mammals fleeing from the oncoming bikes, and a ghostly trail that meandered between the trees ahead.

A Space Marine on nearly a tonne of motorbike was not built for a stealthy approach and the woods trembled with the noise of engines as the Ravenwing advanced, scattering birds from the trees. The heat trail grew more definite as they advanced, and it was Araton who made the first sighting.

‘Heat mass, quadrant four, two hundred and fifty metres.’

‘Cassiel, Zarall, Sabrael, circle around. All others, close on signal,’ ordered Sammael. Annael picked up speed as the three nominated riders peeled away to the left to cut off escape – not that escape was likely with the warriors of the Ravenwing bearing down on their prey.

Annael could see the telltale glimmer of heat from behind a tree not far ahead and switched from thermal view to catch a glimpse of gold catching a shaft of sunlight. The rebel made one last attempt for freedom, bolting from the cover of the tree, cutting to the right. His bald scalp glistened with sweat, his heavy black robes impeding him as they caught on the thorns of a low bush, pulling him to a halt.

Sweeping around from the right, Sammael reached the rebel first, an outstretched hand grabbing hold of the fugitive’s robe as he ripped himself free from the tangling embrace of the bush, lifting him from his feet as easily as a normal man picks up a child. The Grand Master of the Ravenwing turned towards the others and brought his jetbike to a halt, flinging the man to the ground where he tumbled through fallen leaves and dirt and lay unmoving.

‘Priority target detained,’ announced Sammael. ‘We have their leader, but there are more rebel scum to be brought to justice. Rendezvous with the Fifth Company squads and scour the hills of the filth. This one I leave to your attentions, Brother Malcifer.’

Annael wondered why a Chaplain would be interested in a rebel commander, but had no time to consider the answers; Sergeant Cassiel was already ordering the squadron to form up on his position to return to the battle.

DISAPPOINTMENT

Two mind-scrubbed servitors were lifting the body of the captured rebel leader, the corpse wrapped in a bloodstained white shroud, as Sammael entered the chamber. Malcifer had conducted the interrogation of the prisoner, Ansat Neur Hakol, in a sub-basement of one of the captured citadels, and was wiping blood from his gauntlets with a rag. Epistolary Harahel stood to one side, in the shadows cast by the flickering light globe hanging from the ceiling, his hands clasped to his chest in contemplation. Aside from the small metal chair that Hakol had occupied, the only furniture in the room was a table on which Malcifer’s crimson-flecked interrogation implements glinted.

‘No taint,’ said Malcifer. The Chaplain tossed the bloodied rag onto the shrouded corpse as the servitors clanked past on bionic legs. He looked at Harahel to continue.

‘Just a man with misplaced ideals,’ said the Librarian. ‘Not a hint of possession or corruption.’

‘The other commander, the one that died in the crash, was the instigator,’ said Malcifer with a slight shake of his head. Sammael knew that it was not a gesture of sorrow, but maybe one of disappointment. ‘This one’s confession gives no cause to suspect that the Ruinous Powers are at work in the system. There has been no contact with external influence, and nothing to suggest this is part of any grander scheme.’

Sammael was not sure whether to be pleased or not by this news. On the surface, the fact that the local rebellion was a straightforward anti-Imperial insurrection and nothing more sinister meant that there was no further threat to nearby star systems in contact with the world. Weighed against that was the distraction it had been for the Ravenwing, who had other rumours to investigate, other calls for aid to address. On balance, Sammael was frustrated by the mundane nature of the enemy. He had arrived hoping to encounter one of the true targets of the Ravenwing, foes the specialist company had been created to hunt, or at the least the mark of such an insidious enemy at work. Instead he had simply killed disillusioned labourers led astray by ambitious demagogues.

‘Very well,’ said the Grand Master. ‘There are pockets of resistance remaining, but nothing of significance that would require us to tarry here. I shall inform the Imperial Command that our mission has been concluded.’

‘Where does the hunt take us next?’ asked Harahel.

‘I am inclined to respond to news of attack in the Raedal system,’ replied Sammael. ‘The astropathic messages are not definitive, but hint at possible incursion by followers of the Ruinous Powers. The speed with which orbital protection was breached hints at prior knowledge of the defences. It is not conclusive, and I will weigh alternative suggestion.’

‘Raedal is only three hundred light years away,’ said Malcifer. ‘It warrants scrutiny.’

‘I have no counsel to offer that would sway decision,’ Harahel said as Sammael moved his gaze to the Epistolary.

‘Raedal it shall be,’ concluded the Grand Master.

‘And what shall we do with the rebel’s remains?’ asked Malcifer.

‘Have it presented to the Imperial Commander,’ replied Sammael. ‘A gift from the Dark Angels and a message for others to heed.’

OMENS FROM AFAR

The door to Harahel’s cell opened to admit two robed figures with sunken faces and blank eyes. The Librarian turned, his plain wooden stool creaking under his weight, and beckoned for the astropaths to enter. He stood up from his desk, where he had been penning a report on the knowledge gleaned from his foray into the mind of the rebel commander.

‘You received a vision?’ he asked.

‘One of terrible import,’ replied Bayoth, the eldest of the two. The astropath looked at Harahel with pale eyes, seeing him with a sense other than normal vision. ‘We seek your guidance in its interpretation before we speak with Grand Master Sammael.’

‘We are but five hours from translation to the warp,’ said the Librarian. ‘A timely omen.’

The astropaths nodded inside their hoods but said nothing.

‘Very well, we shall commune,’ said the Librarian. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue robe, revealing arms covered with the scars of old burns, the legacy of a plasma gun malfunction when he had been but a novitiate in the Scout Company. Lacking later adaptations that would have healed the wounds with barely any trace, Harahel had borne the scars without thought ever since.

He held out his hands, palms up. Bayoth laid his fingers upon the Epistolary’s right hand and the other astropath, Neim, did the same of the left. The Librarian closed his eyes. It was not necessary for the projection of his psychic potential, but he disliked staring into the blind orbs of the astropaths when they entered their trance-like transmission state.

The astropaths murmured a mantra to dislocate their conscious state, moving their minds from the bonds of corporeal form. Harahel needed no such ritual, but simply freed his thoughts from the tether of his synapses, his soul enmeshing with the spirits of the two astropaths.

‘Show me,’ he whispered.

The first sensation was of scorching heat; the residue of the soul-binding the astropaths had undergone. The fire of the Emperor’s soul burned within them, a fiery shield against possession. Harahel let the burning subside before pushing on, feeling connection with the astropaths as they opened up their minds to his inquiry.

He felt a gulf opening beneath him as he was drawn into the warp-memories of the psykers. All three became floating motes on the immaterial seas, rising and falling on the insubstantial waves of energy. The background noise of the universe hummed in the Librarian’s ears while echoes from past, present and future flitted around him just out of reach.

The sound of a sword unsheathing. A black blade glinted with inner light. The key-symbol of the Dark Angels.

A fortress dark against a setting sun. The Tower of Angels, fortress-monastery of the Chapter, known also as the Rock.

An angel’s wings spread from a blade that hovers above the battlements of the castle. The sigil of Supreme Grand Master Azrael, Chapter Grand Master.

Harahel drew in a deep breath, knowing why the astropaths had come to him. A signal with the seal of the Supreme Grand Master was rare. The vision unfolded, sent across the void of the warp by the psykers of the Rock, carried by a flock of fluttering ravens. The message was for Sammael, for the Ravenwing. Steel claws and beaks glinted in the black mass: a summons to battle.

A starship circled a world. Its name floated through Harahel’s thoughts. Blade of Caliban. He knew the ship, and from where it had come. Piscina, a recruiting system of the Dark Angels. Not so long ago the warriors of the Chapter had fought a war against an ork invasion of the world. Harahel sought confirmation that the ork threat had returned, but it was not a green-skinned beast that was carried upon the ship.

Instead there appeared a Space Marine, clad in black armour, a skull-face helm concealing his face beneath the cowl of a white robe. A Chaplain. The robes caught fire, the armour of the figure becoming black flames that consumed the white of the Deathwing. The meaning was unclear until the Chaplain was reduced to ashes, and from the embers rose another figure. A hooded warrior, angel wings splayed from his back, a sword inverted in his hands.

Harahel broke the communion, pulling back sharply. The urgency of his retreat brought gasps from the astropaths and Harahel was forced to take another deep breath to steady himself. He opened his eyes and saw questioning looks on the faces of the two men in front of him.

‘We saw but a fraction of the vision,’ said Neim, wiping sweat from his face with the cuff of his robe. ‘Can you interpret its meaning?’

‘Scour these memories, and speak not of them to another soul,’ said the Librarian. ‘I comprehend its meaning and will bear this news to the Grand Master. Return to your posts and be ready to transmit a reply to the Tower of Angels.’

‘As you command,’ the two astropaths chorused, bowing their heads once more.

They turned and left. Harahel sat down with a grimace once they were gone and allowed himself a groan as the images from the Supreme Grand Master pulsed through his thoughts. To one who knew the secret signs of the Chapter, there was no confusion. The Epistolary took a moment to collect his thoughts, hands trembling as he rested them on his knees.

The reception of the message had been timely indeed. They would need to lay in a new course.

THE HUNT BEGINS

Malcifer arrived in Sammael’s quarters just a few minutes after Harahel had entered. The Chaplain was dressed in the vestments of the sacristy, a cloak of black over his white robes. Sammael sat at the head of the oval table while Harahel paced back and forth beside the Grand Master, hands clasped together behind his back.

‘Sit,’ said Sammael, waving the Chaplain to the chair on his right.

‘I detect disquiet,’ said Malcifer as he seated himself, sweeping his cloak over the ornately carved back of the chair. Wood creaked under his weight. ‘And urgency. You said that we have received a message from Azrael, brother?’

Sammael looked to Harahel to reply. The Librarian’s communication that convened the council had been brief and Sammael had waited for Malcifer to arrive so that there was no need for repetition. The Librarian ceased his pacing and sat down opposite Malcifer. With sparing words, Harahel described the images from the message, clarifying the source and sender.

‘There is trouble at Piscina,’ said Sammael. ‘The inverted blade signals treachery, but I do not know what to make of this dark Chaplain.’

‘We cannot know for sure,’ said Malcifer. ‘There was a small squad left to oversee the protection of the Chapter Keep and the initial training of the recruits, led by Brother Boreas. The message must relate to him, but I find it hard to accept that he has turned against us. Boreas is one of the most stalwart upholders of the Chapter’s honour, a hero of the Piscina campaign and many others.’

‘We cannot ignore the image,’ said Harahel. ‘It has been several years since the Tower of Angels last had contact from Piscina, and much can happen in that time.’

‘Not to the loyalty of a Brother-Chaplain,’ Malcifer argued vehemently. ‘Perhaps we read the signs wrong. The Chaplain has been consumed by dark flames of treachery, but that can mean victim, not perpetrator.’

‘Questions that can be answered when we arrive,’ said Sammael. ‘The intent of the Supreme Grand Master is clear. Something sinister has happened at Piscina and the Ravenwing must investigate.’

‘We must consider that this message was meant for you alone, brother,’ said Harahel. ‘It is for the Ravenwing. There must be other forces open to despatch to Piscina, and therefore the choice of the Supreme Grand Master to call to us leaves only one conclusion – that the Ravenwing alone is suited to solve the mystery of Piscina. That in turn leads me to believe that Azrael suspects the involvement of our particular foe.’

‘The Fallen.’ Sammael whispered the word with a grimace.

‘Indeed,’ said Malcifer. ‘It is not coincidence that one of our home worlds is threatened, I fear.’

‘It also leaves us with a more pressing issue,’ said Harahel. ‘Do we take the warriors of the Fifth with us? They may be exposed to truths that are beyond their calling.’

‘A risk we must take,’ said Sammael, reaching a decision instantly. ‘To send them back to the Rock without explanation would only invite curiosity. The Ravenwing will be the vanguard, and we shall shield our brothers from uncomfortable fact if necessary. This is not the first occasion we have encountered such issues and it shall not be the last.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Malcifer. ‘I sense that we cannot expect further support from the Chapter for the foreseeable future.’

‘I think not,’ said Harahel. ‘The Tower of Angels will certainly make for Piscina as swiftly as is possible, I am sure, but as ever we shall be the first light to penetrate the shadow.’

‘Let us be thankful then that we are not embroiled in further complications.’ Sammael leaned back. ‘Why so glum, my brothers?’

‘The taint of the Fallen is always cause for regret,’ said Harahel. ‘To think that they cast a shadow upon one of our worlds again heralds concern.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Sammael. He smiled. ‘When one of the Fallen casts ripples for us to see, it is a blessing, not a curse. One more name to be struck from the ledger of shame. This is our purpose. This is why we hunt!’

TWO

PISCINA IV

A WORLD OF ANARCHY

‘Something is certainly amiss, Grand Master,’ reported Judoc Pichon, bridge officer of the Implacable Justice. A rangy man, Pichon was almost as tall as Sammael, whom he addressed in the middle of the strike cruiser’s bridge. An unaugmented human in his middle ages, the bridge officer bore the sigil of the Chapter as a red tattoo on his left cheek; a symbol of one who had been accepted as an aspirant but ultimately failed the subsequent testing by the Librarians and Chaplains. Unsuitable to undergo the transformation into a superhuman warrior, Pichon instead served as the ranking non-Space Marine officer of the bridge crew.

‘Hails to the Chapter Keep receive no response,’ he explained, passing a sheaf of transparent reports to the Grand Master of the Ravenwing. ‘We have detected no intercepting craft from the system defence fleet, nor have we received any hail from orbital defence.’

‘A matter of concern,’ agreed Sammael. He flipped through the scanner readouts, processing the information at a glance. ‘Scattered communications traffic describes considerable turmoil on the surface.’

‘Yes, Grand Master Sammael, it would appear so. With your permission, I will begin an all-frequency hail. There are certainly active defence forces. Somebody will be paying attention.’

‘Very good, Pichon. Move us into low orbit and conduct a full sweep scan. I want a clearer picture of what is happening below.’

The officer lifted his hands to his chest and bowed before turning away to issue the orders. Sammael pondered the meaning of the reports and concluded that the lack of attention paid by the defence forces had to indicate a pressing threat on the surface. He recalled the data entries he had read on Piscina IV, and much mention was made of the residual ork presence left in the wake of the invasion. Despite all efforts, the aliens continued to be a threat and this seemed the likely source of the turmoil.

Though this explanation offered a likely reason, Sammael could not dismiss the possibility that something deeper and more sinister was wrong at Piscina. The nature of the message from the Rock lent credence to the Grand Master’s suspicion that treachery was a contributing factor.

‘Signal alert to full combat readiness, Pichon,’ he said. ‘I want to be ready to intervene or react should events require it. Relay orders to the Penitent Warrior.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ replied the officer. He made his way to the communications console and moments later his voice echoed from the address system, announcing the call to combat status. Pichon turned to step away when one of the Chapter serfs manning the comms monitoring station called him back. There was a brief exchange and then Pichon hurried over to Sammael.

‘Contact made, Grand Master,’ said the officer. ‘We are receiving transmission from the command staff of a Colonel Brade.’

‘Commander-in-chief of the Free Militia defence force,’ said Sammael, remembering the name from his studies. ‘Send summons to Brothers Harahel and Malcifer to meet me in my command chamber, and ask the colonel to be ready to make a full report. Transfer reception to my secure channel.’

‘As you command, Grand Master.’ Pichon bowed again and attended to his orders as Sammael crossed to the door leading to his chamber adjoining the bridge. As the double doors swung open on hydraulic hinges, the Grand Master turned back to issue one last command. ‘Signal Sergeant Seraphiel of the Fifth Company to stand ready to receive drop orders.’

Sammael stepped through the doors without waiting for the officer’s acknowledgement, walking into a sparsely furnished chamber dominated by a hololithic projector and a bank of communications equipment. He activated the display and accessed the strike cruiser’s data store to bring up an image of Piscina IV. His fingers moving quickly over the controls, the Grand Master zoomed in on the principal island, Kadillus, and the planet’s capital, Kadillus Harbour. A blinking icon not far inside the city marked the position of the Chapter Keep where recruits from the feral tribes of Piscina V underwent initial recruitment testing and training.

Overlaying the data stream from the current sensor sweep, Sammael noticed an automated transmission sourced from the Chapter Keep. He recognised it immediately as a standard beacon signal, activated as a warning that the keep was under threat.

The doors wheezed open behind him and he turned to see Harahel and Malcifer enter. The two of them wore their armour, as did Sammael; standard doctrine when approaching a potentially compromised star system. They carried their helmets in their hands, the faces of both showing concern.

‘We receive word from the planet,’ Sammael informed them, moving to the communications array. He spoke briefly with one of the attendants and a few seconds later a garbled signal screeched from the speakers. Sammael keyed in his personal code to decrypt the channel.

‘You are addressing Grand Master Sammael of the Adeptus Astartes. Confirm identification. Issuing decryption signal now.’

It took a moment for the link to be established, a grey screen at the centre of the panel flickering into static and then resolving into the monotone image of a broad-faced, aging man wearing a peaked cap decorated with the Imperial aquila. Sammael transferred the link to the hololith and turned back to the centre of the room as the man’s face appeared, floating above the schematic of Kadillus.

‘Colonel Brade, Commander of the Piscinan Free Militia. Thank the Emperor you have arrived! It is anarchy down here.’

Sammael glanced at his companions before replying.

‘Be specific, colonel. What is the nature of the threat?’

‘Where do I start? We have widespread civil unrest in the capital, a burgeoning famine, resurgent ork attacks and a divided planetary command.’

‘What is the status of our Chapter Keep?’ asked Malcifer. ‘Where is the Dark Angels garrison squad?’

‘We have had no word from the keep for months.’ Brade shook his head despondently. ‘We tried to enter, but it is sealed and we thought it better not to attempt a breach of a Dark Angels facility.’

‘A wise choice. What is your current military status, colonel?’ asked Sammael. ‘Why have you not restored order?’

‘I have tried, by the Emperor, believe me I have tried.’ Brade’s face was haggard, eyes dark-rimmed even in the poor resolution of the display. ‘A mob broke into the palaces of Imperial Commander Sousan, aided by some of my own men. She was tried for treason against her own people and executed before I could intervene. Her cousin has taken on the role of Imperial Commander under my supervision, but the people are refusing to accept her command. Between the uprising and the orks, we do not have enough forces. The megatrawlers are refusing to dock at the harbour and people are starving. Part of the city is infested with greenskins but I cannot clear them out whilst protecting what little food stores remain.’

‘When the Tower of Angels last departed Piscina, we left behind an ordered, stable world. How is it that such a parlous state has so rapidly come about, colonel?’ said Malcifer.

‘Not to cast blame, but your warriors have not helped the situation. Lord Boreas and the others deserted the keep before the trouble began, and another force from the Chapter arrived in their place. They started a massacre, gunning down civilians and Free Militia. The people were terrified, thinking that the Emperor had turned against them. It was as if His divine judgement was being meted out upon the city. Hundreds were slain.’

‘By Dark Angels?’ Sammael demanded, sickened by the thought. He heard a snarl from Malcifer and a glance showed the Chaplain clenching his fists with anguish. Harahel met Sammael’s gaze with a meaningful look. Sammael calmed himself and turned back to the hololith. ‘You are certain, colonel?’

‘That is what it seemed at the time, though when Lord Boreas returned he gave the impression that these Space Marines were not acting under orders. But we haven’t seen nor had word from the original garrison since they entered the keep. The people feel abandoned and with the orks on the verge of overrunning the city everything has descended into madness. Half my men have deserted or joined the uprising.’

Brade turned away and Sammael heard voices in the background, too quiet to be heard over the link. The colonel nodded a few times but his face was grim when he turned back.

‘I have to go. The orks have broken through again and are advancing on Northport. The shuttle terminal is our only supply route, we cannot let it fall. Your assistance would be an Emperor-sent blessing, Lord Sammael.’

‘I will contact you again shortly, colonel,’ replied Sammael. He cut the link before Brade could make any further requests. The Grand Master turned his attention to his companions. ‘Black flames of treachery indeed.’

‘There can be no other reason,’ said Malcifer. ‘The Fallen have instigated this conflict. It is a malicious attack against the Chapter, one we cannot ignore.’

‘I have no intention of ignoring it, brother, but it is not clear which course it is best to proceed upon. I would welcome your counsel.’

‘Though the colonel did not state as such, it appears that the Fallen are no longer on Piscina,’ said Harahel. The Librarian laid his helmet on the surface of the hololith, blanking out half the display. He looked thoughtful, fingers raised to his chin, palms pressed together. ‘If we become embroiled in this conflict it will take considerable time to resolve. Judging by the reaction of the populace to the Fallen’s slayings we cannot expect widespread cooperation.’

‘I am of the same mind, brother,’ replied Sammael. ‘Even with our brethren from the Fifth Company, the Ravenwing is not ideally suited to this battle.’

‘Regardless, we will only find the answers we seek on the surface,’ said Malcifer. ‘We must gain access to the Chapter Keep. It is possible that Boreas and the others, beset by an angry populace, have decided that isolation is the best course of action. To turn their weapons on the rebels might be seen as further betrayal by the Chapter and fuel the rebellion rather than quell it.’

‘Why no answer to our communications?’ asked Sammael.

‘Their array may have been damaged in fighting, or perhaps disabled by the Fallen whilst the garrison was absent,’ suggested Harahel.

‘There are too many questions to which we have no answers, brother,’ said Malcifer. ‘You are correct, we must avoid the entanglements of this insurrection, but we cannot avoid making a planetfall. I suggest we devise a strategy to segregate the Chapter Keep from threat and then proceed to see what we can discover.’

‘I concur,’ said Harahel. ‘The Tower of Angels is in transit to Piscina. If there is no resolution to the conflict by the time of their arrival, the intervention of the rest of the Chapter will settle matters. To that end, we must send warning of what they can expect to encounter.’

Sammael turned away from the pair and considered his options. He had been chosen as Grand Master of the Ravenwing for his initiative, and his position always entailed balancing the needs of the hunt with the duty the Chapter owed to the Imperium. He did not have to think long before he turned back to Malcifer and Harahel.

‘The Fallen have already inflicted grievous injury on Piscina,’ he told them. ‘Our purpose must be to apprehend them before they can cause such harm again. At the moment there is no trail for us to follow, so we must secure the Chapter Keep and whatever intelligence it contains. We will launch overflights of the keep and have a perimeter secured by the rest of the company, while the Fifth Company creates a cordon between the orks attacking the city.’

‘And Colonel Brade? He will make further requests for aid.’ Harahel’s expression betrayed inner conflict at the decision, something Sammael could understand but not share.

‘We will give assurances that the Dark Angels will set to right the wrongs done to his people, and that is all. Brother-Chaplain, prepare the company for battle. We drop in three hours.’

STRATEGIC PRECAUTIONS

Pounding down the ramp of the Thunderhawk, Telemenus and the other members of Squad Amanael fanned out quickly, joining the other squads securing the landing site. The gunships had placed the Dark Angels amidst the ruins of abandoned entrenchments and bunkers; fortifications of cracked ferrocrete overgrown with vegetation. A stubby tree was growing up through the flak boards of a gun pit to Telemenus’s right, crawling plants spilled from the firing slits of a bunker directly ahead.

Dust billowed as the gunships lifted off, the downdraught from their engines flattening wild grass and kicking up dead leaves that had gathered in the lee of the defensive wall. Through this litter the squad advanced, weapons at the ready though no enemy were expected. The constant ticking of negative returns from Apollon’s auspex sounded in Telemenus’s ear.

‘As expected, long abandoned,’ said Sergeant Amanael.

Sergeant Seraphiel’s instructions split the force, despatching Squad Amanael to secure the south-western end of the defensive line with Squad Atleus. The twenty Dark Angels forged along the hill, their shadows long in front of them as a new day dawned over the isle of Kadillus. The morning light shone bright from the distant curtain wall of Kadillus Harbour to the west, but the sky above the city was dark with smoke. The Free Militia were defending the starport on the other side of Kadillus Harbour. The Space Marines heard the constant crack of artillery in the distance and a perpetual chatter of gunfire. The muted growl of tank engines resounded across the city and Telemenus thought of the battle raging only a few kilometres away; stark contrast to the peaceful surrounds that greeted the arriving Dark Angels.

There was no threat here, and there were no signs of any impeding ork attack. As far as Telemenus could tell, the Fifth Company were nowhere near the fighting, for reasons he could not fathom. He wondered – hoped – that they were not simply being kept out of the way of their brethren in the Ravenwing, but he had suspicions. Yet if that was Sammael’s aim, it would have proven simpler to keep the Fifth Company in orbit.

‘Be aware of unexploded munitions and orkish traps,’ warned Seraphiel, breaking Telemenus’s train of thought. ‘We know these bunkers were occupied by the orks less than twenty days ago.’

Following Amanael’s lead, Telemenus dropped over the lip of the trench, crunching onto fractured plascrete two metres down. There were holes in the wall where roots and plant tendrils had broken through, the years since the construction of the fortifications enough for the wilderness to begin healing the scar made upon it.

The bleak landscape, endless kilometres of grassland and scrub leading up to the more verdant slopes at the island’s volcanic heart, reminded Telemenus a little of the barren plains of Bartia where he had been raised.

It was warmer here, the wind not as icy; the sky darker from a more distant star.

His memories of Bartia were little more than fragments. He could not picture his parents’ faces, nor the other children of the large family with whom he had shared a yurt for twelve years before the Dark Angels had returned to the midsummer hunt. Even his testing was a blur, of running and blood, and ultimately victory. None had run swifter nor slain more beasts than Telemenus that day; the youth he had been was more proficient with the short bow of his people than many four and five years his senior.

He stopped as Amanael turned to check a bunker leading off from the trench line, his bolter covering the lip of the line ahead. It was instinct to do so, requiring little thought, especially with no expectation of enemy.

One memory in particular did stand out though, a moment towards the end of the midsummer hunt when the gunships of the Dark Angels had descended like chariots on pillars of fire. The elders had crowed glories to the Emperor that the Dark Angels had returned and the competitors in the hunt, those with less than ten winters behind them, had been gathered for the inspection.

Telemenus – he had not been named as such back then – had been slightly shorter than the other youths, and to him the giants that had marched down the assault ramps had been walking gods. He remembered the glint of the setting sun on dark green armour and bolters, and the image of the winged sword in red upon the white of a flag snapping from the banner pole of the captain leading the recruiting squad.

Some of the boys had made fearful remarks when the Chaplain appeared, a skull-faced shadow that matched the ancient paintings of the Long Death that could be seen on the cliffs at Casoron Ford. Telemenus had not been afraid as he watched the deathly warrior approach; he had thought of a great-uncle – a name now forgotten with his own – who had been taken by the Dark Angels. It was a source of much pride and influence for the family to have such an ancestor.

When the other boys had stepped back from the advance of the armoured giants, Telemenus had kept his ground. The Chaplain had loomed over him, seeming larger than the aridovores that roamed the taiga in thousand-strong herds. With the confidence and impudence that only a youth could possess, young Telemenus had looked up into that skull face and asked, ‘Are you my uncle?’

Such was the way of the Chapter initiation – love of home and kin replaced with love of the Emperor and the Dark Angels – Telemenus had never found out if his great-uncle had survived the trials and been accepted into the Chapter. There were certainly other Dark Angels who hailed from Bartia, Sergeant Seraphiel being one of them, but there was no way to know who they were before they had become Space Marines; they could not remember and the Chapter records did not contain such details. If his uncle was indeed still amongst the ranks of the Chapter, he was a brother to Telemenus now, a brother of battle.

Listening to the growl of the gunships prowling overhead and the sussurant whisper of the wind in the grass put Telemenus in mind of that day many decades ago, but it was a memory he recalled with intellectual detachment; something that seemed to have happened to another person, which he had later been told about. He no longer felt or thought the way that enquiring youth had felt and thought, his younger self as alien to him as any other human.

‘Sweep clear,’ announced Amanael as they came to a revetment at the end of the trench line, the glimmer of the sea visible many kilometres further down the sloping shore of the island.

There were other reports and acknowledgements from the other squads, confirming that the maze of trenches and fortifications was deserted. Amanael and his squad were ordered to hold ground, while patrols were sent out to secure the land to the north.

Watching thirty of his battle-brothers striding across the grasslands, the smoke and flame of the battle for Northport staining the air in front of them, Telemenus realised that something was not as he expected.

‘Sergeant, our patrols are heading the wrong way,’ he said. ‘They are advancing towards Kadillus Harbour.’

‘Your eyes are as sharp as ever, brother,’ replied Amanael. He pointed to the north-west, where the stone of the Dark Angels’ garrison citadel could be seen rising over the wall of the city, not far from where Kadillus dropped steeply down towards the port. ‘We are not here to guard the city, we are to ensure that the ork attack does not move from Northport around the city towards the Chapter Keep. Imperial Guard and planetary forces are already holding the city. Those are our orders from Grand Master Sammael.’

‘Curious,’ said Cadael. ‘I would have thought the Ravenwing better suited to patrol the open ground while we secure the citadel. Land Speeders and bikes are not ideal for urban conflict.’

‘I am sure Grand Master Sammael has good reason to position our force as he has,’ said Achamenon. ‘One does not rise to the position of Company Grand Master by making fundamental mistakes.’

‘I have the feeling we are somewhat redundant in the Grand Master’s thoughts,’ said Cadael. ‘I look forward to the day that I learn the intricacies of strategy so that I may understand what plan requires sixty Space Marines to guard an empty patch of wilderness.’

‘Watch your words, brother,’ said Amanael. ‘It is not our place to second-guess our orders, nor to doubt the decisions of superiors. Be assured that Grand Master Sammael set us here for a purpose.’

‘The Ravenwing do things their own way,’ said Telemenus. ‘Sometimes they act more like White Scars or Space Wolves than Dark Angels.’

‘And our current duty will be fulfilled with the dedication and decorum for which we are known,’ said Amanael. ‘Attend to your sectors and, while we have peace, reflect upon what we have witnessed today. It is evident that the Imperial Commander and her forces were lax in their scourging of the orks following the departure of the Chapter. That they have been able to multiply again, to grow to become a force that threatens the city once more, is a damning testimony to the peril of complacency. Be vigilant, as the Emperor stands vigil over us.’

Knowing that his sergeant’s words forestalled any further debate, Telemenus nodded acquiescence and raised his bolter, his view telescoping through its targeter to magnify a stand of stunted trees half a kilometre away. He scanned left and right and saw only his battle-brothers continuing their patrol. Despite the battle raging for Northport only kilometres away, there were no enemies here and he would remain eleven kills short of his laurels for the time being.

ARRIVAL IN KADILLUS

The streets of the city were eerily empty as the lead squadrons of the Ravenwing entered by the south gate, opened to them by Brade’s soldiers in the Free Militia. The returns from Black Shadow’s scanner showed that there were plenty of people around – several thousand in the immediate vicinity – but none showed themselves. Whether it was the ork warriors still prowling in other parts of the city or the presence of the Dark Angels that made the inhabitants hide, Annael did not know. The faces he glimpsed in windows were pale, expressions shell-shocked from a long, harrowing ordeal.

Against a backdrop of cannons and mortars, tanks and smalls arms fire from the north of the city, the growl of bike motors and whine of anti-grav engines echoed back from the low buildings. Glass was scattered across the roads, little danger to the reinforced tyres of the Ravenwing’s machines, and in places narrower side streets and alleys between the grey tenements were blocked by improvised barricades made of piled furniture, tyres, ferrocrete slabs and overturned vehicles.

There were bodies amongst the debris and draped over the obstacles. Vermin, furred and feathered, fought with each other over the spoils, though Annael noticed that the defenders of Kadillus had been wise enough to remove any orkish dead though they had not been able to do the same for their own kin. The bodies were almost picked clean, the fighting that caused them having passed to another part of the city some time ago; weeks more likely than days. From what the Dark Angels had gleaned from the planetary defence force commander, the city had been under incessant attack for some time, as the orks emerged in waves from their lairs in the wilderness, sometimes hundreds of them, occasionally a thousand or more.

It seemed impossible to believe that this had once been a recruiting world for the Chapter. Ever since Ghazghkull the Beast had brought the green horde here, Piscina had never quite known peace. The Dark Angels had done all they could, hunting down the aliens on the flanks of the volcanic island, purging their hidden camps. Other concerns had taken them away; campaigns that required their strength far more than Piscina, leaving the planet’s defence in the hands of the local militia. Apparently they had not been as diligent as the Supreme Grand Master had expected. Annael was not surprised. The Piscinan soldiers were, after all, only human.

Reaching a large intersection with the rest of his squadron, Annael came across the burnt out wrecks of two Chimera troop transports. The vehicles had been stripped of weapons, track links, running gear, hatches and even some armour panels. Across the junction, about half a kilometre away in the direction the wrecked transports were facing, a line of chassis of destroyed ground cars choked the road, evidently targeted trying to approach the position of the Chimeras.

A bike squadron and two Land Speeder Typhoons peeled away to secure the far side of the intersection as the Ravenwing column turned left towards the Chapter Keep. More squadrons were despatched to secure the area around the citadel and Sergeant Cassiel passed on the order for Annael and the others to follow him into a wooded parkland.

The trees were losing their blossom, scattering pink and white petals in the wind as the black-armoured bikers guided their mounts along a winding road that cut through the park. The grass was heavily trampled and Annael saw scorch marks on a rise to his left in a pattern he recognised.

‘Thunderhawk landing,’ said Araton before Annael could make the same observation. ‘Opposed, it seems.’

Annael was not sure what these last words meant until he was almost level with the black marks on the flattened turf. There were charred bones in the grass, tatters of clothing still clinging to them. Magnifying his autosenses, Annael saw that they were definitely humans not orks, and the clothes were of different colours and fabrics; civilians not soldiers.

‘A gunship landed on them?’ Zarall’s voice was a whisper. ‘There must have been good cause for such an act.’

‘Let us concentrate on determining the present threat,’ said Cassiel.

Annael tore his eyes away from the grisly tableau atop the hill. He had seen many corpses, human and alien, but there was something disturbing about the bodies scattered on the rise in the middle of the landscaped parklands. He could see no obvious damage to the surrounding buildings to indicate a battle had been fought here, though at the far side of the park he did see another destroyed Chimera at one of the gates in the wall surrounding the public gardens.

‘Nobody is coming out,’ said Sabrael. ‘I have a mass of signals but they are all inside the buildings. I was worried we would be swamped by citizens celebrating our coming.’

‘Perhaps they know better than to leave the safety of their homes during battle,’ suggested Annael. ‘The people of Kadillus Harbour know war very well.’

‘That must be it,’ said Sabrael. ‘I would not like to contemplate any other reason why the Dark Angels would be shunned by loyal Imperial citizens.’

Annael knew that Sabrael made oblique reference to the bodies on the hill, and what they might signify, but like his battle-brother he did not voice any suspicion openly. Ever since he had been informed that they were securing the city around the Chapter Keep, Annael had wondered at the nature of the mission. It was clear that there was heavy fighting around the space port – the boom of shells and crackle of gunfire on the edge of his augmented hearing testified to the continuing conflict – but Grand Master Sammael had made a priority of the Chapter’s citadel. Coupled with the deployment of the Fifth Company outside the city wall, it was a confusing situation.

It was not in Annael’s nature to doubt the competence of his superiors, and he certainly trusted Grand Master Sammael’s judgement in all strategic matters, but he wished that the upper echelons of the company had better communicated the mission objectives. Context was an important part of any tactical understanding and Annael felt that he and his brothers in the squadron were under-prepared to make correct decisions if the current situation changed. There seemed to be an over-dependence on Grand Master Sammael to take personal command in all events.

It was not a great concern, and Annael knew well enough he had a lot to learn about the Ravenwing despite his induction into some of the company doctrine. After Chaplain Malcifer’s remark, as good-natured as it had been intended, Annael was not going to get himself a reputation as a wayward spirit by voicing such opinion openly. It was the weakness in himself that gave rise to doubts, not some shortfall in the conduct of those around him; such was the teaching of the Chaplaincy.

When the park had been swept and declared secure, Grand Master Sammael’s Thunderhawk blazed overhead, landing in the park not far from the corpse-littered hill. The Grand Master of the Ravenwing and his squadron sped from the gunship’s belly, cutting directly across the park towards the citadel. The bikes disappeared along the street, no word received from Sammael as to the next phase of the mission.

‘We wait for orders,’ confirmed Cassiel, motioning the squadron to form a mobile patrol around the perimeter of the parkland. ‘If we are needed, Grand Master Sammael will send word.’

GRIM DISCOVERIES

Under Sammael’s guidance Corvex slid to a halt at the end of the street. Ahead, the Chapter Keep rose up at the centre of five hundred metres of bare rockcrete, its shadow stretching far across the grey slabs. Once this had been an industrial complex, flattened by the Dark Angels to create a kill zone around their citadel. The keep itself was not a grandiose building, simply a five storey slab-sided tower surrounded by a ten metre high curtain wall. Two squat bastions flanked the armoured gate, red sensor globe lenses staring impassively from within chamfered niches. There were ramparts on the keep roof and a gun tower at each corner.

It was the gun towers that were the focus of Sammael’s attention.

As the rest of his command squad halted around him, Sammael checked the scan readings from his machine.

‘No active sensors detected,’ he announced. ‘Gun towers inactive.’

He tried one more time to contact anyone inside the keep, sending his personal identifier across several secure channels. There was no reply except for the insistent tone of the warning beacon.

‘No sign of damage,’ said Athelman. ‘I cannot see any cause for the attack beacon to have been activated.’

‘A subtle danger is the most perilous,’ warned Malcifer, edging his bike forward to come alongside Sammael. He spoke to the company Grand Master over the command channel, heard only by Sammael and Harahel. ‘If what we suspect is true, the attack was not external.’

‘Daedis, Athelman, perimeter sweep,’ announced Sammael, motioning for the squadron to move on. As the two battle-brothers accelerated off to the right, the Grand Master led Harahel and Malcifer directly towards the keep. Seeing multiple signal returns on his scanner in the buildings ringing the kill zone he looked around. Scared men and women, young and old, peered at the Dark Angels from the narrow windows of the housing blocks.

‘I sense their fear,’ said Harahel.

‘Given the circumstance, not unexpected,’ replied Malcifer.

‘No, it is not just a general dread of the orks or the battle,’ replied the Librarian. ‘They are terrified of us. Colonel Brade and his men are in a minority if they are pleased to see us return.’

‘Further reason to keep our presence here brief,’ said Sammael.

They approached the gate of the curtain wall and still there was no sign of activity from the keep. Daedis and Athelman had disappeared from view, the return of their ident-markers on the scan display showing their progress around the far side of the citadel.

‘You have the lock codes, brother?’ Sammael looked at Malcifer as he asked the question.

‘My override codes will gain us entry,’ the Chaplain replied. Sammael’s comm picked up the telltale buzz of a tight-channel transmission and a second later motors inside the wall snarled into action, the gate sliding to one side to reveal the courtyard within.

Sammael slowly moved into the compound and curved left towards a ramp that led down to the broad gate of the keep’s underground garage. Behind him the outer gate rumbled back into place. Another trans-mission from Malcifer caused the reinforced steel slabs of the garage doors to retract. Sammael descended the ramp as lights flickered into life.

‘Power generation still functioning,’ the Grand Master remarked as Corvex slid through the gateway.

Two Rhino armoured carriers sat side-by-side, with three bikes lined up in maintenance cages along the left-hand wall. All seemed to be in order, the machines showing no signs of battle damage. The armoury garage stretched out as far as the foundations of the curtain wall, with plenty of room for the three Dark Angels to park their machines. Dismounting, Sammael ordered Malcifer to close the gates and made his way across the plascrete floor to a data terminal. He entered his ident-code and accessed the armoury logs while his companions performed a quick search of the garage.

‘Nothing untoward,’ reported Harahel.

‘Nor here,’ said Sammael. ‘More than fifty days since the armoury was last accessed. Last entry is an ammunition and weapons withdrawal. To be expected if the orks presented a threat again.’

‘Why are the Rhinos still here?’ asked the Librarian. ‘Surely they would not have departed on foot.’

‘The Thunderhawk is missing,’ said Malcifer. ‘If they abandoned the keep for some reason, they flew out of here.’

‘After setting the warning beacon. Also their ship, the Blade of Caliban, is not in the system,’ added Sammael. ‘I assume that the strike cruiser returned to the Rock with some news of what happened here, prompting the message we received. If the keep was not under direct assault, why was it evacuated?’

The other two Dark Angels had no answer to this question and remained silent.

The tread of their booted feet was loud as they strode to the doorway leading to the main body of the keep. Sammael drew his blade, the Raven Sword forged from a piece of meteorite inlaid with a crystal matrix powerfield. A blue aura flickered along the edges of the blade as Sammael activated the field generator with a touch of his thumb. Behind him Malcifer readied his bolt pistol and crozius and Harahel’s force axe gleamed with psychic power.

Sammael keyed in an override access code and the locks of the door hissed open. It swung open easily at his touch, revealing a winding stairwell leading up into the first storey of the keep. With Malcifer beside him, Harahel a few steps behind, the Grand Master of the Ravenwing advanced quickly up the steps.

They came to an archway at the top that opened out into the entrance hall behind the citadel gate. Sammael was keenly aware that his autosenses detected nothing that suggested the keep was occupied; only the thrum of the building’s power grid. Stepping into the hallway his eye was drawn to red stains on the bare rockcrete floor, and spots of crimson on the brushed metal cabinet of the gate access terminal.

‘Blood,’ he said heavily. ‘Old.’

‘No bodies,’ added Harahel. ‘I sense no life in this place. Not even vermin or insects.’

Sammael accepted this statement without comment, turning to his left and heading beneath another archway into the chamber beyond. It was only a few metres square, the floor and ceiling bare ferrocrete. Red-cushioned benches made of dark timber lined the chamber to each side, beneath wooden carvings hung on whitewashed walls; a gilded Imperial aquila on the left, the winged sword of the Dark Angels on the right in enamelled black. There was material spattered on the walls and floor, amongst more bloodstains; small droplets of something grey. Sammael prodded one of the tear-shaped droplets and it came free, falling to the floor.

‘Molten ceramite,’ he told the others. ‘Judging by the amount, it was a considerable blast. Plasma probably.’

‘Other pieces of debris here,’ said Malcifer, crouching to point at a scatter of metal splinters and plasteel filaments caught in the fabric of the bench cushions.

They moved through the remaining chambers of the lower floor – storerooms, the communications centre and a well-furnished holding area for visitors – and found nothing to further explain the absence of the garrison except for more bloodstains. They found a gleaming metal staircase at the heart of the keep and continued to the second storey. Here they found the dorters of the Space Marines and the keep’s serfs, beds arranged along the walls, all neat and in order. The armour stands of the Dark Angels were empty, the weapon brackets above their cots also vacant.

‘They left armed and armoured,’ said Malcifer, walking between the massive bunks used by the Space Marines of the garrison. ‘The evacuation was not hasty. Or at least, not under direct duress.’

‘There are still belongings here,’ called Harahel from the serfs’ chamber across the hallway. ‘Personal effects, clothes.’

‘Which tells us nothing more about what happened,’ said Sammael. A feeling of unease was steadily growing in his gut. He could not stop the image described to him by Harahel surfacing in his thoughts: a Chaplain consumed by treachery. He pushed aside his misgivings, focusing on the investigation. He was the Grand Master of the Ravenwing, the eyes of the Chapter, and he could not afford to miss any clue. ‘Continue upwards.’

The bloodstains on stairs and floors diminished as they ascended to the third floor. Here were more dorters and a range of cells, for the initiates that had been accepted into the Chapter. Like the dormitories below, the rooms were clean and tidy, though Sammael immediately noticed something was missing.

‘There are no bedclothes on the cots,’ he mentioned to the other two Dark Angels, pointing at the bunks. ‘Stripped.’

‘Blood has seeped into the mattresses of several,’ said Malcifer, examining the beds more closely. He stood up and there was a hush to his voice that betrayed an unsettled mind. ‘The initiates were attacked in their sleep.’

‘Here, a mark.’ Harahel drew their attention to a hole in the wall, the size of a Space Marine’s fist. Magnifying his autosenses, Sammael could see pieces of shrapnel embedded in the plaster within the gash.

‘Bolt detonation,’ he said grimly. ‘It seems that it was one of our own that perpetrated the killings.’

‘Or one of their weapons was taken,’ Malcifer answered quickly. ‘A single bolter round is not conclusive, brother.’

‘You may be right, but I sense that something terrible has happened here,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘Harahel, can you glean nothing with your powers?’

‘All is dead here, brother,’ replied the Epistolary. ‘I was taught to delve into the minds of living men, the walls here do not remember.’

‘You sense nothing?’ Sammael could not believe that there was no psychic trace of the massacre that seemed to have been carried out. ‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing more than your instincts are telling you, brother. A darkness has claimed this place.’

Sammael grunted and shook his head. Librarians could be superstitious at times. On the next landing there were more signs of fighting, bolter impacts and bullet holes stitched across the walls. Most of the floor was taken up with the access chambers and ammunition stores for the roof turrets. There was nothing to be found there and they swiftly continued to the top of the keep.

A RIDDLE OF CORPSES

The uppermost storey was split between three rooms; two small cells for the personal use of the garrison commanders and the keep’s chapel. It was the last that Sammael entered first and what he found inside stopped him in his tracks.

‘Brothers...’ The sight that confronted him was beyond reckoning and he heard pained gasps from his companions as they entered the chapel behind him.

In front of a marble symbol of the Chapter was a low altar set with a few relics, amongst them the crozius arcanum and rosarius of a Chaplain. It was dark, the candles in the sconces and on stands around the hall melted to stubs. In the gloom there were shapes on the floor, their outlines visible in the light from the hallway.

Along one wall were laid more than twenty bodies, covered in bloodstained shrouds stitched with the icon of the Dark Angels. At the end of the line, closest to the door, a much larger figure lay covered, the shroud turned about so that the symbol lay inverted. Sammael did not need to pull aside the covering to know that a Space Marine lay beneath; the bulk of the body made that clear.

Yet more astounding were the five armoured figures sprawled before the altar.

The middle corpse was clad in midnight black, his helm skull-faced: a Chaplain. To each side lay a Dark Angel in the livery of a Techmarine, and three others whose dark green armour was marked by the symbols of the Third Company. Each Space Marine had a ragged hole through his body, armour melted, innards charred.

‘That is the heraldry of Boreas,’ said Malcifer, pointing at the corpse of the Chaplain, disbelief in his voice. ‘How could he be dead? What foe could best five of the Adeptus Astartes and cause such wounds?’

‘No foe, save perhaps doubt,’ said Sammael, crouching by the body of the Techmarine. The fingertips of the dead Space Marine’s gauntlets were missing, each sliced cleanly through and cauterised. Turning over the Techmarine’s hand he saw molten swirls on the palm. The Grand Master looked at the other corpses and found the same injuries. There were tiny globules of molten metal and ceramite coating the insides of the wounds in their chests. The conclusion he reached was incredible and he chose not to voice it, seeking another explanation.

While Sammael pondered the meaning of what they had found, Harahel investigated the other bodies, pulling back the shrouds to reveal the faces of the dead. There was no sign of decay, skin and flesh untouched as if the keep was sterile.

‘The initiates and serfs,’ announced the Librarian as he continued along the line. ‘Knife wounds, bolt detonations. Oh...’ Harahel shook his head and looked at Sammael. The Grand Master could see nothing of his companion’s face but his posture spoke of great distress. To see such a thing from a veteran of Harahel’s standing gnawed at Sammael’s own resolve. ‘The necks of the young ones have been snapped.’

‘They took their own lives,’ Sammael announced, standing up. The revelation was just as disturbing, but at least it distracted the other two from the dead novitiates. ‘Melta bomb held against the breastplate.’

‘Why?’ Malcifer voiced the question that had been nagging Sammael since he had first entered the chapel, somewhat pointlessly.

‘Am I to conjure answers from dead flesh and broken armour?’ snapped Sammael, his anxiety forcing out the words. He immediately regretted them, wishing to show no sign of weakness in front of his companions. ‘Apologies, brother, I have nothing to tell you that you do not know.’

‘My apologies also,’ replied Malcifer. ‘What we have found defies rational explanation.’

‘And the situation grows more curious,’ said Harahel, pulling back the shroud of the Space Marine body to reveal the white armour of an Apothecary. There was no head on the body, only the blackened stump of a neck.

‘Brother Nestor,’ said Sammael, recalling the name with a little effort. ‘He was Apothecary to the garrison, integral to the recruitment.’

‘And more,’ Malcifer said quietly. ‘Piscina was chosen as one of the secret repositoria for the Chapter’s gene-seed.’

‘Nestor was a gene-guardian?’ Sammael knew of the gene-seed caches located on some of the Dark Angels’ recruiting worlds, held away from the Tower of Angels to ensure future generations could be created if something disastrous happened to the fortress-monastery. However, only a few of the Inner Circle knew the locations and the names of the gene-guardians from the apothecarion who watched over them. ‘There was nothing in the report.’

‘There would not be any,’ said Malcifer with a hint of apology. ‘It is a secret closely guarded, even within command-level documents.’

Accepting this without comment, Sammael examined Nestor’s remains. Aside from the absence of the Apothecary’s head there were no other visible injuries. There was significant charring of the armour around the cauterised wound, the paint obliterated and the ceramite melted down through several layers.

‘Though I do not comprehend the significance, I would say that we have found the victim of the blast by the gate hall. A single plasma shot to the head.’

‘The Techmarine has a plasma pistol,’ announced Malcifer, stooping to pull the weapon from a holster on the dead Dark Angel’s belt. The Chaplain inspected it for a moment, an orange icon springing into life with the whine of power cells charging. ‘The only shot fired, it would seem. Stacked cells contain ninety per cent reserve.’

‘No need to give voice to the obvious question,’ said Sammael, before someone asked why a Dark Angels Techmarine would shoot a Brother-Apothecary. ‘We have but one hope left to explain the mystery. We must open the vaults and see what we can find within the action reports and logs. I do not hold out much hope for enlightenment.’

BROTHER BOREAS SPEAKS

The vocal log entry started playing as soon as Malcifer accessed the Chapter Keep records. Sammael was surprised, and glad that he had not entrusted the investigation of the keep to any warrior not of the Inner Circle. There were bound to be revelations not suitable to the ears of the lesser ranks.

The voice of Chaplain Boreas was calm and thoughtful, issuing after death from the grille of the vault’s main data terminal.

‘This is Interrogator-Chaplain Boreas of the Emperor’s Dark Angels Chapter,’ he began. ‘This is my final communication from Piscina, as commander of the Dark Angels in the system. Our ancient foes have struck a blow against our Chapter. The reviled enemy has wounded us severely. We are entangled in a plot that goes beyond our comprehension. The events I relate stretch beyond this world, beyond the furthest reaches of this star system. Great and dark powers are at work, I see their hand manipulating us, bending us to their twisted goals.’

There was a pause in the voice and Malcifer stopped the recording, turning to Sammael.

‘Is this a confession?’ the Chaplain asked, incredulous.

‘We shall see,’ replied Sammael. He gestured for Malcifer to continue the log playback.

‘For ten thousand years we have sought redemption.’ There was more life to Boreas’s voice now, an animation fuelling words that cut to the core of Sammael as he listened. ‘We have pursued that which shamed our brethren when our time of triumph was at hand. It was a grave, unforgivable sin, which must be atoned for. That is beyond doubt. But these last days, an even greater sin has come to light. It is the sin of ignorance. It is the sin of past errors repeated.’

Sammael gestured for Malcifer to interrupt the log, disturbed by the dead Chaplain’s message. For many decades he had hunted the Fallen, following every clue and trail that might lead him and the Chapter to the capture of one of the Dark Angels that had turned on their primarch ten thousand years before. It was a heinous burden, to know of the Chapter’s shame and the true reasons for it, but all of those granted access to those secrets were chosen for their strength of will and dedication to the Dark Angels. The Interrogator-Chaplains were integral to the hunt and the strongest-willed of the Chapter, save perhaps for the Supreme Grand Master himself. To hear Boreas speak from beyond the grave, to listen to a testimony that threatened to cast doubt on the teachings of the Chapter shook Sammael in a way that no physical foe could.

‘I do not think this is the time or the place,’ he said. ‘If what we hear is true, we must wait for the rest of the Chapter before continuing. What we have heard hints at a heresy deeper than anything we have witnessed before.’

‘You think that Brother Boreas has turned against us?’ Malcifer shook his head. ‘Then you hear different words to I, brother. This is not a confession, it is a warning. If we are to know what has destroyed our brothers we must listen to the rest of the testimony.’

Deep inside, Sammael knew that he did not want to hear anything further. Talk of errors repeated set in motion a chain of thoughts that led to a devastating conclusion. Had Boreas discovered something within the Dark Angels that meant another schism would divide them? When even a Chaplain’s integrity was in doubt, was it wise for his words to be heard by Malcifer and Harahel? Sammael wondered even if it was wise for him to hear them. Words carried ideas, and ideas could sow doubt; doubt that had evidently caused the garrison of Piscina to turn upon each other.

Unseen by the other two, he closed his eyes, trying to accept what Malcifer had said. Reluctantly, he motioned for Malcifer to continue the playback.

‘I ask myself what it means to be one of the Dark Angels. Is it to hunt the Fallen, chasing shadows through the dark places of the galaxy? Is it to pursue our quest at any expense, forgoing all other oaths and duties? Is it to lie, to hide and to plot so that others will never know of our shame? Is it to keep our own brethren unacquainted with the truth of our past, the legacy we all share in? Or is it to be a Space Marine? Is it to follow the path laid down by the Emperor and Lion El’Jonson at the founding of this great Imperium of man? To protect mankind, to purge the alien, cleanse the unclean?’

Sammael’s misgivings gave way to a simmering resentment, to hear his calling disparaged by one who had been a brother. That Boreas had not considered the Fallen a blight upon the galaxy was fast becoming clear. Somehow their corruption had passed to the Chaplain, twisting his view of the Dark Angels. To throw back solemnly held oaths spoke of a mind wandering in dark places.

The forlorn sight of the dead Space Marines upstairs had stirred sorrow, but listening to Boreas’s testimony turned that to anger; anger that the Chaplain had failed those who had looked to him for leadership; failed them to the extent that his lies had led them to kill themselves. The log continued, but Sammael barely registered the words, his attention caught by the intensity of the dead Chaplains voice, bordering on manic. The clash between Boreas’s words and the crimes he had perpetrated against his brothers told a tale of deep hypocrisy.

‘We must act as a shining brand in the night, to lead the way for others to follow. We are the warriors of the Emperor, guardians of mankind. Roboute Guilliman called us bright stars in the firmament of battle, untouched by self-aggrandisement. Yet we, the Dark Angels, commit the supreme sin. We put ourselves before our duty. We have buried our traditions, masked our real history in legend and mysticism to confound others. We are not bright stars, we are an empty blackness, a passing shadow that serves nothing but its own purpose.’

When the recording continued, Sammael detected weariness. The words came slowly again, softly spoken. The tone was one of utter resignation, evidence that Boreas had strayed from the path of a Dark Angel. No true warrior who knew of the sacrifice of the Lion would weary of the task of hunting down those who had betrayed the primarch. Of the many sins it seemed the Chaplain had committed it was this lack of fortitude that condemned him the most in Sammael’s eyes. A Space Marine of more fortitude would have overcome moments of doubt and remained strong to the beliefs of the Chapter.

‘Included in this log is a complete account of the disaster that has befallen Piscina and us.’ The three Dark Angels exchanged glances and Malcifer bent to the runepad, tapping the keys swiftly as he searched for the report. ‘For this I take sole responsibility. Our enemies know us too well. We have become anathema to ourselves, as this plot of the Fallen demonstrates. Everything that has transpired has led us to this place and time, and there is nothing left to do what we must. Ten thousand years ago our soul was split. We tell ourselves that the two halves of us are the light and dark. I have learnt a bitter lesson, that it is not true. It is a comforting lie, which keeps us safe from doubt, so that we do not ask questions whose answers we fear. There is no light and dark, only the shades of twilight in between.’

Sammael had heard enough and was eager to find out what the accompanying log entry contained, but Boreas’s message continued.

‘If once there was a chance to redeem ourselves, it passed away ten thousand years ago. For a hundred centuries it has driven us, and consumed us at the same time. Not while one Fallen stays alive can we know peace within ourselves.’

The words sounded all too familiar, the reasons that drove him and brought him purpose as Grand Master of the Ravenwing, but to hear them spoken by Boreas they sounded like a curse. The Chaplain’s tone grew stronger again, more fervent, almost desperate if such a thing was possible for a Dark Angel.

‘But what then? If not, there will never be salvation, and all that we aspire to will come to nothing, all that we have achieved will be in vain. I beseech you not to allow this to happen. We are to make the ultimate sacrifice for the people of Piscina, and to safeguard our future. Do not make the deaths of my Brethren be for nothing.’

The log hissed and then the chamber fell into silence. Sammael flexed his fingers in agitation, but Boreas was not done. The recording started again, the Chaplain’s voice not much louder than a whisper, the last words sounding as if spoken through gritted teeth.

‘I have one more message to deliver. Walk that dark road through the rooms of the interrogators, past the catacombs into the deepest chambers. Go to that solitary cell at the heart of the Rock and tell him this: you were not wrong.’

The log finally finished with a short high-pitched tone. Sammael exhaled sharply, having not realised he had been holding his breath, the tension in him building towards the Chaplain’s final words. He looked at Harahel and saw the Librarian’s gaze was on the floor, hands clasped at his waist as he contemplated the contents of Boreas’s speech.

‘Do not spend too long pondering the words of a heretic,’ warned Sammael. ‘It is folly to welcome their lies into your thoughts.’

‘Yet that is what the Interrogator-Chaplains must do,’ Malcifer said quietly, ‘each and every time they bring one of the Fallen to repentance. It seems to me that Boreas was wounded in soul long before coming to Piscina.’

‘What did he mean? About a solitary cell?’ asked Harahel. ‘Who was not wrong?’

Sammael looked at Malcifer, who had straightened at the question. The Chaplain glanced at the Grand Master, shook his head slightly and returned to his work at the terminal, leaving Sammael to deal with the question. It was not for the Grand Master of the Ravenwing to divulge the greatest secrets of the Dark Angels to an Epistolary – such matters could only be dealt with by one, the Supreme Grand Master or the Master of Sanctity. If there was one piece of knowledge that could destroy all faith in the Chapter it was this and he could not even bring himself to think of it.

‘One of the Fallen Boreas interrogated, most likely,’ Sammael lied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I doubt it is of significance.’

Fortunately Harahel’s next question was cut off by an urgent communication across the company channel.

‘This is Sergeant Cassiel. We have a potential threat developing.’

HERESY BEGETS RETRIBUTION

For several minutes, the scanner readings had been changing. The mass of life signals within the buildings surrounding the park was dispersing. Annael could see the citizens of Kadillus hurrying out onto the roads, moving further into the city, some of them leading and carrying children, others with armfuls of clothes and other belongings.

‘What is the significance of this?’ asked Araton. ‘What has put them to flight?’

Though the exodus had cleared out many of the augur returns, there were still several dozen heat signals registering in the tenements overlooking the squadron’s position. It was a situation Annael had not encountered before and it made him uneasy as he looked at the buildings with magnified autosenses. There were people at the windows, far fewer than before, moving from floor to floor and room to room. On the roofs of several of the buildings he saw the glint of the sun on lenses.

‘We’re under magnocular observation, sergeant,’ he said quietly, running through another targeter calibration on his guns.

‘Confirmed, brothers,’ said Araton. ‘Four separate observers. Civilian clothing.’

‘What are they watching for?’ asked Sabrael.

‘Report.’ Sammael’s command cut through the squadron’s observations. Cassiel relayed a brief description of what was occurring but offered no conclusion.

‘Stay alert,’ the Grand Master instructed them. ‘Thunderhawk overflight incoming to appraise the situation.’

‘I think I see a heavy weapon,’ said Zarall. ‘Sector two, third storey, left corner window.’

Annael saw movement to the north, where Zarall indicated. He edged his bike forward, turning the bolters towards the possible threat. There were two men at the window, holding something bulky between them.

‘Missile launcher!’ snapped Cassiel. ‘Evasive action!’

Engines screamed as the squadron burst forwards. A projectile blurred from the window leaving a faint trail of vapour, the missile arcing down towards the position the Dark Angels had occupied a moment before. The explosion sent a shower of dirt high into the air, the noise of the detonation drowned out by the bark of bolters as the squadron returned fire. The ferrocrete wall around the window exploded into fragments and dust and Annael saw the two men cut to pieces by bolt impacts, tumbling out of view.

Accelerating to full combat speed, the squadron changed course, following Cassiel as he swerved left. The red beam of a lascannon seared overhead, missing by several metres. Annael’s autosenses picked up the zip and crack of smaller las-weapons as more fire erupted from the tenements. The distinctive whine of falling mortar shells caused the squadron to turn again, zigzagging towards the scorched, body-littered hill at the centre of the park. Three bombs landed a dozen metres behind the swiftly-moving bikes.

‘Under sporadic fire from armed civilians,’ Cassiel barked over the vox. ‘Fifty-plus targets surrounding us in dominant position. Returning fire.’

There was little the bikers could do as the insurgents popped out of hiding, loosed off a few wild shots and then disappeared into cover once more. The tenement walls absorbed the fire of the bolters, and the enemy were scattered across several buildings, giving no single target onto which the squadron could concentrate their fire. Along with the others, Annael fired off short bursts where his thermal imaging indicated attackers moving towards the windows, able to cut down three of them as they came into view.

‘Why are they shooting at us?’ demanded Sabrael. ‘What is happening here?’

A las-bolt struck the cowling on the front of Zarall’s bike, sending up a puff of paint and ceramite dust. The rattle of autogun fire heralded a hail from a second-storey balcony to the squadron’s left. This was not the sort of battle the bikes of the Ravenwing were prepared for. The open space of the park gave them plenty of room to manoeuvre and the enemy fire was inaccurate, but the Dark Angels could not afford to linger in one place to unleash a full fusillade at their foes.

‘The canker of heresy sets grip on Piscina,’ said Zarall. His bike’s gun unleashed a blast into the lower floor of one of the buildings, the thumb-sized bolts leaving brief streaks of yellow in Annael’s thermal display, punching a hole through the ferrocrete to tear into a knot of attackers hiding within. ‘Fortunate it is that we are here to purge the taint from a world we thought loyal to the Chapter.’

‘As you say, brother,’ replied Sabrael. ‘Such ingratitude seeks a reckoning.’

‘Keep moving,’ said Cassiel as more mortar bombs detonated several metres to the right of the squadron. ‘Fire at any presented targets.’

An explosion tore through the upper floor of a tenement directly ahead of Annael as he swerved his bike to the left, away from the mortar impacts. The roar of plasma jets accompanied the Thunderhawk as it launched another salvo of missiles from its stubby wings, obliterating the entire top storey of the building. Chunks of ferrocrete, glass and mangled bodies spilled down onto the street bordering the park to the east. Several fires started, smoke and dust billowing up on the thermals to join the cloud that already swathed much of Kadillus.

‘They are withdrawing,’ announced Araton. Annael glanced at his sensor display and saw that the registers were moving away. Looking up he could see nothing on the streets though.

‘Where have they gone?’ Annael said, turning his bike about so he could check the buildings to the west. The roads were likewise empty in that direction too.

‘Sub-levels, basements, sewers perhaps,’ said Cassiel. ‘West. Rendezvous with the rest of the company. We cannot do anything meaningful here.’

The Thunderhawk’s battle cannon sent shells into the buildings to the north as it came to a hover over the park. The downwash of its jets caused temperature warning symbols to blink into life across Annael’s display as the squadron raced beneath the gunship, a pall of dirt and dust kicked up from bikes and the Thunderhawk.

‘Request orders,’ barked Cassiel as the Dark Angels raced onto a winding track between rows of blossoming trees. Scatters of white and pink filled the air as they roared west across the park.

‘Establish safe cordon to the south gate,’ came Sammael’s reply a few seconds later. ‘Prepare to extract from the city.’

‘Are we leaving already?’ said Sabrael, obviously disappointed. ‘We just withdraw?’

‘We have our orders, brother,’ replied Cassiel.

Zarall was in the lead now. He slowed as they reached the boundary fence, crashing his bike through a wide gate leading to the main road. Land Speeders whirred overhead, towards the attack, their assault cannons, missile pods and heavy bolters sending a storm of fire into the tenement buildings, though there were few targets left inside them.

Hitting the ferrocrete of the road, the squadron turned south, towards the Chapter Keep. Annael glanced back across the park, his senses alight with adrenaline. One of the tenements was slowly collapsing under the bombardment of the Thunderhawk, the others were half-ruined, their facades shredded by fire from the converging Land Speeders.

Slowing his bike as Cassiel brought the squadron to a halt, Annael checked his armour and bike for damage. There were some superficial marks and scattered cracks in the fairing of Black Shadow but all of his mount’s systems were working well. His armour was equally intact and he took a deep breath, shaking his head, still confused as to why the people of Piscina had turned on the Dark Angels.

THE TRAIL OF THE FALLEN

In the bowels of the Chapter Keep the only evidence of the conflagration of fury unleashed by the Dark Angels less than a kilometre away was an occasional tremor and the reports of the company across the comm-net. While Sammael attended to the tactical needs of his warriors, Malcifer had been kept busy at the data terminal, accessing the records of Chaplain Boreas.

‘We have another sensor build-up to the east, around the transit station. Large number of civilians on foot. Some sidearms and improvised weapons. Threat currently minimal. How should we proceed, Grand Master?’ Sergeant Orphaeus’s report was just the latest to suggest that there was a much wider anti-Imperial sentiment on Kadillus. The attack on Squadron Cassiel had been a spark, falling upon the tinder of resentment that had been kindled by the attack of the Fallen.

Sammael wrestled with the thought of opening fire on what, to the heavily armoured Space Marines, amounted to unarmed citizens. To strike against insurgents who had opened fire on the Dark Angels with heavy weaponry was one matter; to gun down disaffected, desperate civilians was of another order of magnitude entirely.

The damage to the reputation of the Chapter had already been inflicted but there was no point in adding fuel to the fire of rebellion. If the Ravenwing responded in force there would be a bloodbath, solidifying opposition against the Dark Angels. As the situation stood, there was a chance that a peaceful settlement could be reached when the Tower of Angels arrived. That would become impossible if the true Dark Angels slaughtered those they had been sworn to protect. Such aggression would likely turn even Colonel Brade and others trying to restore order against the Chapter, at a time when their efforts had to be focused on the resurgent ork attacks.

‘Do not engage civilians unless threat increases,’ he announced over the command channel. ‘Withdraw perimeter by five hundred metres. We will be ready to extract shortly.’

As affirmatives chorused over the comm-net, Sammael switched his attention to Malcifer.

‘We will be ready to extract shortly, I hope,’ he said to the Chaplain. ‘What have you learnt?’

‘I have decrypted Boreas’s account of the actions he took prior to the intervention of the Fallen,’ said Malcifer, still looking at the flow of script moving across the screen in front of him. ‘It will take some time to evaluate its significance.’

‘Anything contained in the report that suggests our next step?’ asked Harahel. ‘The longer we remain here, the greater the feeling of injustice and resentment I am sensing. If we stay here much longer, we will be facing thousands, not hundreds.’

‘Noted, brother,’ said Malcifer. ‘In summary, Boreas learned of a transport ship known to be in use by the Fallen and led the garrison away from Piscina to seize the vessel. It seems that this was just a ruse, calculated to draw the garrison out of position. The Chapter Keep was compromised while they were absent and the Fallen... Oh Emperor, the Fallen broke into the storage vault and retrieved the gene-seed within.’

‘They took the gene-seed cache?’ Harahel was horrified by the thought. ‘To what purpose would the Fallen turn such a thing?’

‘We can think about that at a time more convenient,’ Sammael said, cutting off Malcifer before he could offer opinion on the matter. ‘What does it say about the Fallen after they took the gene-seed? Does Boreas know where they went?’

‘No, there is no further record,’ said Malcifer. ‘However, there is a cross-reference to one of the other logs. It is from Boreas’s personal records, an account of one of his interrogations of a Fallen named Astelan.’

‘Reference to any matter of importance?’ Sammael listened as a fresh wave of reports announced that the initial insurgents had resurfaced further to the east and were targeting the Ravenwing with more heavy weapons and mortar fire. His desire to be away from Kadillus was growing swiftly and his impatience made his tone curt. ‘What does this have to do with Piscina?’

‘Nothing, brother, that I can see,’ confessed Malcifer, stepping away from the terminal with a shake of his head. ‘It will take some time to analyse the testimony of Astelan to see what Boreas was trying to highlight.’

‘We have a city on the verge of outright attack; we do not have the luxury of time. Make a copy and erase all data files.’

‘This is too sensitive to transmit over any channel, no matter the level of encryption,’ said Malcifer. He went to one of the shelves lining the terminal chamber and looked through the metal containers stored there. Locating what he looked for, the Chaplain opened a slender box stencilled with the symbol of the Chapter on its lid. From within he produced a cube of emerald green. ‘I shall transfer all logs and accounts to data crystal.’

‘All warriors, this is Grand Master Sammael. I want a five hundred metre cordon between the Chapter Keep and the south gate. Athelman, Daedis, meet us at the keep gate. On my word, perimeter collapse and withdrawal to position of the Fifth Company. All aerial assets to prepare for extraction.’

‘Assist Malcifer with the cleansing of the datacore,’ he added, looking at Harahel. ‘Let us not tarry here a moment longer than necessary.’

THE SEED OF DOUBT

Watching a third Thunderhawk strafing across Kadillus, its heavy bolters firing at the rooftops of a processing plant, Telemenus had to wonder what the Ravenwing had encountered inside the city. Certainly the whole southern district of Kadillus had come under intense fire. He could see columns of smoke from several burning buildings and the thunder of battle cannons rolled across the plains as the gunships continued their bombardment. There had been next to no information on the Fifth Company’s comm-net and Sergeant Seraphiel had refused all inquiries as to what was happening inside the city.

‘It must be the orks,’ said the Dark Angel, gaze fixed on the ongoing attack. ‘We should be moving to support our brothers.’

‘We remain here,’ Sergeant Amanael said curtly. ‘Wait. Receiving new orders.’

‘It seems our brothers might need some assistance, after all,’ said Cadael.

‘And there may yet be opportunity for the kill tally to rise on our account,’ added Telemenus. ‘It is selfish of our brothers to deny us equal opportunity for valour.’

‘If we had gone into Kadillus first, I doubt there would have been need to see such fury unleashed,’ said Daellon. ‘It will take many years to rebuild that district.’

‘I am not surprised,’ Telemenus replied. ‘The Ravenwing excel at encountering trouble where others would walk more softly. I suppose we will be clearing cellars and hallways for the next few days, clearing up the orks they cannot reach.’

‘A stairwell is no obstacle to the warriors of the Fifth Company,’ said Cadael. ‘The Ravenwing must submit to that eternal truth.’

‘We are not going into the city,’ announced Amanael. ‘We are to defend an extraction zone, four hundred metres from the southern gate. Gunships are already en route to pick up our brothers.’

‘Let us be sure that they receive a warm welcome,’ said Telemenus. He slapped a hand against the side of his bolter. ‘When the Ravenwing have been removed from our path, we will show these orks the ferocity of the Dark Angels in proper fashion.’

‘Negative,’ said the sergeant. ‘Our orders are to wait for second wave extraction.’

Amanael’s announcement was met by silence; proof that it was unexpected and highly controversial. Telemenus knew better than to make further remark as the sergeant signalled for the squad to begin the march north. Whatever trouble in which the Ravenwing had found themselves embroiled, it was enough to trigger the withdrawal of the whole force. For the Dark Angels, any retreat was remarkable. To do so when there were clearly still enemies to fight was unheard of by Telemenus and his flippant mood was quickly replaced by concern for his brothers in the Ravenwing.

RE-ARMING

The clatter of machinery and autoloaders rang around the muster hall. Servitors, legs reinforced with heavy gauge callipers, arms replaced with hoists and crane arms, lifted the bikes of Squadron Cassiel onto the service ramps. Unaugmented serfs in the livery of the armourium swarmed over the machines with ratchets, bolt drivers, parts and replacement armoured plates, while others connected up diagnostic terminals and recharger cables. This activity was overseen by two Techmarines, their armour black like the rest of the Ravenwing except for their dark red shoulder pads.

The Space Marines were also surrounded by menials, offering protein-replenishing synth-loaves and ewers of thick, nutrient-enriched fluid. Hanging his helmet on his belt, Annael took the proffered drink and downed the contents of a jug in four long gulps, the sweetness of the liquid a salve to the acrid taste that always built up in his mouth during combat; a side effect of the Betcher’s gland that modified his saliva, he had once been told by an Apothecary.

He waved away the armourium attendants, who descended on Zarall instead, fussing over the cracks in his shoulder plates from several autogun hits. Zarall stood impassively munching on a synth-slab while they removed the shoulder guards from his armour and replacements were fixed in their place.

Pushing through the throng, Annael watched the serfs taking apart the fairing of Black Shadow, amazed at the number of las-marks and bullet holes. In the heat of the battle he had not realised how much enemy fire had found its mark.

‘You were lucky, brother.’ This came from Techmarine Naethel, who was on the opposite side of the service ramp, inspecting the innards of the bike.

Annael clambered over the ramp to join the Techmarine, who crouched down and pointed to a blackened chip in the casing of the bike’s secondary fuel tank.

‘Another two centimetres further forward and a fuel line would have been caught,’ explained Naethel. ‘Lucky indeed.’

‘It was bad luck to be hit in the first place,’ replied Annael. ‘Their marksmanship was woeful. I would have expected better of men trained in a planetary defence force.’

‘That is why we trust to speed as well as armour, brother.’ Annael stood up and looked over Black Shadow to see Sabrael approaching, a jug in each hand. ‘I told you that you ride too slowly.’

‘I am in no mood for your jests, brother,’ Annael replied. ‘You should attend to your own steed.’

‘What for?’ Sabrael shrugged and took a mouthful of drink. ‘There is not a dent upon it.’

Annael turned to Naethel to disprove the boast but the Techmarine shook his head.

‘Our brother speaks truly, the worst his mount suffered is some scratched paintwork,’ said Naethel. ‘Would that you were all so blessed with such fortune, the armourium would be a quieter place.’

‘Do not confuse me for a braggart, Brother Annael,’ said Sabrael, his expression grim. ‘You will learn to be as one with your mount, so that it moves without your conscious thought. Then you too will be able to ride through the fury of the storm without concern.’

There was nothing to say to that, and Annael let Sabrael depart without retort. He lowered himself down to the deck, murmuring thanks to the spirit of Black Shadow, and voicing more loudly his appreciation of Naethel’s work.

‘Your steed will be ready for you soon enough, brother,’ the Techmarine informed Annael when he asked how long the repairs would take. ‘When the order comes for the next drop, you will be reunited with your faithful mount.’

‘May it come swiftly,’ said Annael, feeling dishonoured by Sabrael’s words. ‘I would stand to rectify my account with the rebels below.’

‘Do not wish such a thing too swiftly,’ cautioned Araton. The other squadron member had been silently attending to his machine, and rose up from behind it, leaning forward to rest on the saddle. ‘Not to second-guess Grand Master Sammael’s intent, but I do not think we should be returning to Kadillus soon.’

‘How so? The city was in uproar when we left, between insurgents and the orks. We have fought only a brief skirmish, the real battle remains to be won.’

‘And had Sammael the desire to prosecute that battle he would have done so while he still had the company on the ground,’ replied Araton. ‘To pull back from battle engaged is no easy decision, but it is one he has already made.’

‘What of our losses? Will they not be avenged?’

‘Five there are, never to ride with us again, but their deaths will not find greater meaning in the blood of innocents.’

‘Innocents?’ Annael could not believe Araton’s argument. ‘It was they that opened fire upon us. We did not bring this war to Piscina.’

‘Yet it is Piscina that will suffer if we continue to wage it,’ Araton said evenly, stroking a gauntleted hand along the handlebars of his bike. ‘If we are to unleash the full weight of our fury, will you be able to set apart the guilty from the bystander? If the Ravenwing falls upon Kadillus, it will be to destroy the city, not to save it. City-fighting is no arena for the Ravenwing.’

‘So we must leave it to the Fifth Company squads to restore our honour?’ Annael surprised himself with the vehemence of his words. It was not long since he had been a member of another company, but already he felt the acute sense of duty and honour that was the preserve of the Ravenwing to uphold. ‘It is the blood of the Ravenwing that stains Kadillus, and it is the Ravenwing that should balance the scales.’

‘Justice, brother?’ Annael stiffened as he recognised the voice of Sergeant Cassiel behind him. ‘Or revenge?’

‘Insurrection against the Emperor cannot go unpunished,’ Annael said as he turned, believing in his heart that it was not revenge he sought. ‘If the Dark Angels do not respond, it will be a sign of weakness, and that I cannot abide.’

‘It is not for you to decide, brother,’ Cassiel continued, his words softly spoken. ‘If it is the choice of Grand Master Sammael that this matter is left to the Piscina Free Militia to resolve, that will be the end of it.’

‘Of course, brother-sergeant,’ Annael replied quickly, realising his words had bordered on insubordination. ‘No dissent was intended.’

‘Either way, we have not yet received orders to stand down,’ Cassiel said. ‘Repair and rearm. I suggest that when the present mobilisation is concluded, you should seek out Brother Malcifer if you continue to have questions regarding our duty here.’

Annael realised the words were sincerely meant, advice rather than chastisement. He considered the sergeant’s words as Cassiel walked away, and tried to come to terms with what had happened in Kadillus. Combat was second-nature to him, and in the heat of battle he had not given a moment’s thought to the nature of his enemies. Looking at the dents and scratches on Black Shadow, thinking of how a lascannon blast or missile might have struck him down as it had five other members of the company, he realised that he would have died without knowing why.

It was his purpose to fight for the Emperor and Annael knew that he was fated to fall in battle one day. Even the greatest Supreme Grand Masters of the Dark Angels eventually succumbed to a lifetime of war, one way or another. Yet he had been taught also that his death was to have purpose, and if rebels were allowed to rise up without reply – to attack the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor’s Angels of Death no less – then he was not quite sure what purpose he was now serving.

The contrast between Hadria Praetoris and Kadillus could not be starker and Annael was left to wonder what divide there was between the foes he had encountered. His first two engagements with the Ravenwing were causing him more doubts and raising more questions than he had experienced in the previous four hundred years. Heeding the advice of Cassiel, he resolved that a conversation with the Chaplain might well be what he needed to reinforce his conviction.

A CURSED NAME

The name spoken by Malcifer hung in the air of the command chamber, reverberating through Sammael’s thoughts like the tolling of a great bell. It was a name that had haunted the Dark Angels for ten thousand years, and plagued Sammael ever since he had first heard it from the lips of Grand Master Gideon two centuries before. That had been at Kaphon, when Sammael had still been a sergeant in the Ravenwing. Now that he thought about the situation on Piscina, Sammael was surprised he had not recognised the similarities with the uprising on Kaphon Betis; a world under threat from alien attack driven into anarchy by the acts of a handful of Fallen. Kaphon Betis had been repeatedly assaulted by eldar pirates who had provided cover for the diabolic Fallen and his band to destabilise the rule of the Imperial Commander. Now the traitors had used the ork resurgence to repeat the misdeed on Piscina.

It had been a regret of Grand Master Gideon that they had been so close to catching the Dark Angels’ greatest threat at Kaphon. The Fallen had still been in-system when the Ravenwing had arrived, supported by warriors from the Third Company and the Deathwing, though the Dark Angels had not known at the time that their elusive quarry were still nearby. By the time the Dark Angels had driven off the eldar attacks, the Fallen had slipped away once more. Sammael had taken several dissident prisoners and overheard their discussions of ‘Lord Cypher’, intimating that this mysterious individual had been the architect behind the overthrow of the Imperial Commander. Faced with Sammael’s questions, Gideon had chosen to take Sammael into his confidence, inducting him unofficially into the Inner Circle; an induction that was formally ratified when they had returned to the Chapter.

Though he recalled Kaphon Betis with anguish and chastised himself for not seeing similar manipulation on Piscina, Sammael took heart from the fact that he had once more crossed trails with the greatest enemy of the Dark Angels. Such opportunities were rare, and if there was any hope of catching the worst of the Fallen, it had been rekindled in the Grand Master. Piscina had been laid low by the Fallen, but the Ravenwing were on hand, ready to hunt down the fiend once more. With dedication, initiative and perseverance, Sammael could be the one to succeed where so many previous Masters had failed before.

Malcifer said nothing more, allowing the import of his announcement to sink in. There was a growl of distaste from Harahel and the Librarian leaned forwards, head bowed, fists resting on the dormant display console.

‘You are certain?’ Sammael asked when he had collected his thoughts, seeking more than just similarity to the events at Kaphon before getting ahead of himself. ‘He was at Piscina?’

‘As certain as one could ever be when considering the actions of such a deviant,’ the Chaplain replied. ‘Descriptions of the Fallen gathered by Boreas strongly indicate that their leader bore wargear identical to that witnessed in previous encounters.’

‘That he was here is informative, but it does not give us further intelligence regarding where he is now,’ said Harahel, straightening. He folded his arms and shrugged. ‘It has been many days since the Fallen quit Piscina, who can say where they have gone?’

‘Boreas, for all that he strayed from the righteous path, did not abdicate his duties fully,’ replied Malcifer. ‘I have read through the sections of his interrogation of Astelan that Boreas referenced. It deals with Astelan’s actions at an independent star fort named Port Imperial. A den of pirates and outcasts, Astelan and two other Fallen frequented Port Imperial for several years. Though I cannot confirm that the one we seek is connected to Port Imperial, we have the testimony of Astelan that it was certainly used by the Fallen.’

‘I remember the name,’ said Sammael, dredging up decades-old memories. ‘Boreas passed me this information not long after I became Grand Master. The trail was a dead end from the outset, with no clue from Astelan’s account regarding where we might find this Port Imperial. And, by that same account, Astelan claimed that he and his fellow Fallen destroyed the star fort when they decided to part company with the pirates.’

‘A claim that we can now test,’ said Malcifer. ‘Annotated on the transcript of the interrogation are navigational details that I believe will lead us to Port Imperial. I would say that, like so much of his testimony, Astelan delivered up falsehoods to justify his actions and protect the other Fallen.’

‘You thought to save this information until now?’ Sammael was taken aback by the news, having forced himself to be pessimistic regarding the Ravenwing’s chances of finding a worthy lead to follow.

‘Apologies, brother, but I thought that context would be important,’ said Malcifer. ‘The time stamp of the Port Imperial coordinates places the addition at the same time the Chapter Keep vault was accessed during Boreas’s absence.’

‘How can that be?’ said Harahel. ‘If Boreas did not make the entry, who would?’

‘One of the keep serfs, most likely,’ said Malcifer.

‘Or one of the Fallen,’ the Grand Master said after a moment’s thought.

‘A false lead to cover their trail,’ suggested Harahel. He gestured towards Malcifer. ‘Brother, activate the display and let us see where we would be heading.’

The Chaplain busied himself with the console while Sammael considered the implications of what Malcifer had discovered. He was faced with two unlikely possibilities, for it would be against all protocol and doctrine for Boreas to entrust the keycodes of the vault to a menial. Weighed against that was the incredible notion that one of the Fallen had deliberately left the information. On balance, it seemed to Sammael that the former was the more probable, considering Boreas’s other breaks from Chapter tradition.

The hololith gleamed into life, displaying a network of Imperial star systems ranging out a thousand light years from Piscina. A red dot appeared in wilderness space roughly halfway between the Adeptus Mechanicus forge world at Casiorix, and the sparsely populated Orlean system, almost nine hundred light years from the Ravenwing’s current position.

‘It could be a trap,’ said Sammael, returning to the idea that the Fallen had tampered with the records. Malcifer moved aside as the Grand Master stepped up to the runepad and keyed in a series of instructions. In the hololith display a swathe of systems started to blink with green icons, almost surrounding the location highlighted by the Chaplain. ‘These are ork-held worlds, catalogued by Imperial Navy patrols a little more than thirty years ago. It is possible that the xenos have encroached further or were not detected by the Navy. The Fallen may be trying to lead us into an ork-infested system.’

‘That is not reason enough to pass up this opportunity,’ said Malcifer.

‘I did not say that we would not go,’ Sammael replied sharply, displeased by the Chaplain’s tone. ‘We must be prepared, that is all, brother.’

‘And what of our brothers in the Fifth Company?’ asked Harahel. ‘If Port Imperial is truly a haven for the Fallen, perhaps several of them, there is a significant risk that our brethren will be exposed to knowledge that is too dangerous to share.’

‘It would seem prudent to leave them to assist in the fighting here,’ said Sammael. ‘Both to mend the damage done by the Fallen and to shield them from uncomfortable truth.’

‘I think that would be unwise,’ said Malcifer. He shut down the hololith display and turned, leaning back against the console edge. ‘If we take the Fifth Company with us we can continue to observe and control their interaction with the Fallen. Left on Piscina, we cannot determine what they will learn, whether truth or rumour. By Boreas’s account Colonel Brade certainly knew of the Fallen’s arrival, and the hostility of the populace will lead our brethren to question the foundation of such anger towards the Chapter. They are without their company Grand Master or Chaplain to forestall or divert such questions, and dangerous knowledge would easily come to the ears of our brothers if they remain behind.’

‘Your appraisal has merit, brother,’ said Sammael. ‘I sense that there is some resentment from Sergeant Seraphiel, and for the Ravenwing to seemingly abandon their brothers at the outset of a difficult campaign would cause grievous injury to our reputation.’

‘Brothers, do not cast the warriors of the Fifth Company as a hindrance to our cause,’ Harahel said with some annoyance. ‘They are Dark Angels still, and their presence would be a boon to any endeavour, whether we find Port Imperial or not.’

Sammael bowed his head, shamed by the Librarian’s admonishment. Such was the nature of the hunt and the risk posed by knowledge of the Fallen, that those of the Inner Circle stood apart from the bulk of the Chapter, forced to endure the secrets of the past and the lies to protect them.

‘Let us not countenance further division,’ said Malcifer. ‘The Fifth Company shall be with us, Dark Angels together.’

Sammael nodded his agreement, though he knew that as was so often the case when the Ravenwing fought alongside any but the Deathwing, brotherly union would have to take second place to secrecy. If necessary, the Fifth Company could be despatched elsewhere to keep them from learning anything of harm, even if that entailed longer-term consequences.

‘Commune with the astropaths, brother,’ he instructed Harahel. ‘Send a message to the Tower of Angels that they must come to Piscina as soon as they are able.’

‘And of our mission, what do I say?’ asked the Librarian.

‘Simply that the hunt continues.’

SOLACE AND PUNISHMENT

The crack of the bolt-round rang dully from the metal bulkheads of the range. Telemenus watched the flickering trail of its propellant for seventy metres until the round struck the target, dead centre. The ferro-resinous alloy of the target sphere shattered as the bolt detonated, spraying silvery-red shards to the floor. In his mind’s eye, Telemenus saw an ork’s head ripped apart.

Though the firing range was large enough for twenty Space Marines to hone their marksmanship, Telemenus was alone. There was purity in this place, where he could concentrate solely on the mechanics of his craft without distraction or external consideration. There was just him, his bolter and thirty targets; free from the commands of his superiors, the din of battle and the threat of enemy attack.

He closed his eyes for the next shot, using his boosted musculomemetic sense and armour systems to target the next globe on the rack. His shot was rewarded by the telltale smash of a direct hit. Without opening his eyes, he moved his aim, adjusting to the target three along to the left. Another round, another clean hit.

The door pistons hissed as he opened his eyes and took a one-handed grip. Turning his head, he saw Sergeant Seraphiel enter. The provost-commander of the Fifth was dressed in his dark green surplice, cowl pulled back, eyes shadowed in the low lighting of the firing range. Telemenus fired without looking, a frown creasing his brow as the heard a screech of his shot ricocheting off the dense target ball; a hit but not a clean kill.

‘The Chaplaincy tells us that it is a sin to be wasteful of the Emperor’s resources,’ said Seraphiel as Telemenus returned his attention down range, taking up his weapon in both hands again.

‘Not a single shot misses its mark,’ replied Telemenus. He switched the bolter to burst fire and his aim to an elongated oval at the one hundred metre mark, past the remnants of the globes. A three-shot salvo smashed into the target, evenly spaced between top and bottom, turning it to a cloud of fragments and glittering dust. ‘Where is the waste?’

‘To expend ammunition and targets in an attempt to improve already flawless marksmanship, perhaps,’ said Seraphiel, standing to Telemenus’s right.

‘It is not my aim I seek to improve, brother-sergeant, but my spirit.’

Another three-round volley and another shattered target.

‘So it is that you remove yourself from evening contemplation to come here, away from brothers who might provide solace?’

‘My brothers do not need to hear complaint from me,’ said Telemenus. He fired again, the last three shots in the magazine, a trio of closely-spaced targets disintegrating from the impacts. ‘I find this exercise to be most enlightening.’

He ejected the magazine but Seraphiel placed a hand on his arm as he took another from his belt to reload. Turning to the sergeant, Telemenus lowered his bolter, the next magazine still in hand.

‘I know that which gives you cause for complaint, brother,’ said the sergeant. ‘The withdrawal from Kadillus was untimely. It is rare for us to deploy and yet not see conclusion to battle.’

‘There were many foes on Piscina, yet we head out-system on the whim of Grand Master Sammael with those foes unrepentant.’

‘And laurels for the honour of First Marksman still unearned?’

‘I do not place my own glory above that of my duty,’ snapped Telemenus, pulling his arm away. ‘My honours are a testament to my dedication to our cause, not to my ego, brother-sergeant. If laurels go unearned it is because traitors and xenos filth go unpunished!’

‘And you would place yourself in judgement of Grand Master Sammael for his decision?’

The words were softly spoken but Telemenus detected their disapproval with ease. He had known Seraphiel for many decades and reasoned that he could speak freely, as warrior to warrior.

‘Does it not give you concern, brother? First Hadria Praetoris and now Kadillus. Two cities where forces move against the rule of the Emperor, abandoned to the uncertain attention of others when the Dark Angels were present to sway the balance. Is this our duty, brother?’

‘Grand Master Sammael must attend to a higher duty,’ Seraphiel said, his expression stern. ‘He would weigh decisions on a scale that we cannot see. It is in his judgement that the Supreme Grand Master places trust, and detached from the command of Grand Master Zadakiel we are subject to that authority.’

‘We leave Piscina, a world that lies under the aegis of the Chapter, to fight pirates?’ Telemenus did not hold back his scorn, feeling that it would be a greater dishonour to dissemble rather than voice his disapproval of a Grand Master’s decisions. ‘Towards what great goal does that strive?’

‘We may be detached from company command but you will show due respect!’ bellowed Seraphiel, and Telemenus knew he had gone too far, but was unrepentant.

‘Servants of the Emperor are dying on Piscina while we chase star pirates, brother-sergeant. How can your honour bear such a thing?’

‘My honour is my concern, brother,’ growled Seraphiel. ‘And if you choose to place yours above the honour of the Chapter, you are at fault, not Grand Master Sammael. You will pass ten days in the penitentium to transcribe the Angelis Hierarchia. Heed well its doctrine and contemplate your insubordinate behaviour as you do so.’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, briefly bowing his head in acceptance of Seraphiel’s punishment. He turned towards the door, hiding a frustrated glower.

‘Your weapon, brother,’ said the sergeant, holding out a hand for Telemenus’s bolter. The command bit deep into Telemenus’s heart. ‘You will regain it when you have served your penitence.’

Telemenus hesitated. To be relieved of his bolter was a greater punishment than the seclusion. As he made his way to the penitentium the other Dark Angels would see that he was without a weapon and would know his shame. Reluctantly he handed his bolter to Seraphiel, his antagonism replaced with vexation.

‘I shall repent of my deviant thoughts, brother-sergeant,’ he said apologetically, head hanging.

‘Pass your armour to the Techmarines for maintenance, so that it can be cleansed as you cleanse your soul.’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’ Telemenus spoke softly, humbled by the realisation that perhaps his distress was caused by arrogance rather than sincere concern. ‘I offer apology and entreat forgiveness for my rash words.’

‘Ten days contemplation, brother, and you shall be forgiven.’

THE PREY REVEALED

Attending to the summons of Brother Malcifer, Annael entered the ship’s Reclusiam with seven other brothers of the Ravenwing. He knew them all and immediately realised they each shared something in common: they were the latest recruits to the company.

The Reclusiam was dark, lit only by three large candles behind an altar made of titanium, the flames reflecting from the black marble sigil of the Dark Angels worked into its surface. Censers hung from the ceiling, a trio of them above the altar, spilling the scent of musky incense through the chamber. The haze of it diffused the candlelight, casting the chamber in an otherworldly air.

Dressed in their black robes, the eight Space Marines filed down the centre of the Reclusiam – large enough for a hundred Space Marines to attend to the sermons of the company Chaplain – and knelt in a line facing the altar.

Silver plaques on the walls were etched with the names of the one hundred and seventy-two Grand Masters who had led the Ravenwing in battle. It was a high number, much higher than those who had been Grand Masters of the other companies, standing testament to the daring and dedication expected of Sammael and those that had come before. Annael had known before he had joined the Ravenwing that attrition was high in comparison to the rest of the Chapter, and that his remaining term of service before he died was now most likely numbered in decades not centuries. It was the price to pay for being the first in the attack. The bravery of all Dark Angels was beyond question, but amongst their brethren the Ravenwing were given regard for being the quickest to place themselves in danger.

Before he had been inducted into the mysteries of the company, Annael had thought, with due respect, that such an attitude had perhaps been pride or foolhardiness. Certainly warriors such as Sabrael did nothing to dismiss the myth that the Ravenwing were arrogant in their courage and suffered high casualties as a consequence. Yet now that he had ridden alongside them, even if only twice, Annael understood better the dangers they had to face to perform their duty. It was their secret lot to uphold the honour of the Chapter, to delve into peril on the hunt so that the shame of the past could be laid to rest. To know what the Ravenwing knew and to hold back from the fight was impossible; honour demanded action.

It was with this thought in mind that Annael watched Brother Malcifer enter from a side chamber. The Chaplain wore a robe also, the white of the Deathwing. His bare arms were covered in a tracery of tattoos that depicted links of mail, each inked ring lettered with words of devotion; a representation of the armour of faith that protected the Chaplain’s soul. More black and grey could be seen on his chest, the two heads of an aquila whose wings were hidden by the robe. Malcifer was not bare-headed like the rest. His face was covered with a skull mask, identical to the fashioning of his battle helm, and his eyes were hidden in shadow.

The assembled Space Marines bowed their heads in acknowledgement of the Chaplain, their hands on their knees. Annael straightened along with the others, all eyes set to Malcifer as he stood behind the altar and laid his palms upon its dark surface.

‘You are the Ravenwing’s freshest blood,’ he said, voice solemn and quiet. ‘But this you already know, because you are Ravenwing and you are observant. You have been taught much about your duty since you came to the company, and have all undergone the First Rite of the Raven. Now, as we stand upon the brink of a new battle, you are to be elevated in knowledge and esteem, to be welcomed into the body of the company by the Second Rite of the Raven.’

Annael wondered at this. It was the first he had heard of such rites, by that title at least. He knew that even as he had learnt of the Horus Heresy and the betrayal of the Dark Angels by their brethren there were further mysteries not yet explained. He trembled at the thought of what new secret might be revealed by this second rite and he could feel the anxiety and anticipation of the others in the reclusiam.

‘When I inducted you into the company, I spoke to each of you, passing on the secret of the past. The history of our Chapter is a troubled one, and it takes courage greater than that required to face an enemy to accept it. You have all demonstrated that courage and today you will be rewarded for your service.’

Malcifer bowed his head, silhouetted against the light of the candles, a shadow that loomed over the kneeling Space Marines. The skull mask seemed to float in the air and the incense was strong in Annael’s nostrils, sweet yet acrid. Malcifer stayed silent for some time, and when he next spoke his words seemed to drift on the haze of the censers, softly spoken but carrying to Annael’s ears with ease, pushing aside other thought so that the words alone filled his mind.

‘In our next battle it is likely that we will face one of the renegades that turned on the Dark Angels and the Lion.’ There was a collective intake of breath and the incense fog stirred into whirls and coiling wisps. ‘Yes, my brothers, the hunt of which I have spoken before now takes centre place in our duties. This renegade was once a Space Marine, but you cannot think of him as such. Should you set eyes upon him, do not be deceived by his appearance. In body he may be alike to you and I, of great build and giant stature, but remember that inside he is as small as an insect. He is a traitor to everything that we hold to our honour, and it is a privilege for us to bring him to justice.

‘He is corrupt, as others you have seen before are corrupt, in soul even if there is no sign of it upon his body. Do not be mistaken if he feigns ignorance of his treachery, for he is a liar and a thief. He spoke an oath to the Emperor and turned away from the words. He took the gifts of the Emperor – a body built for war and a purpose purer than any other to destroy the Emperor’s foes – and he turned those gifts against those that had called him brother.’

Blood. Annael smelt blood.

He could not hear the words of Malcifer as he continued, not as something separate from himself. He was in accord with the teaching, becoming one with the lesson handed forth by the Chaplain. It was the blood of Dark Angels on the hands of the traitors that Annael could smell. He heard growls and snarls from his brethren and realised that he too had given voice to the anger that had been brought forth by the thought. The incense was like fire, the smoke of the ruin brought to beautiful Caliban by the treachery of the renegades.

Images formed in his head, of towers toppled and forests razed, and innocents put to slaughter by gun and blade wielded by a monster. Annael’s hands formed fists and his body quaked as Malcifer painted the picture of calamity and shame, of the sky torn asunder by a storm of energy and the traitors plucked from the jaws of justice by the infernal powers to which they had enslaved themselves.

The renegade was a pitiful, mewling thing, concealed within the body of a magnificent warrior in shining armour. He was deceit incarnate, his serpent’s tongue spilling forth lie upon lie, claiming innocence and fraternity with those that would see him slain.

Such crimes deserved retribution. It would come, but not swiftly. The cowardly, feeble thing that had taken hold of one of the Emperor’s finest would be driven out, brought forth from the darkness by the attentions of the Interrogator-Chaplains so that the soldier of the Emperor who had been brought low could redeem himself in the eyes of his Chapter. Only repentance would bring justice. The renegade was to be captured, not slain.

Again and again Annael felt these commands pulsing through his thoughts. His hearts were racing as if in full battle, muscles corded with tension, his breath coming in long, deep draughts that brought in the taste of blood and incense. His throat burned with the taste, like ashes in his mouth, and his lungs were filled with the bitterness of shame. Only the capture of the renegade would bring release, his repentance a gale of fresh air that would cleanse the foulness of treachery that was tainting Annael’s body. To cleanse himself Annael had to cleanse the soul of his quarry. Only then would he know peace.

Slowly, as if surfacing from a long dream, Annael became aware of his surroundings again. Overhead a filtration unit buzzed into action, drawing away the fume of the incense. Malcifer paced around the Reclusiam, lighting more candles with a spark-rod, bringing a warm glow to push back the darkness that had enveloped Annael. The Space Marines looked at each other and there was a fierce light in the eyes of Annael’s brethren, matching the heat of resolve that lingered still, burning inside like an ember set into his heart.

Malcifer completed his circuit of the chamber and came back to the altar. Tattooed mail rippled as he brought his palms together, his hands at his chest. Annael copied his pose, feeling a state of calm pushing aside the anguish he had felt as his hands came together. Once more the Chaplain bowed his head, his words strong but not forced.

‘Give praise to the Emperor for the life that flows within us,’ he intoned.

‘We are his weapons,’ replied the kneeling warriors, lowering their gazes.

‘Give praise to the Lion for the purpose that drives us.’

‘We are his loyal servants.’

‘Give praise to the Chapter for nurturing the wrath within us.’

‘We are the Dark Angels.’

THE BLACK KNIGHTS

When his first assembly had departed, Malcifer pulled off his skull mask, a puff of vapour escaping from its rebreather unit. He had a few moments before attending to his second congregation and took the opportunity to compose his thoughts with some silent contemplation. He walked around the altar and knelt down, reaching up with one hand to touch the sigil upon its surface. Feeling the cold stone beneath his fingers Malcifer closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to what it meant to bear the symbol of the Dark Angels.

For him, and the others of the Chaplaincy, to be a Dark Angel was to walk along a precipice between light and dark. It was his duty to ensure the shame of the Chapter remained a secret, even from those he led into battle, but it was also his task to oversee the wellbeing of the company’s warriors. He was the bastion against doubt that would hold against the questions his charges would ask, always ready to provide explanation to the worthy and to offer assurance to those not yet ready for the truth.

As Sammael prepared the battle plan that would see the Ravenwing and warriors of the Fifth Company victorious, Malcifer faced a labour no less daunting: to ensure the faith and resolve of the warriors was fortified, the mysteries of the Chapter upheld.

He had accepted that fate, and took honour from the fact that he had been chosen for the Chaplaincy, for there were few with the strength of mind to utter the half-truths necessitated by his calling. Even Sammael, lauded Grand Master, did not know everything that Malcifer knew. There were layers of truth even within the Inner Circle, and Malcifer was keenly aware that everything he thought was true might one day be revealed to be not quite as he believed. Revelation and acceptance were the burden of the Chaplain, and to keep apart the disparate levels of truth was a stretch on his willpower.

Boreas had been left alone for too long. The weight of the truth had broken his spirit, with no guiding hand from the Inner Circle to show him the path of righteousness. The dead Chaplain’s warning was timely, but it was not the content of Boreas’s message that held a deep truth, but the manner of its delivery. Malcifer knew there would be an inquest when he returned to the Tower of Angels and he would give voice to the opinion that members of the Inner Circle and Chaplaincy should not be allowed to remain away from their brethren for so long. The sturdiest faith could be shaken by abandonment, each passing day becoming a torture on the spirit. Boreas had been one of the most devout members of the Chapter and yet even he had been broken by solitude and the machinations of the Fallen.

That it was sometimes necessary to lie to those that trusted him was another duty of the Chaplaincy that Malcifer was willing to bear. The Space Marines who had just departed had been manipulated to believe what the Chapter required them to believe. Most of them would die, later rather than sooner he hoped, not knowing fully the treachery that had brought the Dark Angels to the brink of destruction. It was a blessing for them to be ignorant, and a mercy for their souls that Malcifer did not encumber them with the unabashed truth. Even within, if the knowledge that the Dark Angels had turned upon themselves was widely known the Chapter would be destroyed.

This way was better, he reminded himself.

He stood up as the reclusiam doors hissed open, admitting the next congregation. There were fifteen of them, the Black Knights, their ebon robes stitched with a red Chapter symbol on the right breast. Hardened warriors all, their clean-shaven faces and close-cropped hair showed the scars of battle on cheeks and scalps. Some had silver and gold service studs in their brows, marking half-centuries and centuries of war.

The small procession was led by the two Huntmasters, Tybalain and Charael. The left breast of their robes was embroidered with a silver hammer shaped like the head of a raven, duplicating the weapons the Black Knights wielded from their bikes. Tybalain had a scar on his right cheek, a slash of white from nose to ear, pierced with tiny dagger-shaped pins. Malcifer remembered the day an eldar power blade had cut through the Black Knight’s helm, moments before the alien had its head crushed by Tybalain’s hammer. That night, following the battle, Tybalain had replaced slain Gethion as Huntmaster. Charael was more orthodox in appearance, free of brand, scar or tattoo, though his right eye had been replaced by a plasteel and adamantium augmetic, the red lens glinting in the candlelight that bathed the reclusiam.

The two were fearsome warriors and after this campaign Malcifer expected one or both of them to be elevated to the ranks of the Deathwing. They had certainly earned the honour of such promotion and their service to the Chapter deserved reward. The Black Knights were Sammael’s elite; amongst the highly specialised Ravenwing that was a profound honour. The Huntmasters had to exemplify the tenets of the Company, both military and spiritual, and as the warriors knelt in front of the altar, Malcifer wondered which of the others would be suitable replacements for Tybalain and Charael should they be elevated.

Such concerns were for later thought and consultation with the Grand Master, for there were much more pressing matters to address. Malcifer sat between the Black Knights and the altar, facing them, the gathering more informal than the previous service. These warriors were as much Malcifer’s progeny as Sammael’s, inculcated in all seven Rites of the Raven, possessors of knowledge above their brethren; though not yet made aware of the Fourth Level of Initiation. Such truths were only passed on to the Deathwing, but the Black Knights knew enough for Malcifer to be candid about the foe they hoped to face.

‘We embark on a battle to claim one of the Fallen.’ The Black Knights exchanged pleased nods and grim smiles. This was their true purpose brought to the fore. ‘We suspect that they have made lair on an ancient star fort, dubbed Port Imperial by the renegades. You will learn the battle plan from Grand Master Sammael, but it is my duty to make you aware of the possible consequences. In the close confines and hectic fighting of a boarding action you must stand ready to respond immediately if there is a possibility that one of your brethren from the Fifth Company will come into contact with the Fallen. You must ensure that all protocols and cordons are maintained, and by preference ensure that one of you or the Grand Master conducts the apprehension of the renegade.’

‘What tapestry is to be woven for the other warriors of the force?’ asked Charael.

‘Our brothers in the company are aware that we may face a traitor Space Marine at Port Imperial. I have agreed with Sergeant Seraphiel that those in the Fifth will be told that the enemy are led by an Imperial officer turned renegade. His capture is necessary to locate other forces that broke from Imperial governance with him. Standard communications protocols will apply. The target is marked as Diabolus and will be referred to as such in all broadcasts.’

‘And if there is a Fallen on this station, what of other witnesses?’ asked Tybalain.

‘Knowledge of the Fallen must be contained. All archives will be searched for data. This is a renegade base – there are no innocents,’ Malcifer replied, looking at each of the Black Knights in turn. ‘No one is to be spared.’

THREE

PORT IMPERIAL

OPENING SALVO

It was with relief that Sammael heard from Judoc Pichon of the arrival of the second strike cruiser. The Implacable Justice had been waiting on the edge of the system for the other ship for six days, the vessels having been separated by the tides of the warp during transit to the Polgoth system. For those six days, passive sensor readings had detected the mass of Port Imperial and three small vessels. Fortunately none of the rebels had attempted to leave the system, which would have forced Sammael into action before the arrival of the Fifth Company. Now that the Penitent Warrior had arrived, the Dark Angels could move on their target. Fortunately the two strike cruisers had translated in close proximity to each other and the star fort was only four days away at cruising speed.

Lacking any powerful scanning equipment or psykers to detect the arrival of the Dark Angels’ ships, the pirates were wholly unaware of the two strike cruisers that prowled in-system. They made swift progress, the outer reaches of Polgoth relatively free of asteroids and other stellar phenomena that would slow their progress. Forty-two standard hours after the Penitent Warrior had arrived both ships were in position to scan for the enemy.

On the command bridge of the Implacable Justice, fully clad in his armour and his warriors at their battle stations, Sammael monitored the situation with Harahel by his side. The two of them stood on the gallery overlooking the main floor of the bridge, their voices soft so that the non-augmented serfs below could not hear their conversation. On the main screen, magnification at maximum, Port Imperial was a small blur of grey and silver against the stars. Not wishing to risk discovery with aggressive scanning, the Dark Angels had not yet determined the exact nature of the base and its capabilities were as yet unknown.

This gap in his knowledge was of minor concern to Sammael, trumped as it was by the sense of satisfaction he felt at finding the star fort where he had hoped, intact and operational. To have arrived at Polgoth to find an empty system after much anticipation would have been a serious setback. Sammael felt justified in leaving battle-ridden Piscina, though he tried hard not to let optimism run wild.

‘Astelan lied in his testimony,’ said the Librarian. ‘Port Imperial was not destroyed.’

‘As we suspected,’ replied Sammael. ‘No void shields detected, which is good news. I do not think our foes have the means to maintain their base to any competent standard. Certainly they lack the means to move from the system. They are deficient of tech-adepts. One of the many disadvantages of being renegade. I am surprised they can even find this place after their raids, lacking navigators.’

‘There is a warp-beacon within the lair,’ said Harahel. ‘I could feel its signal before we translated. The navigators reported detecting several more surrounding the system out to fifty light years. The pirates’ hunting ground is small.’

‘Yet those same beacons are the bait that draws in the unwary. A lone ship, perhaps needing to re-establish its bearings, would make transition at one of the beacon sites, only to be ambushed by these pillagers.’

‘I scoured the datalogs but there is no mention of how the fort comes to be here. Do you think the Fallen were the founders or did they simply discover the turncoats’ nest?’

‘Malcifer tells me that there are no clues to the origin of this place in the transcript of Astelan’s confession, and he has read the log many times since we left Piscina. This system is almost cut off by ork encroachment that has been expanding for several hundred years. I would not be surprised to learn that the garrison turned renegade after being forgotten. These pirates are probably descendants of the crew.’

‘Or were seduced from service to the Emperor by the Fallen,’ suggested Harahel. ‘A secure base such as this would be valuable to them.’

‘Three ships poses a dilemma,’ said Sammael, deciding not to speculate further. ‘Any one of them may be carrying our quarry and if they split from each other, we can only chase two.’

‘What sort of vessels are they?’ asked the Librarian.

‘Two smaller ships, equivalent to a destroyer or rapid strike vessel in size, and what appears to be a rebel Imperial Navy frigate.’

‘Our prey will be on the largest ship,’ said Harahel. ‘The Fallen are driven by selfish needs, and to command a smaller vessel than another would be a thorn to their pride. Target the frigate first if you fear they will escape.’

‘Good advice,’ said Sammael, nodding in appreciation. He raised his voice. ‘Assign primary target to enemy frigate. Designation Mongrel. Report range, repeat on standard intervals.’

‘Four hours until optimum range, Grand Master,’ Pichon replied. ‘No enemy sensor sweeps detected.’

‘Very good, Pichon. Designate smaller vessels as Rat One and Rat Two.’

‘Designations assigned, Grand Master.’

Sammael waited, the distance-to-target reports slowly creeping down. The watch below changed over the intervening hours, though Pichon did not relinquish his command position. Just after the two hour mark. a serf appeared with a tray of food and drink for the Grand Master and his companion. The two of them withdrew to Sammael’s command chamber confident that Pichon would notify them of any urgent news.

‘First a trio of citadels and then a city, and now a star fort,’ muttered Sammael as he broke off a chunk of heavy, blackened soyslab. ‘This latest patrol has not been kind to the Ravenwing in the battlegrounds it has offered.’

‘We fight where we must, brother,’ replied Harahel.

‘True enough.’ Sammael chewed mechanically, the dark loaf of synthetic food almost tasteless. ‘At least we know that if there are the Fallen aboard Port Imperial they cannot escape.’

‘It is your hope that we follow the trail of our hated foe, brother,’ said Harahel. ‘Do you really think we may have cornered him at last?’

‘No,’ said Sammael. He wolfed down the last of his meal and pushed the silvered platter across the dull slate of the hololith projector. ‘The security here has lapsed so badly I am under no illusion that the arch-quarry will be found at Port Imperial. He is far too cunning to be so easily trapped.’

‘But one of his companions, perhaps?’

‘The coordinates appended to Boreas’s log have proven correct and Astelan admitted the Fallen frequented this place, even if he tried to mislead us about its destruction. I am confident.’

Sammael looked at Harahel, who returned his gaze with an intent stare.

‘This is what we do, brother, the long hunt,’ said Harahel. ‘I share your confidence. The Fallen have been here and we take another step closer to redemption.’

‘A road the Chapter will continue to tread long after you and I have departed this mortal plane,’ said Sammael.

‘Yet along the road we still move, as inexorable as the turning of the stars. Have faith, brother. From the fruit of our labours shall be sown the seeds of the new Dark Angels. One day the Lion shall know peace and one day our Chapter can forget the legacy of Caliban lost.’

‘No, we shall not. We must never forget, lest we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past.’ Sammael smiled. ‘You are fortunate that Brother Malcifer is not present to hear such words from your lips. Your ears would ring with his chastisement for some time.’

‘Each of us knows his own righteousness,’ laughed Harahel. ‘Malcifer simply knows it a little more than the rest of us.’

With still an hour left until the attack began, Sammael and Harahel returned to the bridge and took up station at the centre of the command deck, surrounded by the bustling of the serfs and technicians. Servitors wired into the scanner arrays and communications consoles whispered and croaked a constant chatter of information, monitored by the attending crew. Dataslabs were exchanged and reports made, everything of routine importance passed to Pichon so that Sammael was able to concentrate on the wider situation.

‘Send word to Sergeant Seraphiel,’ the Grand Master announced, seeing that one of the ships docked at Port Imperial was showing a spike in its energy signature. ‘Have the Penitent Warrior increase separation. I want to be sure that we catch these scum between us.’

Pichon signalled an affirmative and passed on the order, before returning to his customary position a few metres from the Grand Master. They continued to wait, alert for any sign that the enemy knew their doom approached.

‘Have all torpedoes readied, full spread,’ Sammael commanded. ‘Increase thrust to full battle speed. Signal the alert.’

Moments later the warning klaxon sounded across the bridge. The volume of communication increased rapidly as reports were relayed from station to station, while the buzz and grind of metriculators and babble of servitors intensified as scanner readings were correlated and firing solutions calculated.

Amongst the hum of voices a low tone sounded from the sensor array terminals. Sammael knew its meaning immediately, but waited for Pichon to receive confirmation and pass on the report.

‘Active scan detected from the enemy base, Grand Master,’ said the deck officer. ‘Also picking up magnified energy output from Mongrel and Rat One. No sign yet of Rat Two responding.’

‘They see us,’ replied Sammael. ‘The scum are preparing to bolt. Launch torpedoes, four salvos, arc four-sixteen, declination thirty. If they try to power directly out-system they will run into the torpedo spread.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Pichon, bowing before repeating Sammael’s instructions to the torpedo officers.

‘Are you still confident that our prey will use the frigate, brother?’ Sammael asked Harahel. The Librarian nodded. ‘Good, then we can afford to destroy the smaller vessels and concentrate on crippling Mongrel.’

‘It is with hope rather than expectation that we should proceed, brother,’ said the Epistolary. ‘It is rumour alone that we chase.’

‘Rumour and shadow have ever been the spoor we follow.’ Sammael paused as the weapons technicians announced the launch of the first salvo. On the main screen, four immense torpedoes powered away from the prow of the Implacable Justice, the blaze of their engines swiftly dimming to pinpricks of light against the backdrop of stars. ‘The next few hours will shed light on the matter.’

What would happen next depended upon the actions of the pirate ships. The Dark Angels strike cruisers could easily outpace the smaller vessels in a straight pursuit, given that the enemy would take some time for their plasma reactors to come to full power while the Space Marine ships were already at combat velocity. Sammael had aimed successive torpedo spreads not at the enemy star fort, but on a trajectory that cut off an avenue of escape for the docked ships. They would have to dare the torpedoes to take the most direct route away from their berths, and more likely would come about, heading to port across the bows of the approaching attackers.

Sammael hoped that the renegades would be foolish enough to remain for battle, and was confident that the two strike cruisers had sufficient strength to quickly best their opponents. More likely the pirates would attempt to break away, heading for the outer reaches of the system so that they could escape into the warp.

Lacking torpedoes, the Penitent Warrior was on a curving course ahead and to port of the Implacable Justice. Sergeant Seraphiel and his bridge officers were under orders to contain any escaping ship, acting as an outrider to force the enemy back into the path of the Ravenwing strike cruiser. Caught between the two Space Marine vessels, the pirate ships would be crippled and rendered irrelevant, to be boarded and cleared once the raid on the star fort had been complete.

Throughout, Sammael had emphasised the need for swift and decisive action. Their main purpose in coming to the system was to sweep for evidence of the Fallen, and to capture any that were present, rather than engage in a lengthy battle with their foes. Three phases of battle would see the deed done. The opening phase had started and once the threat of the starships had been neutralised the second phase – the attack on Port Imperial itself – could begin. The third and possibly most dangerous phase was the extraction of the Dark Angels from the space station.

Sammael was full of energy, but resisted the urge to pace the bridge. He had to remain calm and capable of reasoned thought, weighing his decisions carefully rather than acting on instinct alone. A space battle was not the sudden cut and thrust of a Ravenwing assault, but a more measured, almost balletic process. The distances were vast and the time required to correct a mistake could well leave a gap for his enemies to escape their punishment. It would be at least another hour until the Implacable Justice was in effective range with its gun batteries, but that hour would require all of his poise and attention.

NO ESCAPE

The vessel designated Rat Two had not properly loosed its berthing locks as it tried to pull away from the Port Imperial docks. Gantries tore apart, leaving twisted metal scrap and hunks of broken plascrete in the wake of the ship. Several bodies were hurled from the star fort’s quay by decompression, the spinning corpses rapidly freezing in the void amidst a plume of ejecting gases. The ship commander was too hasty to escape from his moorings to adhere to safety protocols and as Rat Two’s plasma engine fired up white heat bathed the superstructure of the harbour wharf jutting from the station, melting a welt along the side of the docking spar.

Rat Two slowly gathered speed, but was already far behind Mongrel and Rat One. There being little honour amongst pirates, the dawdling vessel had been abandoned as the frigate and its destroyer-sized escort made a bid to escape. Rather than attempt to catch up with its departing companions, Rat Two powered ahead, veering to starboard to avoid the onrushing wave of torpedoes launched by the Implacable Justice.

Concerned that the opposing flotilla was splitting, Sammael held a brief discussion with Sergeant Seraphiel and the two of them agreed to divide their attack. While the Penitent Warrior continued on its intercept course towards Mongrel and Rat One, the Implacable Justice altered its heading to pursue Rat Two. Without knowing whether one of the Fallen was aboard one of the ships, it was imperative that none were allowed to escape and the ship carrying the Fifth Company would have to contend with the frigate and destroyer alone; a match in which it would not be outclassed.

Sammael briefly considered another torpedo salvo, but decided against such a course of action. Rat Two was only a few hundred metres long, less than a quarter of the size of the Implacable Justice. Each torpedo from the strike cruiser contained several dozen warheads of which only three or four would need to hit to utterly obliterate the fleeing pirate craft. It was Sammael’s task to capture the Fallen so that they could be taken for interrogation and the chance of repentance; the risk of a torpedo strike killing the Grand Master’s prey was too great.

Instead, the Ravenwing vessel would have to close the range and cripple Rat Two with its guns. This would be a more time-consuming course of action, giving those left aboard the station more time to prepare their defence, but it could not be avoided. Under Sammael’s command the Implacable Justice moved to full-speed, describing a long arc until it was directly behind Rat Two.

Having moved into the stern chase, it was only a matter of time until the strike cruiser overhauled the enemy ship and brought it into range.

The gap between the Implacable Justice and the Penitent Warrior was widening every minute, and they were now separated by a large swath of space. Sergeant Seraphiel and his ship could not expect any assistance from their fellow Dark Angels and would take on Mongrel and Rat One by themselves.

To the good fortune of the Fifth Company’s interim commander the renegades decided that they were better placed to remain close to each other rather than breaking away and heading in different directions. Watching the scanner blips of the two ships on the main display of the bridge, Sammael remarked on this to Harahel.

‘Surely they cannot be contemplating an attack?’ said the Grand Master.

‘If one of those we hunt is aboard Mongrel, perhaps overconfidence might be expected,’ replied Harahel. ‘More likely, neither wishes to be the one to draw the strike of the Penitent Warrior, for surely if they divide their course one of them will be overwhelmed while the other escapes. They are too afraid to part ways lest they are the one that becomes the subject of pursuit.’

‘A fair assessment brother,’ said Sammael. ‘I see that each ship has made bearing alterations and the other has swiftly followed to keep station. Their selfishness dooms them both.’

‘It is the old story of the two squires and the varglion,’ said Harahel. ‘One does not need to outrun the varglion, only the other squire.’

Sammael laughed. It was a story he had not heard since leaving the Scout Company, and to be reminded of it after so long lightened his mood.

‘I always thought it would be better for the two squires to face the varglion together,’ said the Grand Master.

‘I believe that the moral of the tale is that it is better to sacrifice one’s self to allow a brother to live,’ said Harahel. He nodded towards the huge display screen. ‘I also believe that Penitent Warrior is about to demonstrate why your course of action would be brave but pointless.’

Sammael checked the chronometer and range readings. Rat Two was still accelerating hard and Implacable Justice would not be within weapons range for fifteen minutes.

‘Main display, Penitent Warrior, maximum magnification.’ The Grand Master folded his arms and watched as the image moved away from the glow of Rat Two’s plasma wash and centred on the Dark Angels strike cruiser. Superimposed over the star-filled screen were three glowing reticules, one in red highlighting the position of the Penitent Warrior and a pair of white circles around the pirates. Sammael glanced at Harahel as he watched their intersecting courses. ‘Let us hope that Sergeant Seraphiel understands the importance of taking the ships intact.’

‘He understands well his role, brother,’ said Harahel. ‘He will temper fury with finesse.’

For the next few minutes the two ships ahead of the Penitent Warrior engaged in several drastic changes of heading, perhaps fearing another torpedo attack. They cut to starboard and inclined sharply down through the system plane, and then broke to port and rose up in the hopes of making their course too unpredictable. As the Penitent Warrior possessed no torpedo tubes, the only result of this manoeuvring was to allow the strike cruiser to gain even more quickly on the evading ships.

‘Though clumsily executed, their attempts at evasion are not without some strategy,’ said Harahel. ‘I think that our pirates have had experience against the Imperial Navy. It may indicate the presence of a superior military mind...’

‘No, I disagree, brother,’ replied Sammael. ‘If their commander had received training in fleet tactics they would not waste time with their torturous convolutions, but instead make all power perpendicular to the Penitent Warrior’s angle of attack. And if they had experience of the Imperial Navy, they have never encountered anything larger than a Sword-class frigate.’

‘Why do you assume that, brother?’

‘They are turning to fight,’ said Sammael, pointing at the screen. The white circles were slowly coming about, turning to a heading directly towards the oncoming strike cruiser. ‘If they had fought a light cruiser before, they would know that they are outgunned and certainly in a position of weakness to attempt a head-on attack.’

Sammael saw desperation, even panic, in the tactics of the foe. Having twisted and turned every way they could the commanders now threw caution to the wind and confronted their attacker directly. Mongrel and Rat One were keeping close together, arrowing directly for the Penitent Warrior. Sammael did not know what weapon systems the pirates possessed, but if they hoped to overload the void shields and penetrate the metres-thick hull of a strike cruiser the captains were about to be sorely disappointed.

A range scale counted down between the reticules on the screen and then flashed red to confirm the enemy had come into firing range of the Dark Angels ship. From a dorsal turret atop the spine of Mongrel a lance battery opened fire, sending the beam of a laser towards the Penitent Warrior. The blue streak slashed across the heavens for several seconds, missing the strike cruiser by a wide margin. Its capacitors drained, the lance beam disappeared. The Penitent Warrior was not yet in range with its weapons and was forced to endure another lance beam before it could bring its guns to bear. This time the pirates’ fire was more accurate, the beam of high energy causing the strike cruiser’s void shields to activate. Warp energy flared in a purple and green corona around the Penitent Warrior as the enemy’s lance ran from the starboard bow to the port stern. As the searing energy of the beam dissipated, the strike cruiser was left undamaged, the energy of the attack absorbed by the void shield.

Thirty seconds later, the Dark Angels were in range to respond.

Tracking Mongrel as the strike cruiser closed on the pirates, the turret housing Penitent Warrior’s bombardment cannon turned, sophisticated sensor arrays locking on to the frigate’s position and course while inorganic cogitators calculated the firing trajectory required. The bombardment cannon was mostly used in orbital support – bringing devastation from afar as they had at Hadria Praetoris – but it was no less effective against enemy ships. Additional stabiliser engines flared into life to keep the strike cruiser on course as the bombardment cannon opened fire, a plume of igniting gas ejecting from the barrel of the immense gun. For several minutes the cannon unleashed shells the size of gunships, filling the vacuum around Mongrel with hurtling ordnance.

Three of the shots struck the incoming frigate, two amidships and one to the stern. The void shield generators flared into life for the first, shunting the energy of the shell’s impact into the warp, but the second and third hits scored directly against the ship’s hull. Velocity alone was enough for the shells to punch through metres-thick armour, and time-delayed fuses ignited inside the frigate, activating the plasma cores of the bombardment shells to rip out building-sized chunks of superstructure. Hundreds of crew were incinerated in a moment; dozens more pulped by the blast wave and shredded by explosive decompression. Plasma and debris blossomed from the wounds, heeling the ship over to port, the expulsion of energy forcing Mongrel from its original heading.

The lance turret on the frigate responded, but its beam weaved harmlessly back and forth above the strike cruiser, its targeting sent awry by the bombardment cannon hits. Rat One and Mongrel parted slightly as the frigate headed to starboard of the Penitent Warrior and the destroyer was on course to pass down the port side. Armoured shields slid back from the gun decks of the Dark Angels vessel, revealing battery after battery of missile launchers, plasma drivers and macro-cannons.

Rat One’s own meagre batteries started firing early, sending a barrage of laser and shell fire towards the strike cruiser. Most of the storm missed, but as the Penitent Warrior’s broadside came to bear the strike cruiser’s void shields lit up once more, saturated with the welter of fire erupting from the small enemy vessel.

Fire and laser beams erupted along the hull of the Penitent Warrior, moving from bow to stern on both the port and starboard sides as the strike cruiser passed between the two approaching ships. For several minutes the weight of fire fell upon the Dark Angels’ foes, by which time the strike cruiser was already turning sharply to starboard to come around behind Mongrel.

The missiles and shells hit the two vessels with dozens of direct impacts. Rat One’s dorsal buttresses disintegrated under the weight of fire, the spine of the ship breaking so that a fifty-metre-long portion of decks tore away from the hull. Mongrel, already breached by the bombardment cannon, was wracked by internal explosions as the storm of fire breached weapons batteries and magazines. Fortified gun turrets turned to dust and debris as they were blown apart from within and crew dorms were swept through with white-hot shrapnel and plasma.

Both ships were badly damaged, trailing wreckage in their wake. The engines of Rat One were faltering, the plasma flare growing dim due to severed energy lines. Mongrel powered on as best as the crew could manage, turning away from Rat One, leaving their fellow renegades to their fate.

With the frigate still mobile, the Penitent Warrior swung around, bringing the starboard broadside against Mongrel’s engines. The gunnery crews were ordered to fire as they each came to bear, a half-volley of laser and plasma that slammed into the unshielded engines of the frigate. Armour and fuel couplings were breached with secondary plasma detonations, and finally the huge exhaust nozzles of the ship grew dark and the frigate was left drifting without power.

While the Penitent Warrior had been occupied with its foes, the Implacable Justice was overhauling Rat Two. The strike cruiser’s bombardment cannon fired several ranging shots at the aft sections of the destroyer, the shells screaming past the fleeing ship. The gunners adjusted their targeting matrices and through Pichon informed Sammael that they were locked on and ready to fire when the strike cruiser came into optimum range.

With the fight between the Penitent Warrior and the pirates all but finished, Sammael ordered the main display to focus on Rat Two. The ship looked to be some kind of heavily modified short-range cargo hauler. She was wide in the beam, at least four hundred metres from port to starboard, and perhaps only two hundred metres high. Three-quarters of a kilometre long, most of the ship was taken up with cargo holds and engines, with just a small crew space and bridge along the dorsal decks. Two freight bays had been converted into gun mountings, an array of asymmetric laser batteries and energy relays clumsily protruding from poorly armoured turrets and gantries.

Three engine nozzles obscured most of the ship, and Sammael frowned as the plasma discharge intensified, turning from a deep orange to yellow edged with blue and white. He looked over at the navigational team as they turned and made a report to Pichon.

‘Rat Two accelerating,’ the officer of the deck told Sammael. ‘Velocity increasing by five per cent.’

‘They are overcharging their reactors,’ the Grand Master said, the words directed to Harahel. ‘It will not be enough.’

‘Acceleration reaching ten per cent additional,’ reported one of the navigation serfs. ‘Velocity still increasing.’

On the main screen, Rat Two was pulling away, adding to the separation between pursued and pursuer every second.

‘Report our reactor status,’ snapped Sammael. In half a minute the target ship would be beyond effective range again.

‘Optimal and eighty-five per cent, Grand Master,’ Pichon replied immediately, not even having to check with the engineering attendants.

‘Increase to one hundred per cent, all speed ahead,’ said Sammael. ‘We shall...’

His words petered out as he saw what was happening on the screen. Rat Two’s plasma trail was almost solidly white, leaving a shimmer of energy in the ship’s wake. Steam was bursting from overheating valves, the hot gases vented from the reactor meeting with the icy coldness of space to creating swirling clouds of crystal and congealing vapour. The ship’s systems could not cope with the increased heat output from the overcharging engines and Sammael saw exhaust ports rupturing into fountains of molten metal.

Something inside the pirate vessel was going catastrophically wrong as a jet of plasma punched out from the engine blocks, sending armoured plates and twisted lengths of immense piping spinning into the void.

‘Belay last order,’ Sammael said quietly as the chain reaction engulfed Rat Two. The last third of the ship disappeared into a ball of expanding white light, a miniature star that swiftly engulfed the rest of the ship, vaporising it. ‘Full power to navigational and void shields. Brace for debris. Engines full back, new heading one-zero-nine.’

Despite breaking thrusters and a sharp turn to port, the momentum of the Implacable Justice took the strike cruiser into the expanding cloud of gas and debris. Navigational hazard warnings flashed and sirens wailed as the ship ploughed into the superheated fog. There were shrieks and whines from the servitors of the sensor banks, the half-human half-machine interfaces crying out in pain as the scanner arrays were overloaded with data. The comms network screeched for several seconds until one of the serfs shut down the open channels, plunging the bridge into silence, cutting off the reports that had started to come through from engineering and the gun decks.

Sammael could feel the ship shuddering as it continued to turn through the dense zone of collapsing plasma, the low-frequency navigational fields pushing aside what remained of Rat Two while the void shields absorbed the energy of the artificial star.

A circuit exploded across a cogitator to Sammael’s left, blasting sparks into the face of a serf. The young man cried out, falling back from his station as suppressant gas bloomed from a nozzle above the flickering fire creeping across the console.

‘They did more damage destroying themselves than their guns would have caused,’ snarled Sammael. He called for Pichon, who was supervising a medicae team coming forward from the shadow beneath the bridge gallery. The wounded attendant cried out and flailed in his blindness but Sammael ignored the distraction. ‘Full damage report. Set course for Port Imperial. All flight crews to stand by and all torpedo tubes readied.’

‘As you command, Grand Master.’ Pichon darted a look at the fallen serf to assure himself that all was being done that could, and then started to snap off orders. Only phase one of the battle had been finished. A lot more fighting remained between the Dark Angels and their objective.

PRIMARY INSERTION

With one ship destroyed and the other two unable to manoeuvre, the Dark Angels were able to press towards their primary target quickly, leaving the crippled vessels to be dealt with once the station was secured. Converging on Port Imperial at ninety degrees to one another – the Penitent Warrior approaching from above the star fort with the Implacable Justice below – the two strike cruisers made ready for the attack.

Port Imperial looked like a city floating in the void. From a square foundation of plasteel-reinforced ferrocrete and tapering spires nearly ten kilometres across, four docking arms jutted out a kilometre from each corner of the station. Atmosphere still billowed from the spar damaged when Rat Two had broken its moorings, creating a cloud of gas and ice around the mess of twisted gantries and broken buttresses. Hab-towers banked up steeply, growing taller towards the centre of the station, but the majority were dark, only the central spire and the towers clustered directly about it shining light from scores of windows.

In armoured bastions built around the docking spars where they met the main hub, missile batteries and macro-las cannons turned towards the approaching ships. Gigantic archways opened, spilling the gleam of launch bay lamps into the darkness beneath the station, illuminating communications dishes, sensor arrays and maintenance gantries.

From a safe distance, outside the range of any of the fort’s batteries, Implacable Justice launched another salvo of torpedoes, targeting the closest defence turrets. In the wake of the torpedoes the Ravenwing cruiser spilled forth a cloud of fighters and gunships; another wave of Thunderhawks sped from the flight deck of the Penitent Warrior.

Long-range laser fire sprayed from the station, cutting the void with intermittent beams of red and blue. The torpedoes and attack craft were too small to be targeted by these main weapon systems, which instead were focused on the incoming strike cruisers. Laser energy met void shields in multicoloured blasts but the Dark Angels continued on, engines at full power to bring their weapons into range.

The fighters in the vanguard of the attack wave split, half of them staying on course with the Ravenwing gunships and the other half cutting across the vacuum to take up position with the Thunderhawks of the Fifth Company. A cloud of dark shapes spewed from Port Imperial’s bays as the pirates launched their own fighters to intercept the incoming attack.

In one of the lead Thunderhawks, Brother Telemenus ran through his final pre-battle rituals, checking his wargear while Daellon inspected Telemenus’s armour seals and ensured there were no obstructions in his battle-brothers’ backpack vents. With a final full-spectrum diagnostic of his autosenses, whispering benedictions to the spirit of his armour, Telemenus completed his preparations and turned his attention to Daellon to make a return investigation of the other Dark Angel’s armour. All was in order and he slapped his companion on the shoulder.

‘We are ready, brother,’ said Telemenus.

‘Let us trust to the skill of the pilots and the ineptitude of our foes,’ replied Daellon.

Telemenus nodded but said nothing. Since returning to the squad following his punishment, the Dark Angel had endeavoured to remain focused on the mission at hand. Now that they were in flight, their fate prey to forces he could not control for the moment, Telemenus found his doubts had evaporated. With missiles and las-blasts filling the void, the wider cause for battle mattered little. He had been presented with an enemy and it was his duty to slay them. Ten days in solitary reclusion had not tempered his misgivings wholly, but he had come to realise that dissenting action would not be the solution. Whatever the cause for Sammael to abandon Piscina and come to this Emperor-forsaken place, Telemenus was honour-bound to see the mission completed. The sooner these renegades were destroyed, the sooner the Dark Angels could move on to more important enemies.

‘You are quiet, brother,’ remarked Sergeant Amanael. ‘I would think that your First Marksman laurels are ensured this day. A boarding action against a trapped enemy will see you surpass the needed tally by dozens.’

‘As you say, brother-sergeant,’ replied Telemenus. ‘The awarding of the laurel will be pleasing, but its attainment against such enemies lessens the honour.’

‘There are merchant crews and Imperial Navy captains who would argue that point, brother,’ said Achamenon. ‘This nest of serpents has required cleansing for decades, it would seem. Remember that they are traitors to a man, preying upon the loyal servants of the Emperor.’

‘Do not mistake my sentiment, brothers, I am glad to destroy this scum and see their perfidy ended. Yet it is an engagement not worthy of remark, merely a footnote in the Chapter annals. I would see my laurels awarded in a glorious battle that would echo down the generations to come.’

‘Brother Telemenus.’ He looked to the right and regretted his words as Sergeant Seraphiel approached from the bow of the gunship. The commander’s approach was punctuated by the thump and whine of the mag-locks in his boots connecting with the metal decking. ‘Have you forgotten so soon the content of my briefing?’

‘No, honoured brother, I have not,’ Telemenus replied. ‘I remember well that our foes may well be commanded by a renegade of the Adeptus Astartes. If I cut down this traitor whilst achieving my laurels I shall consider it a great honour.’

‘Yet you also recall that this traitor is to be apprehended not executed, if possible,’ said Seraphiel, stopping in front of Telemenus. ‘Those are your orders.’

‘And I shall obey them, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, looking up at his commander. ‘I do not think there will be opportunity to do otherwise, considering our role is simply to secure the landing zones and allow the Ravenwing to make ingress.’

‘We are about to board a space station, brother,’ said Seraphiel. ‘Our brethren on their bikes and Land Speeders will be limited in their manoeuvring. I suspect that the warriors of the Fifth Company shall prove the more successful hunters today.’

‘I will give thanks to the Emperor if that proves to be so, brother. If we are the ones to deliver this miscreant to justice, it will be to the honour of the company, even if no others shall be allowed to know of it.’

‘Just so. The Supreme Grand Master will hear all accounts, and our actions shall be recognised by him if no other.’

‘Praise the primarch, in whose shadow we all follow,’ Telemenus said softly, bowing his head.

Seraphiel nodded and turned away.

‘If Sammael has his way, I will be left guarding the ramp of a Thunderhawk,’ muttered Telemenus.

‘Cease your grumbling or I will make it so,’ Sergeant Amanael said sharply, stilling further protest.

Several minutes passed during which Telemenus listened to the general comms reports. The Implacable Justice was moving within firing range of Port Imperial, its weapon batteries ready to pour fire into the station to cover the approach of the attack craft. The screen of Ravenwing fighters powered ahead of the gunship wave to engage the enemy interceptors. A warning chime sounded, alerting the force to incoming attackers and the subdued conversation aboard the Thunderhawk fell silent as the Dark Angels followed the progress of the pilots.

The pirate craft were a mix of single and two-man fighters, armed for the most part with missiles and autocannons. While the strike cruisers and star base duelled over thousands of kilometres, between these behemoths the small craft of both sides engaged over hundreds of metres.

The swarm of foes appeared as a glittering spray of plasma jets against the dark bulk of the space station, spreading out as the Ravenwing craft powered onwards, their sleek black hulls disappearing into the void.

Stabs of blue light spat out from the four lascannon-armed Nephilim forming the tip of the Dark Angels attack, causing the motes of plasma trails to scatter. Flurries of Blacksword missiles followed swiftly after, swerving and jinking as their artificial brains guided them towards the energy signatures of the enemy craft. The pirate craft were built only for void battle, stubby boxes of bare metal illuminated by the glare of attitude jets and main thrusters, whirling away from the Ravenwing onslaught with plumes of red and orange. Rockets rippled from side-mounted pods, spraying out towards the Ravenwing, filling the vacuum with trails of fire.

As the spearpoint thrust through the dispersing cloud of enemy fighters the second wave of Nephilim, six craft, opened fire with their megabolters. Flashes of propellant flickered between the converging squadrons, filling the firmament with a storm of tiny explosions. One craft turned into a ball of plasma as it crossed the path of hundreds of rounds, its engines punctured by the fusillade. Behind it another fighter split apart, shredded from cockpit to thrusters by a lascannon beam.

All semblance of order disintegrated as the two forces passed each other. In a haze of manoeuvre jets the Nephilim rolled and stooped, while pirate fighters span wildly, unleashing streams of shells at their foes. Bright plasma trails criss-crossed with tracer shells and hurricane bolter salvoes as the Dark Talons came into range. Engines flared to spin the craft, ships exchanging flurries of fire as they parted and turned, hulls gleaming as another fighter was engulfed by its detonating engines. Shell fire from the heavier renegade craft littered the battlespace with explosions, hurling shrapnel into the gunship formation.

Telemenus felt the Thunderhawk tremble as its battle cannon opened fire. The large-calibre ordnance was more suited to blowing apart ground targets, but the fusillade of shells erupting from the onrushing gunships parted the enemy fighters, punching a path through their midst. Heavy bolters chattered from the Thunderhawks’ wings as they sped on, trusting to the fighters to protect them against attack from behind.

The Nephilim and Dark Talons formed up into hunting pairs, chasing the enemy as they tried to slip past the screen to bring fire upon the gunships. Occasionally Telemenus heard the rattle of weapons fire or the clang of debris against the hull, but nothing heavy enough to breach the armoured transport compartment. The vox-net was alive with the chatter of the pilots, snapping out target designations and grid coordinates, exchanging attack vector information and warnings.

There was nothing that Telemenus could do, and he waited patiently and in silence as they sped towards their objective. Another announcement over the comm warned that the attack fleet was coming within range of the star base’s defence grid. Much of the close-range weapons systems had been targeted by the strike cruisers, but as the gunships passed enemy range mark, ripples of cannon fire and rockets hurtled from the station’s remaining defence turrets.

Lacking the more sophisticated targeting matrices of the Ravenwing craft, the pirate fighters and the base gunners opted for weight of fire over accuracy. Their spewing salvoes created a blanket of missiles and shells through which the gunships were forced to pass. The impacts against the hull grew in intensity and frequency and every few seconds the Thunderhawk would rattle from a close detonation. The pilots rolled and banked their craft through the storm; the support of their harnesses rendering the Space Marines oblivious to the evasive manoeuvres being performed. To Telemenus they might well have been cruising gently through the void, as straight as a bolt shot.

Red lights flashed and a warning klaxon filled the compartment. Moments later, a second warning lit up in Telemenus’s helm display, indicating a rapid loss of atmospheric pressure. Sealed inside their suits the Space Marines were protected against decompression; the parchment tabs of their purity seals fluttered wildly as the pressurised air evacuated through a hole somewhere towards the rear of the gunship. Everything else had been locked down as a precaution, preventing stray magazines and other items becoming dangerous debris.

The breach was not significant, judging by the time it took for the interior atmosphere to utterly deplete. By the time Telemenus’s autosenses detected zero pressure they had passed the five thousand metres mark.

He performed one last check on his bolter and the spare magazines clamped to his cuisses and greaves. Sergeant Seraphiel appeared again, standing by the ramp at the nose of the gunship. The lighting dimmed, Telemenus’s autosenses compensating for the gloom, and the ramp whined down into the assault position.

Through the open maw of the Thunderhawk, Telemenus could see the ceramite slabs of the space station’s ablative plates, many of them cracked or shattered, a haze of debris coalescing against the superstructure, drawn in by the artificial grav-field. Plasma fires raged in several of the outer towers and as Telemenus watched another streaking fusillade from one of the strike cruisers slammed into Port Imperial. Ferrocrete and metal was ripped apart by the impacts, spraying jagged metres-thick chunks into the void.

The Thunderhawk dipped and Telemenus’s view changed. A slit of light appeared as the vista passed underneath a docking spar and a red sigil appeared in Telemenus’s view, the range to target counting down beside it: one hundred kilometres.

Arrestor jets fired hard, killing the speed of gunship as it banked towards the opening of the fighter bay. Black blades against the grey of the port, Dark Talons swept past, opening fire with their rift-cannons. Warp generators unleashed coruscating beams that rippled with power from the immaterium, tearing through the fabric of reality. The streaming warp particles struck the plating and buttresses surrounding the fighter bay entrance, creating ravening warp holes that collapsed the armoured bulkheads in upon themselves. Iridescent implosions blossomed across the docking bastion, ripping struts and casements apart, leaving the bay entrance a ragged mess.

The lascannon of the Thunderhawk opened fire, blowing apart the larger pieces of debris in its flight path, turning plascrete to cinder and metal to clouds of molten droplets. The fighters made one final pass, sweeping across the jagged bay entrance with missiles and heavy-gauge bolt cannons. Into this maelstrom of fire plunged the Thunderhawk, the restraining harnesses holding the Space Marines in place snapping up with hydraulic hisses.

Telemenus took his place as the squads thudded towards the ramp, the dark of the looming fighter bay broken by the flare of the gunship’s bolters and arcs of electricity forking from ruptured power lines.

‘For the Emperor!’ roared Seraphiel, wing-hilted power sword held aloft as he led the charge down the ramp even as the Thunderhawk slammed into the pockmarked ferrocrete of the landing apron. His autosenses adjusting to the flickering light, Telemenus was greeted with a scene of utter ruin.

The bulkheads to the right had collapsed entirely, filling half of the docking area with a tangled mass of plasteel struts and fractured ferrocrete. Power cables spitting sparks draped over the rubble, while split gas lines and fuel feeds spewed gouts of green and blue flames. The charred wrecks of several large fighter craft had been buried by the avalanche, glinting shards from their crystalflex canopies scattered across the dull grey of the ferrocrete deck.

A quick sweep from right to left showed no living thing except for Telemenus and his fellow Dark Angels. Broken limbs protruded at odd angles from the slag heap that had been a control bastion and dozens more bodies were littered across the apron, dangling from broken gantries and mangled amongst fallen masonry.

The screech of landing pads scraping across the ferrocrete announced the arrival of a second Thunderhawk while the thirty Space Marines from the first gunship swiftly advanced through the piles of rubble. Amanael’s squad were despatched to the right by a terse command from Seraphiel. Telemenus followed on the shoulder of his sergeant, bolter at the ready. His steps felt light as he took a stride over a crumbled pillar, seeming to float for a split second.

‘Artificial gravity is compromised,’ he remarked.

‘Running at approximately ninety per cent,’ replied Cadael. The ignition flame of his weapon burned into life as the star fort’s atmosphere swept back into the bay, the breeze kicking up dust and fluttering clothing on the bodies protruding from the rubble. The otherworldly scene was bathed in blue for a moment as another arc of electricity surged across a mound of rubble ahead.

The chamber, nearly three hundred metres long and almost as broad, reverberated to the roar of gunship thrusters as more Thunderhawks touched down, bringing the rest of the company onto the space station. Telemenus glanced back for a moment, watching thirty more green-armoured warriors pounding across the landing apron, heading towards a half-ruined archway in the left bulkheads.

‘Back!’ snapped Sergeant Amanael, waving for the squad to retreat. The sergeant was looking up and Telemenus followed his gaze. A girder warped by a rift-cannon hit snapped the last threads connecting it to the wall. The heavy strut smashed into the ground a few metres ahead of Telemenus, sending shards of metal pinging against his armour.

Switching on their suit lamps, the squad advanced more cautiously, Cadael moving a little ahead of the others, checking the footing as they clambered atop a mound of debris. Reaching the summit, they could see into the corridors and chambers above where the floor had fallen in. Telemenus saw a blur of movement at the edge of the breach and opened fire, the flare of the bolt-round highlighting the shocked expression on a thin face a split second before the man’s head was blown apart.

‘Enemy above,’ Telemenus warned, transmitting over the company channel, though he saw no further movement for the moment. Amanael covered the opposite side of the hole as the squad passed beneath, and once they were clear and heading down the other slope of rubble Telemenus backed away and joined them. Amanael followed two seconds later, his pistol still trained on the floor above.

‘Opening, grid-east, twenty metres,’ announced Apollon, studying the screen of his auspex. ‘Inoperative pressure door, I think.’

The squad turned their lamps on the opening, revealing a wide portal; a massive armoured shutter lodged halfway down, stopped by a crumbled pile of masonry. Dust trickled across the rubble and a motor whined within the structure of the bulkhead as the emergency door continued to push down on the obstruction.

‘Control panel,’ said Telemenus and pointed to a runepad glowing dimly to the right of the door. A red light blinked incessantly on the display.

Amanael, Apollon, Cadael and Achamenon secured the entrance, bolters trained into the darkness beyond, while Telemenus took his bolter in one hand and approached the keypad, the rest of the squad spreading out to watch their backs. The interface was immediately familiar to Telemenus; he had seen hundreds like it aboard Imperial ships and in buildings all across the galaxy. He prodded a finger into the override key and the whining motor stopped. With a screech of metal gears grinding against each other, the blast door slowly withdrew back up into the bulkhead, revealing the corridor beyond.

Cadael opened up with his flamer, the wash of yellow fire illuminating several ragged-looking pirates who were crawling through a tangle of collapsing ceiling tiles and broken support beams. The three men were dressed in dark-red pressure suits, helmetless; no defence against the ignited promethium streaming from Cadael’s flamer. The renegades’ agonised shrieks lasted a few seconds only as they flailed around the flames and then collapsed, their bodies smoking, the fabric of their suits melting into charred flesh.

‘Clear on this grid,’ Amanael reported, adding his voice to those of other sergeants announcing that their sectors were clear. Now and then bolter fire rang out, isolated shots and short flurries that spoke of minimal resistance.

‘Primary insertion complete and on time,’ Seraphiel announced. ‘All positions secured. Awaiting confirmation of secondary insertion success. Prepare to advance.’

CONFUSION AND FEAR

‘In the darkness, we shall be the light.’

Chaplain Malcifer’s words over the comm-net were comforting to Annael as he waited in the dark, crouched over Black Shadow, mount and armour locked into position.

‘In the light, we shall see true.’

Annael focused on the litany, driving other thoughts from his mind; thoughts such as the fact that he and the rest of the squadron were in a boarding torpedo hurtling towards the armoured skin of Port Imperial at several thousand miles per hour.

‘In the truth, we shall see victory.’

Victory. The word resonated through Annael. Victory was all that mattered. His honour depended upon it, and his honour was stronger than weak desire for safety. Courage was truth. Fear was false. One such false fear briefly fluttered on the edge of Annael’s comprehension as something rattled against the outer casing of the boarding torpedoes. Shrapnel most likely. No threat.

‘In the victory, we shall be honoured.’

It was no better or worse than a drop pod, Annael told himself. Whether speeding across the void in an armoured missile or falling through the sky towards an uncaring planet’s surface, his fate was beyond his control. Better to relax, to breathe deep and enjoy the sensation of life. These might be his final moments, his life ended in one of many horrendous ways: the torpedo’s plasma propellant could misfire and incinerate them all; a shot from Port Imperial’s defence batteries could turn their carriage into slag in an instant; the retro-thrusters could malfunction and slam them sideways into their target to crush them instantly; the melta-jets could fail to penetrate the metres-thick hide of the space station so that they crashed against the surface rather than punched through.

‘In the honour, we praise the Emperor.’

The Emperor probably never did this, a rebellious part of Annael thought. Even when he had walked amongst his followers it was doubtful that the Master of Mankind had ever hurled himself at an enemy fortress in what was little more than a guided rocket, astride the large fuel tank of a motorcycle. That privilege the Emperor had saved for his loyal Adeptus Astartes.

‘In the Emperor, we find our protector.’

Annael smiled, fighting back a childish laugh at the thought of the golden form of the Emperor falling upon the armies of Horus riding bareback on a torpedo. Ever since he had learned of Horus from Malcifer, Annael had wondered how the Emperor had slain the Warmaster. If Horus had been powerful enough to destroy the Lion, he had been powerful indeed. Though this thought process took his mind from possible causes of his imminent demise, the route it took led to greater uncertainties than those posed by questions regarding his near-future.

‘In our protector, we claim faith.’

Faith could be in short supply sometimes, Annael figured. When the people of Kadillus had opened fire on the Ravenwing, Annael had felt his faith sorely tested. He had been led to believe the Piscinans were loyal, not only to the Master of Mankind but through oaths of brotherhood with the Dark Angels. What could vex a populace so badly that they would turn on their benefactors and protectors? What force could break the faith of millions so that they would turn their weapons on the Emperor’s Angels of Death? If not respect and honour, fear alone should have stayed the hands of the Piscinan rebels, but something more powerful than fear of the Dark Angels had led them to desperate acts. Had it been the same force that had turned Horus’s hand against the Emperor and the Lion? Had it been desperation and fear that had brought the Warmaster to blows with the primarch of the Dark Angels?

‘In our faith, we are invulnerable.’

When Annael had heard this litany before, it had filled him with zeal, firing his blood for the battles to come. It stirred him still, to think of the Emperor and all that he sacrificed for mankind. Faced with that, Annael could do nothing less than offer his life and death for the protection of the Imperium the Emperor had built, and the countless trillions of humans who came under that auspice. Yet for all that he desired to serve, to bring honour to himself, his squadron, his company and his Chapter, Annael heard something cold and hard about Malcifer’s words. In the darkness, contemplating his death, the Dark Angel felt that his life was incomplete. No more was he satisfied by the notion of a life of battle in the Emperor’s name. He had been ready to die content, but ever since Malcifer had spoken of the Horus Heresy Annael had more questions than answers. It irritated him that he might die before he knew those unfound truths.

‘Brace for impact!’ Sammael’s words cut sharply through Annael’s mind, sweeping away all other musings. The warning sent floods of adrenaline washing through the Space Marine and he forced himself to keep calm.

‘Like a sword into their gut!’ Sabrael said with a laugh, his words edged with battle-mania.

‘Impact in five... four...’ Sergeant’s Cassiel’s countdown was delivered in a measured monotone.

‘For the Emperor!’ Zarall’s bellow drowned out the last of Cassiel’s count.

‘For the Emperor!’ Annael echoed with gritted teeth.

Retro-thrusters still burning, the boarding torpedo sped into the hull of Port Imperial. Seconds before impact fusion-flares ignited, turning the nose cone of the manned missile into a white-hot spearhead. Proximity-triggered melta-charges detonated milliseconds before impact, vaporising the first two metres of armour-plate. The fusion flares and diamond-tipped drill-shards churned through the remaining two metres while shockplates splinted and crumbled, disintegrating to dust as they absorbed the energy of impact. The metre-thick outer casing of the torpedo crumpled like foil and slewed away, secondary boosters thrusting the inner missile through the molten ruin of the star fort’s outer skin.

Annael’s eyes and ears were filled with a barrage of pressure and impetus warnings from his autosenses, a blaze of flashing icons and blaring chimes. Sitting nose to tail, the warriors of the squadron slid forwards a dozen metres, their steeds clamped onto shock-absorbent rails that glowed red-hot as ablative ceramite padding shattered and the inner braking pads gripped titanium.

Reaching the extent of their run, the bikes came to a shuddering stop and then recoiled a few metres, sliding to a halt as the torpedo settled into its self-made breach. Assault launchers mounted in the prow of the missile detonated, scattering shrapnel and white-hot filaments into the star fort’s interior, moments before the nose cone exploded outwards, showering even more shards of metal and ceramite.

Activated by the torpedo’s systems, Annael’s armour was flooded with energy once more, the joint lockdown breaking as soon as he moved to sit upright. Explosive bolts holding Black Shadow to the braking carriage beneath detonated as he revved the engine and engaged first gear. Ahead of him, Cassiel launched from the remnants of his carriage, his bike wheeling up momentarily as he roared out into the breach. Zarall was next, a second later, and then Annael gunned the engine and released the clutch to hurtle after his squadron-brothers.

The telemetric display on Black Shadow confirmed that they had breached exactly as planned, the boarding torpedo depositing them midway along a broad connecting corridor between one of the harbour spars and the central spires. The boarding torpedo had struck as a group of turncoats had been heading out from the hub, littering the immediate area around the impact with melta-blasted and shrapnel-ridden corpses. Ash and cooling droplets of metal were sprayed across the deck for nearly twenty metres, and beyond that a scene of carnage; dismembered bodies and severed limbs leaving the transitway awash with blood.

Along the far side of the access tunnel ran a narrow gauge track, bordered by metre-high ferrocrete walls. Bodies were draped over the barricade and scattered across the rails. They were dressed in a mishmash of clothes – some with plated ceramite armour, others with bulky environment suits, most in leggings, shirts and jackets. As his gaze passed over the corpses in a moment, Annael took in details: a broken autogun in the hand of one pirate, pistols stuffed into belts or held in holsters, spare magazines and energy packs carried in bandoliers and spilling from shoulder bags. The enemy were no better armed than the dissidents on Piscina.

Leaving swathes of dark rubber on the metal deck, Cassiel, Araton and Annael slewed hard to the left, heading in-station towards the inner towers. Sabrael and Zarall skidded their bikes to the right and opened fire on a group of survivors fleeing towards the sanctuary of the harbour gate. Red dots of life signals faded on the sensor screen of Black Shadow as the roar of bolters filled the tunnel.

‘Rear clear of enemy,’ announced Zarall, ‘rejoining main advance.’

The exhaust smoke of their steeds was drawn up into overhead extractors as the squadron raced hubwards, the thunder of engines reverberating from bare metal walls. Four hundred metres ahead was a blast door through which they had to pass to gain the inner towers, and a cluster of signal returns indicated that there were enemies at the portal. If they were allowed to bring down the emergency shutter, the attack would stall before it started.

Unleashing a hail of bolts from their steeds, the squadron sped towards the opening, the weight of fire intended to suppress any foe trying to reach the portal controls. Annael fired short bursts every couple of seconds, Black Shadow’s bolters tracking left and right as he passed his gaze from one side of the open blast door to the other, lighting up the darkness beyond with flickering trails and small explosions.

Ahead, Cassiel drew a chainsword, the growl of its whirring teeth lost in the noise of the bikes. The sergeant braked heavily and bounced over the lip of the entrance, hauling his bike to the right as he did so. Annael split to the left, his mount snarling as he leaned over hard, Space Marine and machine crashing sideways through the portal, bolters firing again. Caught in the blaze of fire, three pirates were torn apart where they had been crouching just ahead of Annael. Braking hard, he brought Black Shadow to a standstill, guns pointed past the dead foes down a corridor several metres wide. Behind him, the rest of the squadron came to a halt, awaiting orders from Cassiel.

‘Which way?’ asked Araton.

‘Does it matter?’ asked Sabrael. ‘Either direction will take us hubwards. Our orders are to rove at will, are they not?’

‘True,’ replied the sergeant. ‘We are to sow confusion and fear, keeping the enemy off-balance while the Grand Master and Fifth Company establish a foothold and push on in numbers. Follow me and engage at will.’

Turning his bike about, Annael joined the rear of the squadron as they moved off after Cassiel, passing into an archway-lined corridor that ran for about a hundred metres. They travelled at cruising speed, ready to respond to attack though the scanners showed no enemy readings in the vicinity. Looking left and right through the arches as he passed, Annael saw empty chambers – most likely once used for storage and ship supplies. With time now to consider his surroundings, he noticed that the station was in serious disrepair. Maintenance hatch panels had been pulled off the walls and there was a filth of oil dripping from pipes that ran along the junction of wall and ceiling to his right.

Here and there he passed anti-Imperial slogans daubed on the walls in black and red paint, interspersed with more mundane graffiti boasting personal prowess and sexual conquests. There was rust around rivets and bolt heads, and dark-blue lichen was growing out of one of the storage bays. Through the olfactory filter of his helm, Annael could smell rotting vegetable matter nearby.

‘They live like animals,’ muttered Zarall. ‘It is a wonder that they have managed to keep the station running at all.’

‘Ill-discipline shows in many ways,’ replied Cassiel. ‘It is the mind of the traitor to seek selfish ends, forgoing all other considerations. Their weakness of will makes them poor warriors.’

‘I see more than selfish sentiment in some of these slogans,’ remarked Annael. ‘There is hatred here, and though loathing of the Emperor is misguided it can bring forth stubbornness.’

‘Yet it is ultimately a hollow hatred, born out of insecurity and doubt,’ said Zarall. They came to a halt at the end of the corridor, further progress barred by a metal door. ‘Do not confuse righteous hatred with the nihilism of our foes. We hate out of love for the Emperor. They hate for nothing save hate itself.’

‘Annael, see to the door controls,’ said Cassiel.

Dismounting, Annael strode the last few metres to the portal and inspected the panel beside the door. There was a simple runepad with four buttons, two of them more marked than the others.

‘It is an elevator, probably for transport of supplies,’ he told the others, pushing the call button. Chains clanked above him as the carriage motors groaned into life. ‘Do we ascend or descend?’

‘Contact! Signals incoming.’ Sabrael’s warning sent Annael hurrying back to Black Shadow. He looked at the sensor display as he swung a leg over his steed and saw several dozen signals converging, directly above the squadron.

With a hiss of pneumatics the elevator door opened, revealing an empty car a few metres wide and ten metres long. A flickering yellow strip did little to light the grimy interior. There was another piston-driven door at the far end. The cluster of life signals was gathering around the shaft on the levels above.

‘They are lying in wait for us,’ said Araton.

‘Let us not disappoint,’ said Sabrael, gunning his bike onto the elevator without waiting for word from Cassiel.

Annael looked at his sergeant, who was studying the bike’s telemetry display carefully.

‘The next three levels are too dense to operate effectively,’ said Cassiel, moving into the elevator after Sabrael. The rest of the squadron edged their bikes into the remaining space, Araton and Zarall turning their bikes around and backing in to cover the direction from which they were entering. ‘Punch the control for four levels up.’

Annael was closest to the keypad, and he noted that the elevator served twelve floors, three below and eight above their current position. Jabbing a finger into the button for the eighth floor, he returned his attention to the scanner. There were several dozen signals, at least forty or fifty enemies waiting on the levels above.

With a clang the elevator door shut and a screech of gears accompanied the clank of chains as the conveyor started to rise. The main car was little more than a mesh cage with a solid floor, and looking up Annael could see red lights marking the floors above. He saw light spilling through a crack above and drew his pistol.

‘Enemy forcing the doors, two levels up, forward,’ he warned the others, sighting on the widening splash of light.

The elevator rose painfully slowly, creaking loudly as it passed one floor and then the next. Annael saw two figures silhouetted against the light above and opened fire, the spark of his bolts disappearing into the yellow glare. A pained shout echoed down the shaft and a pirate plummeted from the opening, slamming into the top of the cage, her right arm missing below the elbow. Blood poured down onto Sabrael, splashing across his black armour. The woman wore black coveralls tucked into heavy boots, a tattered white shirt beneath the straps.

She stared down with horror at the Space Marines, still alive. Annael’s next bolt ripped apart her chest, spraying blood and bone down into the carriage.

‘The corpse is blocking my view,’ snarled Annael, leaning over as far as he could but not able to see the open door past the mangled remains of the woman.

Enemy fire whined down the shaft, pinging and clattering from the cage and surrounding walls. A round scraped down Annael’s left arm, leaving a livid scratch through the paint on his armour. The others had drawn their pistols and those that could see – Araton and Cassiel – fired back, the bark of bolt-rounds ringing loud in the confined space. Exhaust smoke from the chugging engines of the bikes drifted up the shaft and Annael heard coughs and chokes from the pirates as they leaned out to fire down at the rising Space Marines.

Another flurry of las-beams cut through the haze, several shots hitting Araton, puffs of ceramite and paint blossoming across his armour. He coolly returned fire with his pistol, the headless body of a renegade falling onto the cage roof a moment later. Blood dripped down, joined by more sprays of crimson as autogun rounds from above hit the corpse, the impacts making the body jerk as if still alive.

When the elevator reached the floor beneath the pirates, it shuddered to a stop. There were signals in front, behind, above and below the squadron and Annael holstered his pistol, focusing on the opening door ahead. Bullets flashed into the elevator as the portal slowly cranked open.

When there was just enough room, Sabrael hit the throttle and surged out of the carriage, his bolters blazing into the enemy waiting in the chamber outside, bike slamming through their falling bodies. With just enough room to pass Cassiel and hit the gap, Annael accelerated, exiting the car a second before the sergeant could follow.

The handlebars jerked in Annael’s hands as he rode over a pile of bodies, cries of pain cut short indicating that at least two had still been alive. Wheels throwing up a spume of body parts and crimson, Black Shadow hurtled into the mass of enemies while Annael kept the trigger rune pressed, unleashing a constant hail of bolts into the broad space where the foe had lain in ambush.

Remarkably, a man beside the elevator door had been missed by both Sabrael and Annael and he hurled himself at them with a chainsword, the teeth of the weapon sparking across Annael’s backpack. Annael braked and hauled the bike sideways, using it as a weapon, the pirate disappearing beneath the rear wheel, the Dark Angel’s mount juddering as it pulped the man’s remains into the decking.

Fire from Zarall and Araton announced the opening of the other elevator door but Annael could spare no attention for his brothers. The elevator had deposited them in a warehouse-like chamber, several hundred metres square, and from gantries above and behind enemy fire descended like a storm. Cassiel whirled his bike around, the bolters at maximum elevation as he cleared a gantry above the elevator door, while Sabrael was racing to the far end of the chamber, his weapons gunning down several foes who were making a break for a stairwell up to a mezzanine floor.

Below the walkways more pirates used bulky cargo-lifters and metal-cased extractor vents as cover, poking out to snap off shots that were wide of their targets more often than they hit. Annael slewed his machine around and fired at a handful of foes skulking in the shadow of a bulk-hauler, the flash of bolts sparking from the upraised lifting blades on the front of the vehicle. Las-fire snapped back as he cruised across the warehouse, still firing, the fusillade puncturing balloon tyres and severing hydraulic hoses. Noticing a pool of fluid spreading out from beneath the engine, he directed his next salvo towards the floor, the explosive bolts igniting the leaking fuel.

A blue fireball engulfed the bulk-hauler and several pirates, who staggered from their hiding places with clothes and hair aflame. Annael ignored them, aiming his next burst of fire at the uninjured enemies scurrying for cover behind a row of cylindrical canisters; four of them were cut down before they reached safety. The surviving pair continued to run as Annael continued to sweep his fire to the left, the tyres of Black Shadow screeching as they gripped across the blood- and oil-slicked deck.

‘Maintenance access, quadrant four, high,’ he told the others, spying more enemies issuing from a metre-high crawlspace. One of them was dragging a heavy stubber into view as a companion set up a tripod for the machine-gun. Sabrael cut back along the storage hold, bolt pistol in hand, and fired up through the mesh of the walkway. His volley tore the legs from the renegade with the stubber and sent another pitching back into the bulkhead minus his left arm.

Trusting that the threat would be dealt with, Annael continued his circuit, picking up speed as he curved across the open space in the centre of the warehouse, searching the piles of crates and stacks of barrels for targets. He opened fire in brief bursts at any signature on his thermal scan, driving the pirates further back into the darkness behind the stores.

Switching his fire to full automatic, his brought his bike to a stop facing a pallet laden with metal drums. Splinters filled the air as the bolts punched through the containers, splashing blood against the wall as the rounds found their mark inside the bodies of the men behind. A man crawled into view, his face a bloody mess from a jagged sliver of steel jutting from his cheek, his right leg trailing uselessly behind him.

Opening up the throttle of Black Shadow Annael roared past, lifting his foot to connect with the wounded pirate’s head. Spine snapped, the man was flung like a rag doll across the floor.

There were only a handful of enemies left, but one of them had a final surprise for the Dark Angels. A blue plasma bolt shrieked down from overhead, smashing into the rear of Sergeant Cassiel’s steed. Molten metal, ceramite and hardened rubber sprayed into the air and the sergeant was flung from his mount as it careened past Annael, trailing sparks across the floor.

As he turned his bike to face the threat, Annael saw that Cassiel’s right leg was missing below the knee. Undeterred, the sergeant pushed himself up, drew his pistol and fired at the plasma gunner. A round hit the combustion chamber of the weapon and it detonated, enveloping the pirate in superheated gas. Skin blistering, flesh slewing away from the bone, the man toppled over the walkway rail and span crazily to the floor, his impact punctuated by another small plasma detonation.

‘Brother-sergeant?’ Zarall drew his bike to a stop beside Cassiel, shielding the sergeant from the fire of the few remaining enemies.

‘I will signal command with my position. My steed is no more, anyway. Araton, you have the lead.’ The sergeant looked down at the remnants of his leg, his augmented blood clotting the injury, the spurts of dark red slowing to a trickle. ‘It looks like I will be not riding with you for some time. Not until we return to the Rock and I can have a bionic fitted.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sabrael as he and Annael turned their bikes’ bolters on the remaining enemy. ‘You can still ride gunner in an attack bike. I will drive for you.’

‘I am obliged for the offer, brother, but if I am to be at the mercy of another’s riding, I will choose Zarall or Araton. You are too fast for my liking!’ There was a hint of a laugh in Cassiel’s voice, which was remarkable considering his condition.

The last of the opposition died when a volley from Sabrael cut him in half across the chest. The warehouse suddenly fell quiet save for the throb of idling engines, the ping of cooling metal and the clink of settling shell cases. Annael scanned around once, both with his own eyes and the sensors of his mount, but nothing save for the Dark Angels was left alive in the chamber.

‘Area clear,’ he announced. He joined the others as they gathered around Cassiel. Zarall dismounted and helped the sergeant across to the gantry stair where he was able to sit down, the metal steps sagging slightly under the Space Marine’s weight.

‘Keep pushing hubwards and then come around to sector four to meet up with the Grand Master’s advance,’ Cassiel told them. The ruined stub of his leg was now a black and brown mottled mass of coagulant and Larraman cells, the scab thick and leathery. Reloading his pistol, the sergeant gestured towards the wide warehouse doors. ‘No delays. Get moving.’

‘We will return for you, brother,’ said Sabrael, slapping a fist to the aquila on his chest as he turned his bike away. ‘Unless the Apothecaries reach you first.’

‘Concentrate on the mission, brothers. I am not the first casualty we have ever suffered.’

‘Vengeance shall be ours,’ said Zarall. ‘Every drop of blood shed by our own will be atoned for by a river from our foes.’

Annael said nothing, though he bowed his head in respect to the sergeant as he rode past, receiving a raised hand in thanks.

‘You are doing well, Annael,’ Cassiel said as Annael turned away and gunned his steed after the others. ‘A true brother of the Ravenwing.’

Annael smiled at the praise but did not reply. Ahead, Sabrael had pulled up alongside the door controls. The shutters creaked open on runners, flooding the warehouse with white light. Checking the status display of Black Shadow Annael saw that he had already used up more than forty per cent of the bike’s ammunition.

‘We will be using fists and pistols before we are done,’ he said as the squadron rolled out through the opening doors.

‘We shall smite the enemy, brother,’ replied Zarall. ‘Any way that we can.’

The last thing Annael heard before exiting the chamber was Cassiel signalling the Grand Master, reporting the squadron’s ongoing commitment to the completion of the mission.

THE UNWORTHY

‘Understood, brother. Remain in position. There is a squadron within two kilometres of your location, await their arrival.’ Sammael cut the link with Sergeant Cassiel and turned to Brother Gideon, the Apothecary. ‘Join with Sergeant Charael and his Black Knights. They will perform escort for you. Of the casualties, which is your priority?’

‘Brother Gabrael needs my attention swiftly,’ replied the Apothecary. ‘The others are stable as far as I can judge by the reports.’

‘Very well.’ Sammael brought up a schematic created from the close-range scans of the strike cruiser as the Dark Angels had launched their attack. It showed the broad layout of Port Imperial, though much of the display was filled with static where the sensors had been blocked by the density of the station’s structure. Telemetric feedback from the advanced squadrons was being transmitted to the Implacable Justice and the digital chart was being regularly updated. ‘Tell Charael you can cut through a maintenance hangar grid-north-west of here. That should take you to Gabrael and his squadron with least delay.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Gideon. The Apothecary turned his bike around and headed back towards the docking spar where the majority of the Ravenwing had inserted aboard their gunships.

As soon as Gideon was gone, Sammael turned his attention to Malcifer. The two of them sat astride their mounts, the remainder of the command squad around them. At the far end of the passageway bolter fire resounded from plastered walls as squads from the Fifth Company extended their perimeter. Sammael motioned for the squadron to move, accelerating softly towards the open blast doors leading to the closest of the hub towers. ‘Three brothers’ dead, another five incapacitated. However, the breaches have been made and the landing secured.’

‘You mean to press on immediately?’ the Chaplain asked.

‘Not too swiftly, we must maintain contact with the Fifth Company,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘I have four bike squadrons on roving patrols along the transitways circling the hub spire, and Land Speeders moving in from grid-north to cut off any counter-attack on the main breach. Latest report from Pichon indicates the pirates are split into three groups, with the majority in the central spire. We will eliminate the outlying pockets of resistance first.’

‘We have attained our position through speed and precision, brother, are you sure you wish to risk the attack losing impetus? If the enemy are given time to secure their positions, the fight will be all the more difficult.’

‘Unless their leader is foolishly arrogant, provision will have been made to defend the station against attack. Scanner reports on the enemy movements convince me that they are falling back to prepared positions. The two outlying groups have had their line of retreat severed but they must be dealt with if we are to secure our flanks for the thrust to the inner spire. We need the Fifth Company to provide that security.’

‘Very well, brother. I do not seek to dissent from your plan, but it is imperative that we secure the enemy commanders as soon as we are able. Every minute risks them escaping the station.’

‘Have no fear on that account.’ The squadron slowed to negotiate the opening at the end of the passage, passing two abreast onto a skybridge that arched across the base towards the upper levels of one of the hub spires. ‘Defensive batteries have been silenced and both strike cruisers are moving into range for close sensor sweeps. I have fighters on standby to intercept any craft that attempt to leave Port Imperial.’

‘Then we have nothing to fear,’ said Malcifer as the group accelerated once more, passing underneath a thick armourglass canopy held up with plasteel arches. Through the transparent panes Sammael glimpsed flares of blue as a pair of fighters swept overhead. The squadron reached the crest of the bridge and began their descent, the arching tunnel reverberating with the noise of their steeds’ engines. ‘Our prey will be trapped.’

‘If they are here...’

Sammael’s confidence that the Fallen were aboard Port Imperial was waning fast. Regardless of their loyalties, the Fallen were Space Marines and the poor discipline and shocking lack of maintenance evidenced by the renegades made the Grand Master doubt that their leaders were at all competent. It had been a slim chance, he recognised, but the likelihood was that the Fallen had long quit Port Imperial and left their followers to fend for themselves. It was not in Sammael’s mind to give voice to this pessimism, if only so that he could maintain a small nugget of hope himself. If he spoke his doubts they would be confirmed in his mind, and he did not desire to give up the hunt just yet.

‘We need to secure prisoners,’ Harahel announced. ‘If we can take some of the enemy alive we may learn more concerning their leaders.’

‘A sensible plan,’ said Malcifer, ‘though I would not burden our brothers with the task when we are suitably placed to perform it ourselves.’

‘So be it,’ said Sammael. Knowing that Athelman and Daedis could hear everything that passed between the Grand Master and Chaplain, he addressed the two Black Knights following a short distance behind their superiors. ‘Take no risks, but if we can take some of the enemy alive for interrogation, it will be for the better.’

‘As you command,’ the honour guards replied in unison.

‘It may not be simple,’ said Daedis, a hint of humour in his voice. ‘These pirates die very easily. Bolters and bikes are not the ideal weapons for taking prisoners.’

‘Do what you can,’ said Sammael. ‘I am sure you can improvise a solution.’

The squadron fell silent as they reached the far end of the bridgeway. Sammael slowed Corvex, suspicious that the emergency doors had not been sealed. He had been expecting to use the plasma cannon on his jetbike to blast through, but the doorway stood open like a dark cavern beyond the lights of the bridge. Looking at his bike’s scanner, the Grand Master saw a mass of returns, but nothing conclusive; the signal was blurred by converging power conduits. Switching to thermal scan did little to clarify the image and his armour’s autosenses did not detect anything waiting in the darkness.

‘Prepare yourselves for close assault,’ he told the others, drawing his power sword. Malcifer held up his crozius and Harahel his force axe, while Athelman and Daedis signalled their readiness with their corvus hammers. ‘Combat speed!’

The squadron accelerated along the last hundred metres of bridge, the lights of their bikes glaring bright into the opening ahead. As the beams glinted upon metal, Sammael heaved his bike to the right out of instinct, a moment before a pulse of plasma spat from the opening. The flash of las-fire erupted along the bridge as the enemy launched their ambush, catching Malcifer in a storm of energy blasts. The Chaplain’s rosarius blazed into life, enveloping Malcifer in a shining aura of red as the field within the ancient device converted the incoming fire into light. Arcane technology also protected Sammael from the worst of the volley; the night halo fixed upon the gorget of his armour encasing rider and machine in a forcefield that glimmered with small forks of black lightning where the las-bolts struck. Those blasts not deflected by the night halo scored marks across the Grand Master’s armour but lacked strength to melt or crack the plates of ceramite that protected him and Corvex.

In the gleam of the bike’s lamps, Sammael saw the walls of the chamber ahead lined with enemy, skulking behind buttresses and pillars. The room seemed to be some kind of junction chamber, spreading out from the bridge to join with rampways, stairwells and conveyors to the left and right.

‘Douse lamps!’ he commanded, realising that the squadron were making themselves easy targets as they plunged into the lightless hall. His autosenses compensating as the lights on Corvex faded, Sammael slid his mount to the right, swinging his sword low to cut through the arms and stomach of the nearest enemy. Around him the other riders obeyed his command instantly, shrouding the squadron in shadow.

The black-clad Ravenwing were not entirely invisible, their polished armour gleaming in the light of criss-crossing las-beams and plasma stars, their weapons giving off the glow of power fields in the blackness. Steering close to the right-hand wall, Sammael plunged his blade into the chest of a woman armed with a chainsword and pistol, her face a screaming mask for a moment in the haze of the sword. She disappeared as Sammael swept on, ripping the sword free to slash the leg from a man who had turned to run, cleaving his thigh with one blow.

The crack of discharging energy punctuated the blows of the corvus hammers wielded by Athelman and Daedis, breaking the darkness with flashes of white, their victims falling to the floor with arcs of the same energy coruscating across their bodies. Harahel’s force axe left a glittering trail of psychic sparks as he swept in wide arcs, severing limbs and heads to his left and right.

Another plasma shot screamed into Malcifer but his conversion field took the brunt of the blast, the Chaplain momentarily disappearing in the heart of a nova of white light. Scattered autogun rounds snapped and rasped around Sammael as the pirates tried to track his arcing progress across the hall, the bullets whining wide of their mark, defeated by the speed of the Grand Master’s attack. The storm bolters of Corvex snarled into life at his touch, sending a hail of fire cutting through a group of foes clustered behind an archway leading off from the foyer on the right. Killing his speed and turning sharply to the left, Sammael spun his steed to face a stairwell opposite the bridge entrance, from which a fierce fusillade was emerging.

With a slow whine, the magnetic accelerators of Corvex’s plasma cannon charged, funnelling energy from the machine’s miniature reactor. With a high-pitched shriek and a crack of super-expanding air the plasma bolt sped from the ejector muzzle beneath the front fairing, filling the chamber with flickering blue and purple light for a moment. Hitting the stairwell, its containment field disintegrating, the plasma charge exploded, engulfing everybody on the first flight of steps in a ravening corona of heat and electrical discharge. Those whose bodies were not vaporised immediately fell screaming down the steps, flesh burned to the bone, nerves and blood vessels shredded by the energy unleashed.

One of the enemy fighters came to the conclusion that the dark served the Space Marines better than the ambushers and a switch was thrown. Lumen strips hanging from the ceiling crackled into life, bathing the chamber in a yellow glare. In a moment Sammael’s autosenses had adjusted, dimming the view so that the Grand Master was not blinded.

Able to better see their enemies, the pirates let forth another hail of firepower, the weight of the attack falling upon Malcifer as his bike’s bolters roared forth a volley into a group of foes sheltering behind a rusted vat. Adelman fired his bike’s mounted grenade launchers, the frag devices sending shrapnel scything along a walkway to the left. Harahel’s axe spat lightning as he swept it towards the pirates, forks of psychic energy arcing across the warehouse to earth through the bodies of half a dozen foes. There were at least two dozen dead and the same again still fighting. Despite the pandemonium of combat, Sammael remembered his instruction from a few moments earlier.

‘Prisoners if you can,’ he reminded the others, cutting off the plasma cannon recharge and powering down his bike’s storm bolter ammunition feed. He sheathed the Raven Sword and sped forwards, heading directly into a stream of las-fire coming from three men sheltering behind an overturned metal cabinet. Las-bolts flared from the night halo field around him and skimmed across his armour, but he did not waver from his course. The toppled furniture was less than a metre high, easily cleared by Corvex as the Grand Master ploughed directly into the enemy using the sloped prow of the jetbike as a ram.

The trio of pirates were thrown to the ground by the impact, rolling over and over until they came to a stop lying awkwardly. From the way he lay at an unnatural angle, one of the men had his back broken, but the other two were still alive, though they could barely move. Bringing Corvex low, Sammael leaned over and grabbed one of the men by the throat, squeezing just hard and long enough to render the man unconscious. He let the pirate flop back to the floor. The other was trying to crawl away, fractured arm cradled underneath him. A boot to the back of his head served the same purpose as the choke hold.

Hearing the whine of a power cell behind him, Sammael turned in the saddle in time to see a young pirate, no more than fifteen or sixteen Terran years old, crouched behind a pile of rotting pallets. He held a laspistol in trembling hands, eyes wide with fear, face soaked with sweat that darkened the white bandana tied across his head.

‘Murderer!’ snarled the youth, opening fire as Sammael pulled free his bolt pistol.

The las-shot crackled harmlessly from the Grand Master’s protective field. Sammael fired a single bolt in return, cracking open the youth’s head from within. He watched without feeling as the headless body toppled against the pallets, blood seeping into the wood.

The junction chamber had fallen quiet save for the moans of the renegades incapacitated by the Dark Angels. A quick visual sweep confirmed to Sammael that the rest of the enemy were dead, though the scanner showed more foes massing a few hundred metres beyond the hall’s main doors.

‘Athelman, Daedis – overwatch.’ The two Black Knights moved to cover the closed doors while Sammael, Malcifer and Harahel gathered together the prisoners; six remained alive although three were unconscious. The others struggled feebly as they were dragged to the centre of the chamber and deposited roughly on the metal deck. Ringed by the trio of Space Marines on their steeds, the captives were defiant, glaring sullenly at their captors.

‘We require information,’ Sammael told them as he dismounted, leaving Corvex hovering just above the floor. Malcifer and Harahel followed, looming over the pirates with weapons bared.

‘We’ll tell you nothing, Imperial scum!’ snarled the oldest of the group, grey in his shaggy black beard and hair. He wore baggy worker’s trousers and a padded tunic, nursing his left wrist, which was clearly broken. ‘We are ready to die for the Divine.’

‘Your deaths are not in dispute,’ said Malcifer, grabbing the man’s injured hand and twisting, eliciting a yelp of pain. ‘Your lives were forfeit the moment you took arms against the servants of the Emperor. Only the manner of your demise remains to be determined.’

‘Torture?’ This came from one of the others, his face bloodied from a cut above his eye, swelling with bruising where he had been punched by one of the Dark Angels. ‘How like the attack dogs of the Emperor to be so cowardly.’

Malcifer released his grip and crouched in front of the pirate that had spoken. The man’s face reflected in the glassy lenses of the Chaplain’s skull helm, sneering through his fear.

‘I can coax a confession from Space Marines.’ Malcifer’s voice, edged with the metallic tone of his external augmitters, was a barely-heard whisper full of menace. ‘Warriors that can survive injuries and withstand pain that would kill a man such as yourself. Harbour no illusion that you will remain silent against my attentions.’

The man swallowed hard, his sneer replaced by a nervous glance towards the other two. He clamped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes, refusing to say anything further. Malcifer nodded in acknowledgement of the man’s defiance and turned his stare upon the third conscious prisoner. He was the youngest, face marked with the boils and spots of adolescence, his red hair long and lank across his face.

‘And what of you?’ asked the Chaplain, deactivating his crozius and hanging it on his belt. ‘Do you choose excruciation over swift mercy?’

The youth spat at Malcifer, the gobbet of saliva landing on the brow of the Chaplain’s helm. Malcifer did not react immediately, but stood up and turned to Harahel. When he spoke, it was in conversational tone.

‘The old one is weakest, he will not last long. When the others see what is in store for them, they will see the error of their decision.’

Harahel nodded and grabbed the oldest pirate by his jerkin, pulling him to his feet with one arm. The gleam of the psyker’s force axe shone blue on the man’s pale skin as Harahel held its blade close to his throat, the brightness forcing the man to blink rapidly.

‘Watch,’ Malcifer told the other two as Harahel laid his hand on the scalp of the pirate. Dark sparks glittered along the cabling of the psychic hood surrounding the Epistolary’s helm and the renegade jerked, baring his teeth in pain, growling profanities through gritted teeth. The Librarian’s eye lenses grew bright, lit from behind by small stars of red that fixed the stare of the prisoner.

‘Speak,’ said Harahel. Scarlet witchlight crackled from his fingers and the man thrashed against the Librarian’s grip but was unable to break free. ‘Tell us everything.’

While the attention of the pirates was fixed upon the psyker, Sammael stepped behind the youth and crouched down to lay a hand upon his shoulder. The captive flinched as if struck.

‘My companions speak truth,’ the Grand Master said softly, keeping check the anger he felt at being defied. The young man had clearly been born and raised on Port Imperial, and Sammael tried to find some empathy with the youth. The young pirate knew no better than what he had been taught, fed lies since he was born. It did not absolve him of his guilt, but thinking of this made it easier for Sammael to sound conciliatory, keeping his ire from his voice. ‘You have been damned by your parents, but we can cleanse your soul with confession. You do not have to suffer the same fate as your friend.’

‘The gnawing! Make it stop!’ the older man shrieked as Harahel exerted his power once more. ‘The rats, they burrow deep. They chew on my lungs, feast on my guts!’

‘What nightmares keep you awake, young man?’ Sammael asked as the youth started shaking, eyes moving to the tormented pirate. ‘What darkness will my Librarian find in the depths of your soul?’

The third prisoner leapt to his feet, seeking to drag his comrade free from Harahel’s grasp. Malcifer was quicker, his elbow smashing into the man’s already injured face, pitching him to the deck. Like a pouncing beast, the Chaplain fell to all fours over the man, one hand held against his chest. The pirate squirmed as Malcifer applied more pressure, the plastek breastplate protecting the man’s chest bending inwards, cracking under the Chaplain’s exertion.

‘Who are the Divine?’ whispered Sammael. ‘Tell me about them and you will know peace.’

‘I cannot, I swore,’ the youth said. He started to babble, speaking names, talking about a promise made, though to whom he did not say. The young man scrabbled backwards across the deck, away from the Dark Angels, until he came upon a corpse, the chest of the woman ripped out from within by several bolt-rounds. He gave a quiet moan. ‘Oh, come save me. Save me from these monsters!’

‘Who do you call to, boy?’ Sammael demanded, stalking towards the youth. The captive shook his head and kept repeating the call to an unnamed saviour. Sammael grabbed the youth’s arm and with a simple twist dislocated the elbow, causing him to scream. The Grand Master’s voice became harsh as he poured forth his scorn, every word filled with his contempt. ‘They cannot save you, not from us. We are the Dark Angels, the First, Sons of the Lion. You belong to us now.’

‘He will come, he will come for me,’ gibbered the youth as Sammael released his hold.

‘Tell them nothing!’ bellowed the man pinned down by Malcifer. His next shout was cut short as the Chaplain leaned forwards, the breastplate buckling further, pushing the breath from the pirate’s body.

‘Tell me your name, young man.’ Sammael reverted to his soft approach. The youth shook his head. ‘Surely you can tell me your name?’

‘I will say nothing,’ the young pirate replied quietly, tears rolling down his cheeks.

‘That is not true,’ Sammael said, snatching hold of the youth’s injured arm. He did not even have to exert a fraction of his strength to set the pirate to howling again. Sammael released his hold and glanced over at Harahel, realising that the old man had fallen silent. He appeared catatonic in the Librarian’s grip, eyes glazed, mouth slack.

‘There is little of use in his mind,’ Harahel said, letting the inert figure fall to the floor. ‘Names of family and companions. They call themselves the Divine.’

‘We are not Divine,’ yelped the boy, the Librarian’s assertion filling him with dread equal to that he had shown to the Dark Angels. ‘We are the Unworthy. The Divine will come for us, you will see.’

‘They will not,’ said Sammael. Terms like ‘Divine’ and ‘Unworthy’ did not sound like they were dealing with simple pirates. Suspicion crept into the Grand Master’s thoughts, as yet formless. ‘They have abandoned you.’

The words struck home, puncturing the last vestiges of defiance. The youth sagged to his knees, sobbing.

‘Say nothing! They lie! They always lie!’ The renegade under Malcifer gasped the words and weakly battered at the Chaplain’s armour. ‘Tell the bastards noth–’

With a loud crack, the turncoat’s breastplate and sternum gave way, Malcifer’s hand thrusting into the man’s chest. Blood surged up the Chaplain’s arm and spilled across the deck as his gauntleted fingers ripped out the pirate’s heart.

‘What is your name?’ Malcifer rasped, standing up, the bloody organ in his fist. Harahel stepped up beside the Chaplain and raised a hand, tiny flickers of energy passing between his splayed fingers.

‘Verekil,’ the youth whispered, chin sagging to his chest. ‘I am Verekil.’

‘Good.’ Sammael lowered to one knee beside him. ‘That was not so hard, was it? There need not be further pain. Tell us what we wish to know and your torment will end.’

Verekil nodded, eyes averted from the Dark Angels.

‘How many ships do you have?’ Sammael asked. He avoided the matter of the Divine and the Unworthy for the moment, allowing the youth to think about more mundane things. ‘How many starships?’

‘Four,’ said Verekil. Sammael heard a growl of annoyance from Malcifer and knew what was passing through the Chaplain’s thoughts: only three ships had been encountered so far.

‘Good. Thank you.’ Sammael reached out and, as gently as was possible, took hold of Verekil’s injured arm. ‘This will hurt, but not so much as it does now.’

He twisted the elbow back into place, a spat curse coming from Verekil as he pulled away from the Grand Master. The youth rubbed his arm vigorously, shaking his head.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘I don’t know, five hundred maybe. Five hundred of the Unworthy.’

‘And how many Divine?’ Sammael asked with an encouraging nod. Verekil looked fearful again and the Grand Master thought for a moment that he would refuse to answer. ‘Tell me, Verekil, how many Divine are on the station.’

‘Most of them,’ the youth answered. His expression was fearful that his ignorance would see him hurt again. ‘Two hundred? I have never seen them.’

Fortunately Sammael’s helm masked a moment of confusion. Perplexed, he mastered himself and continued.

‘How can you fight alongside them and not know who they are?’

‘They fight with the Overlord,’ explained Verekil. ‘On board the Scar.’

‘And you are not on the crew of the Scar?’ said Sammael, ignoring for the moment the mention of the Overlord.

‘No! Only the Divine serve aboard the Scar. We are Unworthy.’

‘And what else separates the Divine from the Unworthy?’

‘They have ascended to the spire, where the Unworthy cannot go. The Overlord has chosen them from amongst the Unworthy and elevated them to Divinity.’

‘Pseudo-religious nonsense,’ Malcifer said over the vox, unheard by Verekil. ‘This Overlord clearly maintains control through the deception that he can access a higher power.’

‘Can we be sure it is nonsense?’ asked Harahel, his voice heavy.

‘There is no cause to jump to conclusions,’ Sammael told them both, though the suspicion he had felt earlier returned. It was not unheard-of for demagogic leaders to affect godly influence, but the Grand Master was cautious to dismiss the claims of the Overlord without further investigation.

‘Have you seen the Overlord?’ he asked Verekil.

The youth’s eyes lit up and he was suddenly animated.

‘Oh yes, I have seen him four times! That’s more than most of the Unworthy. He is a giant, like you, filled with the grace of the Divine. He speaks with the voice of the Divine and his words carry truth and wisdom. From him we learnt...’

‘Learnt what?’ demanded Sammael as the youth’s voice died away. ‘What did the Overlord teach you?’

‘It is forbidden to speak of such things,’ said Verekil. His expression hardened and Sammael realised that loyalty to the Overlord, or perhaps a greater fear, had suddenly bolstered the pirate’s courage. The Grand Master saw determination returning as Verekil set his jaw and turned away his gaze. It was time to move away from the subject of the Overlord.

‘What defences protect the spire?’ asked Sammael. ‘What weapons do the Divine possess?’

‘Jagrain was right, I have said too much,’ replied Verekil.

‘It is not too late to save yourself from damnation,’ the Grand Master said quietly.

‘There is no damnation, and there’s no salvation neither,’ Verekil whispered. ‘Only oblivion.’

Sensing that he was losing control, Sammael glanced at Malcifer.

‘You are the dedicated interrogator, brother,’ he said to the Chaplain over the comm. ‘You need to continue.’

Malcifer walked over to join the pair, the heart of Jagrain still in his fist. He let the organ flop from his fingers to the deck beside Verekil, flicking droplets of blood from the fingers of his gauntlet. Crimson spattered the young pirate, causing him to flinch.

‘You will know pain, Verekil. Far greater pain than your companions endured. And you will speak to us. If only oblivion awaits then there is nothing to protect, no higher power to serve.’ The Chaplain spoke coldly, his tone matter-of-fact. ‘All that matters occurs in this world and you can save yourself needless agony.’

Verekil shook his head, hands forming fists in his defiance.

‘Even if you do not speak, we will learn what we wish from the others,’ said Malcifer, waving a hand towards the unconscious prisoners. ‘You sacrifice your wellbeing for nothing.’

Still Verekil refused to speak, head bowed. Malcifer looked at Sammael and spoke over the comm.

‘I can extract more information if you wish, brother, but it will take time.’

Sammael read the meaning behind Malcifer’s words; a lengthy interrogation gave the enemy further time to prepare and could render worthless any intelligence gained. The Grand Master studied the youth for a moment, trying to gauge what the pirate knew.

‘I do not believe he can furnish us with the information we desire,’ said Sammael. ‘He is just a low peon within the group.’

‘The others?’ Malcifer turned towards the unconscious men and women. ‘I do not expect any swift success. The application of a higher authority has made their loyalty unthinking.’

‘Then we must move on with what we know,’ said Sammael. He drew his sword. Though Verekil could see nothing of the Grand Master’s expression and had not heard his words, the pirate read correctly Sammael’s intent and began to back away.

‘Save ammunition,’ said Sammael, pointing his blade towards the others. He returned his attention to Verekil. ‘Be thankful that your ignorance shields you. Your death will be swift.’

Verekil opened his mouth to cry out but Sammael struck fast, lopping off the youth’s head with one blow, the edges of the Raven Sword crackling with power as blood fizzed and spat along the blade. Harahel and Malcifer despatched the other survivors without hesitation and the three of them returned to their steeds.

Checking the scanner, Sammael saw that the sensor returns had strengthened. A sizeable number of foes – more of the Unworthy, most likely – were protecting the approaches to the main spire. It was time to bring in additional forces.

‘Ravenwing. Brothers of the Fifth Company. Attend to orders,’ announced the Grand Master. ‘Prepare for the main attack.’

‘The Overlord, do you think he is still here?’ asked Harahel as they joined the two Black Knights by the doors.

‘The boy’s testimony gives us no clue,’ replied Sammael. ‘Yet his description of the Overlord makes me more confident that one of the Fallen is indeed in command here.’

‘We must ascertain whether one of the ships we have crippled is the Scar,’ said Malcifer. ‘If one of them is the Overlord’s flagship there is still hope.’

‘I sense that the Unworthy will not be easily forthcoming with such knowledge,’ said Harahel.

‘I agree,’ said Sammael. ‘We must proceed carefully until we understand the full capabilities of the Divine. It is from them that we will learn the truth.’

‘The truth?’ Malcifer laughed. ‘No, not the truth, brother. Yet we may unravel more of the lies that have been wrapped around these people.’

‘There can be only lies when there is truth to hide,’ argued Sammael. ‘When we tear down the falsehoods erected by the Overlord, the truth will be revealed. And it is a weapon greater than any other.’

While he said these words, Sammael had a darker thought that he did not share. The truth was indeed a powerful weapon, and that was why the Dark Angels had such cause to fear it in the hands of others.

HOLDING THE LINE

There were three main routes of ingress towards the chamber where Cassiel guarded the elevator shaft. Araton swiftly divided the squadron to cover each approach, protecting the wounded sergeant until Brother Gideon and his escort arrived. For the moment, the pirates had pulled back from their attacks and appeared to be waiting for the Ravenwing to advance further.

Annael found himself with Sabrael on the platform of a rail transit station, positioned to cover both directions where the line disappeared into unlit tunnels. The platform was not high, only a metre above the line, and devoid of cover. There were small holes in the ferrocrete, left where furnishings or other fittings had been removed and the rail was littered with debris – broken ferrocrete, tattered rags and scatters of broken bolts and tools.

Ferrocrete ceiling blocks had fallen out and broken on the rails and platform, exposing the reinforcing girders within. There was rust on the metal, a lot of rust, and Annael was not certain of the chamber’s structural integrity. Half-columns lined the walls on either side of the tunnel entrances but they appeared more decorative than functional, the plaster heavily cracked, exposing crumbling ferrocrete beneath.

On the wall opposite the pair of tracks were wooden frames, fragments of paper still fixed within, though what had been on the posters was now lost. The light fittings set at regular intervals on the curved ceiling were in poor repair, only a few of them giving out a fitful, flickering blue light. Now and then the power would fail, plunging the station into darkness for a few seconds before returning to cast jittering shadows from the immobile Space Marines.

‘The Unworthy?’ said Sabrael, referring to the term Grand Master Sammael had used for the enemy in his last broadcast. ‘What twisted minds would cling to such a title?’

‘It is fitting,’ replied Annael. ‘They have turned from the light of the Emperor. That makes them Unworthy of any mercy or consideration.’

‘I do not think it is in reference to their rebellion, brother. Unworthy hints at aspiration unfulfilled, and one does not aspire to a position voluntarily forsaken. Our enemies consider themselves unworthy of something else.’

‘Does it matter, brother?’ Annael was content to wait in silence for the enemy or fresh orders, whichever came first, and found his squadron-brother’s chatter a distraction. Even by voicing his ambivalence Annael realised he was playing into Sabrael’s desire for attention.

‘The motivations of the enemy are always worthy of consideration,’ said Sabrael, his tone conversational though his words were an attempt to sound erudite. ‘It speaks to their mindset and allows us to understand their tactics and capabilities. If we cannot comprehend why it is that our foes fight, what chance have we of knowing the means they will employ? Does their self-perceived unworthiness make them better or worse fighters? Do they hope to attain worthiness in battle?’

‘Is that not our goal?’ asked Annael, despite himself. There was some truth to Sabrael’s opinion, though it was more a quest to discover understanding of himself than the foe that had occupied Annael’s thoughts since Piscina. ‘Glory and honour are the means by which we judge ourselves, brother. Without them, do we not consider ourselves also unworthy of our place amongst the Chapter?’

‘You cannot compare the two,’ Sabrael answered quickly, offended by the question. ‘We have already been deemed worthy by those who brought us into the Chapter. Each of us is an anointed warrior of the Emperor, and that brings with it a certain amount of honour that cannot be removed. Our foes, scabrous and vile as they are, cannot measure themselves by the same standard. If they judge themselves against us, they will always be the Unworthy no matter their courage or efforts.’

Something about Sabrael’s conclusion did not sit right with Annael. He considered the desperate rebels that had attacked the Dark Angels on Piscina. They were hopelessly outclassed and outgunned by the Space Marines, and the chances of achieving any meaningful victory were virtually nil. Had the Dark Angels force remained on the world the insurrection would have been put down swiftly, without any meaningful objective achieved on the part of the rebels. It seemed as senseless to Annael as the resistance of the pirates, yet there was something about the human soul that could not accept inevitability. To a Space Marine, to fight without clear purpose, even if devoid of the opportunity for ultimate victory, was as alien as surrender.

‘If we are paragons of worth, as you say, then might our foes see worth in defeating us? We take no glory in killing lesser foes, so it must be the case that there is glory in killing a greater foe for our enemies. Our very presence gives purpose and meaning to our enemies. To kill a Space Marine, for those who have turned from the guidance of the Emperor, must be a goal in itself and one that brings worth.’

‘Your philosophy is flawed, brother,’ said Sabrael after a short while. ‘We do not seek out the toughest enemies for the simple sake of proving our worth, nor do we shirk from slaying those who cannot match us simply because we can. We kill our enemies as part of a higher purpose, whether individually they are lesser or greater than ourselves. The Chapter and the Emperor are the higher purpose that drives us. Which brings more glory to the Chapter, to slay one greater foe or a hundred lesser foes?’

‘I see your point, brother. We do not ascribe arbitrary value to individuals, but create it from the wider context of our purpose. A host of tough enemies may be slain and yet victory not achieved, whilst the death of a single less powerful individual may prove the victorious moment.’

‘Then we are in agreement,’ Sabrael said, his tone light-hearted. ‘Our enemies do not gain worth simply by slaying a Space Marine, unless that death is informed by some greater purpose. In the case of these renegades, the purpose is survival. The selfish drive to live for the sake of living is all that sends this rabble into battle. They know that if they do not fight then they are dead.’

While he spoke, Annael monitored the sensor readings on Black Shadow’s display. They showed a strengthening return several hundred metres down the tunnel to Annael’s left, towards the hub of the star fort. A smaller group was approaching from the right, moving slowly up the rail line on foot.

‘Our philosophical discussion must wait,’ he told Sabrael.

‘Theory must give way to practice,’ replied the other Space Marine. ‘We are confronted by two groups, both of which pose a threat to the mission. One is larger but further away. Even as you analyse the tactical situation you are ascribing value to the individuals signified by the returns on your augur array.’

‘This is not the time, brother,’ said Annael, annoyed that Sabrael seemed intent on continuing the conversation despite the approach of enemies. ‘We must focus on the mission.’

‘Yes we must, brother.’ Sabrael’s voice moved from Annael’s external pick-up to the vox-feed in his ear. ‘Request permission to pre-empt attack. It is better to strike now than face assault from two directions.’

‘Denied,’ replied Araton, without hesitation. ‘Remain in position.’

‘Brother, further assessment reinforces my opinion that a pre-emptive attack is the best course of action in the current situation.’ Sabrael’s voice switched back to the external speakers as he addressed Annael. ‘Araton’s bloody-mindedness alters the context. There is no time to delay. If we strike now, we can eliminate the threat and return in time to counter the next attack.’

‘I disagree with Brother Sabrael’s assessment,’ Annael said over the vox so that the others could hear. ‘We have sufficient firepower to drive back a two-pronged attack.’

‘Foolishness!’ snapped Sabrael. His bike let loose a plume of exhaust as he powered up the engine and set off along the platform. ‘The enemy can keep us stuck here without launching an attack, we must seize the initiative.’

‘Sabrael, you are to remain in position!’ barked Araton, but his words were ignored. Sabrael steered his bike off the side of the platform onto the rails, the thud of his machine’s landing echoing along the station.

‘Mobility and speed are our weapons, brother,’ Sabrael argued as he rode into the tunnel. ‘Do not surrender them lightly.’

Annael cursed Sabrael as the gleam from his armour receded down the tunnel and then disappeared. He did not like the idea of abandoning the position he had been given to guard, but was equally vexed by the thought of leaving Sabrael to attack alone. In the end, his hesitation made the decision for him – any benefit of Sabrael’s counter-attack would be lost if Annael followed now. All he could do was protect the station and await his battle-brother’s return.

Whether the enemy realised what had happened or not, the signal return from the tunnel ahead of Annael started to approach more swiftly. His audio pick-ups detected echoes from the incoming pirates; the scuff of footfalls and whispered voices. The noise grew swiftly louder, as the conversation fell silent and the sound of slapping feet quickened.

Annael opened fire into the darkness of the tunnel before he saw any visible target. From his position he could cover the first twenty-five metres or so and a scream announced that his speculative salvo had met a target. Something small and round flew out of the tunnel mouth and rattled across the rails for several seconds. It detonated with a loud bang and white flash, but the stun grenade was useless against Annael’s autosenses, which had instantly dampened the audio and visual input from his armour to protect his ears and eyes. So it was that when a wave of warriors sprinted into view, rather than coming upon a disorientated foe they ran straight into a sustained volley of fire from Black Shadow’s twin bolters.

The hail of bolts cut a gouge into the press of men and women pouring from the tunnel. The Unworthy seemed heedless of the carnage as they scrambled and leapt over the fallen, blasting wildly with autoguns and laspistols, their shouts ringing from the curved walls and roof of the chamber. Ten of them had already fallen, but twice that number followed on, seeking the shelter of the platform lip.

One thumb pressing the firing stud again, raking fire moving left and right with his roaming gaze, Annael pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt and armed it. With a measured throw, he tossed it toward the end of the platform. The grenade bounced once and then fell from sight onto the tracks. Like a flock of birds set to flight by the attack of a hunter, the pirates dashed in all directions to avoid the grenade. The thunderous blast reverberated down both tunnels, the clouds of fire and shrapnel catching the four slowest, turning them to ragged corpses.

Annael glanced at the sensor screen and could see from Sabrael’s transponder location that the battle-brother had engaged the enemy to the right, though over the din of his own firing he could hear nothing from the far tunnel. More grenades bounced and rolled across the platform, surrounding Annael with flashes and bangs and smoke, but he continued to fire, pulling free his pistol to add to the hail of bolts screaming from his steed.

The unthinking desperation with which the Unworthy hurled themselves up the steps at the end of the platform and clambered from the rails gave Annael cause for concern. There were still two dozen and more piling out of the tunnel and he could not hope to bring them all down before they reached the passageway at his back. Had Sabrael remained at his post, the two of them could have withdrawn into the corridor and gunned down any foe reaching the entrance, but now Annael was caught between guarding the rear of Sabrael and the flank of the rest of the squadron. If he pulled back, he could not prevent the pirates continuing along the station to come at Sabrael from behind, but if he remained where he was there were so many foes some would inevitably pass by him if they wished, breaking the perimeter he was meant to protect.

‘Sabrael, report progress,’ he growled, firing a bolt into the face of a man who had snuck along the tracks and was pulling himself up to the platform. He fell back, half of his head missing.

‘Three more to go, brother,’ Sabrael replied. ‘They ran away, the cowards. Returning to position in thirty seconds.’

‘Return to position immediately. It is a diversionary attack to draw you away,’ said Annael. Two more bursts of fire littered the platform ahead with blood, bodies and limbs. ‘I need you here!’

The Unworthy appeared crazed, with wide eyes and wordless shouts as they charged along the platform. Realising that he would be overwhelmed, his options diminishing quickly, Annael decided that Sabrael had been correct about surrendering the initiative. Sitting where he was would not stop the renegades.

He revved hard and let loose Black Shadow, roaring into the foe like a black-armoured missile. Controlling the bike one-handed, firing his pistol in the other, he slammed through the enemy, breaking legs and shattering ribs. Black Shadow bucked and slid as a body passed under the front wheel and Annael accelerated, clearing the press of bodies. Braking, he skidded to a stop before the steps at the end of the platform. There were still more pirates coming out of the darkness but he had no time to worry about them – those already in the station were converging on him from behind. Evidently they were intent upon him, with no thought of breaking towards the rest of the squadron.

Tactically it made no sense, but that was to be expected. Sabrael’s conclusion had been accurate. The Unworthy had no greater purpose or plan, they were simply seeking to kill as many of the Dark Angels as they could.

His bolt pistol emptied, he holstered the weapon and raced forwards again, taking the handlebars in both hands as he opened fire with the mounted bolters again. A woman bounced across the front faring, her screeching face passing within centimetres of Annael’s as she thudded against him and span away. Las-bolts and projectiles whined around him and hands vainly tried to rip him from his steed, but he sped free of their grasp with ease, bringing the bike around again as he reached the passageway entrance where he had begun the engagement. A momentary glance at the scanner showed that Sabrael was on his way back but still three hundred metres away.

Looking up from the screen, Annael saw a spark of fire from the tunnel mouth. A missile screamed from the darkness, heading straight at him.

Acting out of instinct, he turned his left shoulder towards the projectile, to take the blast on his pauldron. The missile did not hit directly, but glanced from the curved plate and slammed into the wall behind Annael. Ferrocrete fragments and dust engulfed him as the missile exploded.

He opened the throttle, trying to find the missile firer with his targeter. There must have been two of the heavy weapons, for there had not been time to reload when a second missile powered from the tunnel.

Now moving, Annael was able to wrench Black Shadow to the right, avoiding the rocket, which hurtled into the passageway entrance. The crack and rumble that followed was far longer and louder than a missile detonation and as he ploughed through the enemy once more, Annael glanced back to see the archway collapsing.

Whether by intent or accident, the pirates were bringing down the chamber roof.

Ferrocrete and mangled steel fell across the station. A beam bracing the ceiling twisted and bent under the extra load, the screech of tearing metal sounding through the tumbling of ferrocrete blocks. The ceiling came down in a welter of jagged clumps of stone and plaster, sending debris smashing through the pirates and clattering from Annael’s armour.

More and more of the station was crumbling, decades, perhaps centuries of poor maintenance taking its toll as pillars and supports crashed onto the tracks and platform. The only place for Annael to go was down onto the rails and he steered Black Shadow over the lip scant seconds before the whole of the platform was buried by an avalanche of masonry.

Swinging a lasgun as a club, a man smashed his weapon across Annael’s face. The lasgun snapped and Annael did not even blink as he flung out a fist, turning the man’s face to a bloody pulp, cheek and jaw shattered. Someone grabbed Annael’s left arm and he let go of the handlebar to lift up the female pirate, hurling her into another enemy aiming a pistol at Annael’s chest.

The detonation of another missile took Annael by surprise. The armoured chamfron of Black Shadow took the brunt of the explosion, metal and ceramite splinters cutting through the enemy who had been thrown back by the blast.

‘Annael? Brother, are you alive?’ Sabrael’s voice seemed distant in Annael’s ear. ‘Annael, respond!’

‘Still alive, brother,’ snarled Annael, kicking out, the toe of his armoured boot crushing the ribcage of a man trying to climb onto the front of the Dark Angel’s mount. Annael pushed Black Shadow forwards into the tunnel, firing the bolters in a steady stream to rip through the remaining renegades. ‘Take no credit for that fact. I will demand restitution, brother.’

Sabrael’s reply devolved into wordless static as more of the station roof fell down behind Annael, closing off the platform and track entirely. The Dark Angel dismounted as pirates swarmed around him, breaking bones with both hands as he waded into them with armoured fists.

‘Sabrael?’ There was no reply to Annael’s inquiry and he switched channel with a sub-vocal command. ‘Brother Araton?’

The comm was dead, the signal blocked by the tonnes of debris choking the station chamber. Annael grabbed the throat of the last foe – one who had been manning a missile launcher – and threw him against the tunnel wall, snapping his spine.

The only sounds were the rumble of the bike’s idling engine and the patter and creak of settling debris.

Now that the immediate situation had calmed, Annael appraised the situation. He was cut off from the rest of the squadron, trapped in the tunnel. The only route out, if he wanted to maintain possession of Black Shadow, would be the next station. There might be maintenance access on foot somewhere in the tunnel, but Annael knew he would be shamed if he abandoned his mount. The loss of a mount was felt almost as keenly as the loss of a Space Marine, and Annael would give up a limb rather than be separated from his bike. The thought turned his mind back to Cassiel, who had done just that. The squadron was already one warrior down. It was imperative that Annael rejoined them.

Opening a panel in the left vambrace of his armour, Annael pulled free a cable and jack, plugging his vox-system into Black Shadow’s. The bike had a stronger transmitter and receiver, but with a snarled curse as static filled his ears Annael discovered that the last missile hit had damaged the communications array.

A normal soldier in his situation might have despaired, but Annael had no thought of fear. Though he was physically separated from his squadron and unable to contact any of the other Dark Angels, he dispassionately assessed his situation. Panic was counter-productive to mission success.

His greatest concern was that effort would be wasted trying to search for him in the wreckage of the transit station. Thus, he concluded, the first priority was to establish contact with his force. Once he could assure them he was still alive he could set about devising a plan to rejoin the attack.

A cursory search of the corpses revealed no hand-held communications devices. If the group had possessed some means of contacting other forces it was lost in the station. The most obvious solution to the communication problem was the star fort’s internal system. If Annael could locate a console, he would be able to boost his bike or armour’s transmitter. If the internal system still worked, which was far from likely given the general poor state of Port Imperial.

With no better plan coming to mind, Annael mounted Black Shadow and rode on through the darkness of the rail tunnel.

UNEXPECTED FOES

Mechanical thumping echoed along the corridor from a chamber ahead, as regular as a heartbeat. Steam leaked from cracked pipes overhead and rust was smeared along the walls as if daubed by some inhuman hand, mixing with patches of dark lichen. Droplets of water formed on the armour of Telemenus and his battle-brothers and mist condensed around the heat exchanges of their backpacks.

Moving through the quadrant designated grid-west, the squad had divided into two combat teams to cover the ground more swiftly. With Telemenus were Amanael, Cadael, Achamenon and Daellon.

‘Water filtration plant?’ suggested Cadael.

‘Environmental system,’ countered Sergeant Amanael. ‘Humidity regulator.’

‘Whatever it is, that pounding is annoying,’ said Telemenus. The monotonous clanging masked the tread of the Space Marines as they advanced towards a sealed doorway at the end of the passage. ‘Surely it is not meant to make such a din?’

‘Anything to keep it working, I assume,’ said Achamenon. ‘One can let void shields and lighting fall to ruin, but breathable air is essential. I am surprised that they have managed to keep the station habitable for this long without the aid of tech-adepts.’

‘Some of the tech-priests must have survived the secession,’ said Amanael. ‘Even if working under duress. To salve the machine-spirits of a star fort requires knowledge possessed by just a few.’

The passageway past the door was in an even poorer state, and even through his olfactory filters Telemenus could detect the rankness in the air. Mould and fungi grew in clumps where the walls met ceiling and floor, patches of drab greens and greys broken by brighter purples and blues. The bulkheads were heavily corroded and the decking underfoot had rusted away completely in places, leaving holes down into the crawlspaces beneath the Space Marines.

Picking their way around these, the five Dark Angels advanced.

‘Strong life signals, through the next chamber,’ reported Cadael. ‘Not sure if it is hostile or background life.’

The doors lining either side of the passage were rusted shut. Achamenon tested the first and it only shifted after considerable effort, showering the Space Marine with dark flakes of oxidised metal. The room beyond led nowhere and held a few empty crates and nothing more.

‘Press on,’ said Sergeant Amanael, waving the squad forwards. ‘These doors have not been opened in decades. No rebel could force them.’

The corridor took a forty-five degree turn to the left, angling directly towards the hub. Turning the bend, Telemenus could see the doorway at the far end was open. Roof panels had been torn away leaving piping and cabling hanging like bunting across the entrance. Looking further ahead, the Dark Angel could see that the chamber was in a ruinous state, criss-crossed by a nest of jury-rigged wires and conduits. Bare cables sparked occasionally, lighting the darkness with blue glare.

‘Touch nothing,’ warned Amanael. ‘Nobody can say what systems they have bypassed with this mess.’

Ducking beneath a pipe covered with a thin rime of frost, Telemenus stepped carefully, negotiating a path between the haphazard mass. The hum of exposed power lines buzzed through his autosenses and he registered a sharp rise in temperature and humidity. The conditions were perfect for the mould, which formed large slicks on the walls and a soft carpet underfoot. Spores drifted into the air at the tread of the advancing Space Marines, creating a cloud of fluttering particles.

‘Atmosphere extractors and projectors are off,’ Telemenus said, noting no breeze moved the floating spores. ‘This environment is deliberate.’

‘Who would want to live in this dank hole?’ asked Cadael. He lifted up the auspex. ‘Readings show this whole sector is the same, for about half a kilometre ahead and a kilometre to either side.’

‘A micro-climate,’ said Daellon.

‘But for what?’ Telemenus’s question went unanswered.

A motor chugged hoarsely in the far corner, dribbling exhaust fumes, fuelled from a pipe jutting from a torn bulkhead. It was attached to a series of gears and chains that disappeared into the far doorway. Its purpose seemed to be to power the emergency door, which was closed.

‘I have our answer,’ said Amanael, stooping to inspect the crude machine. He pointed to a beaten metal panel poorly riveted on one side of the motor. Telemenus saw small blotches of red and green and as his autosenses improved the resolution he recognised the shape of pictograms. Their meaning was unknown but their type was immediately recognisable.

‘Orks,’ he muttered.

‘It seems that not only humans can be Unworthy,’ said Cadael.

‘Brother Seraphiel, we have ork signs, quadrant four,’ Amanael reported. ‘Numbers unknown. Judging by the state of this place, they have been here for some time. Initiating cleanse protocols.’

‘Acknowledged, sergeant,’ replied the Fifth Company’s commander. ‘Continue with your advance and exercise standard doctrine.’

‘Confirmed, sergeant, we will proceed.’ Amanael gestured to Daellon, who was currently in possession of the squad flamer. ‘Stand ready, brother.’

The sergeant pulled a lever on the motor, engaging the gears. The door mechanism snarled into life, the metal slab sliding sideways into the bulkhead, revealing a chamber much the same as the one in which the Dark Angels were standing. Daellon turned to face the way they had entered as Amanael led the squad through the doorway. As Telemenus stepped past, Daellon opened up with the flamer, bathing the mould and fungi with burning promethium.

The flames seared through the cabling, plunging the chamber into darkness, lit by the greenish-blue of the burning spores. Stepping backwards, Daellon played his flamer across the floor and ceiling, igniting everything. Fumes from the motor fuel line ignited, filling the room with a billowing ball of orange fire as Daellon rapidly backed away. The chain links melted through and the door crashed back into position just in front of Daellon, the last spurts of the Dark Angel’s flamer splashing against rusted metal.

‘Contacts!’ barked Cadael. There were two doorways leading from the small room. He pointed to the right. ‘Strong. Moving towards us. Directly towards us. Forty metres and closing.’

Telemenus readied his bolter as Cadael slung the auspex on his belt and brought up his weapon. He heard the noise of a door being slammed open and Amanael opened fire. Cadael turned to cover the other entrance with the flamer as Telemenus stepped up next to his sergeant, just in time to see an ork’s head exploding from a bolt impact. Its body fell amongst the corpses of two more aliens, and there were twenty or more of the beasts rushing down the passageway behind.

Telemenus needed no order to open fire. He sighted past the closest ork and fired at another greenskinned creature just behind it, the bolt shell taking the alien in the shoulder. Amanael’s next burst brought down the foremost alien and Telemenus had a clear shot at his target’s body, his round hitting it squarely in the chest, ripping through flesh and organs. A following ork tripped over the falling carcass, Telemenus’s next shot cracking open the top of its head as it fell, dead before it hit the ground.

With the orks only ten metres away now, Telemenus released his grip with his left hand and pulled out his combat knife, still firing. Amanael’s chainsword growled into life beside him and the sergeant leapt forward to meet the orks as they burst into the chamber. His first swing took the arm off the closest alien as it raised a pistol to fire.

Telemenus sidestepped to his right, to get a line of fire past his sergeant and Achamenon. While the two Dark Angels went blade-to-blade with the greenskins, Telemenus continued to fire at the orks pressing in from the corridor, blowing off arms and legs, occasionally landing a clean shot in a torso or head.

A warning from Daellon and the sound of the flamer caused Telemenus to turn. His battle-brother fired another long burst down the other corridor, the flames dying out as the weapon’s fuel canister emptied.

‘I have you covered, brother,’ Telemenus told Daellon, stepping up to fire through the doorway, his first salvo cutting down an ork that was covered from waist to shoulder in burning promethium.

He picked his shots carefully, ignoring the blasts from the orks’ crude pistols and rifles. A lucky burst of orkish fire caught him full in the chest, cracking the emblazoned ceramite eagle on his plastron and sending his aim astray. With only one more burst left in his bolter’s magazine he aimed high, stitching the three shots across the faces of the closest foes. A glance confirmed to Telemenus that Daellon was still fixing a new fuel canister.

The orks were moments away, firing wildly. There was no time to reload before they would enter the chamber and their numbers would count in their favour. Telemenus counter-charged, swinging his bolter like a club as he plunged through the doorway. The heavy casing cracked open the skull of the first, sending it sprawling to the floor with blood spattering on the walls. A spiked maul missed the Dark Angel’s head by millimetres as he plunged his knife up to the hilt, burying it in the throat of the next ork. He could not avoid the next blow, the club smashing into his wrist. With a grimace, he held onto his bolter as pain briefly flared up his arm.

Surrounded by fanged, snarling faces, Telemenus rammed his helmet into one of them, forcing the creature back. Warning icons flared across his view as the orks fired their pistols at him and pounded on his armour with heavy cleavers and cudgels. His knife opened up the face of a third foe, sending long teeth spinning through the air, the slash ripping out the alien’s eye. In return, a hooked axe head lodged into the flexible joint seal between his waist and left thigh, deep enough to bite into flesh.

‘Die, xenos filth!’ The wound angered Telemenus more than it hurt him. Forced to batter his foes to death in close combat, every ork that he felled would not count against his marksman tally. The thought of killing so many enemies and yet his laurel award remaining out of reach sent a fresh surge of anger through him.

An ork was trying to twist off his head, its arms wrapped around his helm. Launching himself backwards, Telemenus hurled himself and the ork into the wall of the corridor, crushing it against the unrelenting bulkhead. Dazed, it relaxed its grip for a moment, giving Telemenus the opportunity to stab backwards over his shoulder, his knife finding flesh and bringing forth a howl of pain.

‘Clear the corridor, brother,’ barked Daellon. Telemenus knew instantly what his battle-brother intended and flung himself back into the chamber, the ork still clinging to his back. Burning promethium scorched above him as he rolled across the floor, his weight squashing the last vestiges of life from the greenskin.

Freed from its grip, he pushed himself to his feet, hand moving for a fresh magazine at his belt. Ejecting the empty magazine from his bolter, he slotted home more ammunition, turning back towards the corridor.

The flamer blast had finished off the orks. In the passage there was nothing but charred corpses and burning bodies. Here and there a limb trembled or a hand twitched, but these were simple muscle spasms, not true signs of life. Any shots fired now would be a waste of ammunition.

Moving his attention back to the other entrance, Telemenus saw that the other three Dark Angels had pushed out, pressing the orks back to the adjoining room.

‘Orders, sergeant?’ he asked, taking a stride towards the others before stopping. It was risky leaving only Daellon and his flamer as rearguard.

‘Secure your position and extend the perimeter, brothers,’ came Amanael’s reply.

‘I shall lead,’ Telemenus told Daellon, pushing past his battle-brother. ‘Conserve your ammunition for when we encounter sufficient foes.’

‘You mean I should leave the kills to you, brother?’ said Daellon. He lifted up the muzzle of the flamer and waved Telemenus on. ‘I would be no brother to deny you.’

The narrow passageway was short, not more than fifteen metres before it came to a T-junction. There was more evidence of the orks’ salvaging and jury-rigging, panels torn from the walls to expose battered air pumps and vapour-spilling heating pipes.

‘Brother, your leg?’ said Daellon, reminding Telemenus of the axe still stuck in his hip joint. He pulled the weapon free and tossed it to one side, wincing briefly before the pain subsided. Inspecting the pierced ribbing, he saw the polymer expanding to close the breach, just as his blood cells were clotting to seal the wound in his flesh. Although it was not perfect, the joint would hold well enough for the moment, as would his leg.

‘‘Tis but a scratch,’ replied Telemenus, turning right while he motioned for Daellon to cover to the left.

After a just a few metres the corridor ended abruptly at a round doorway with a rusted lockwheel and a shattered datapanel in the bulkhead beside it. There was no window to check if he was correct but Telemenus assumed it was an airlock of some kind. Certainly it had not seen use for many years. Rejoining Daellon, he found that the left fork of the passage led to a stairwell. The two Space Marines paused at the bottom and listened, but heard no signs of activity on the levels above and below.

‘Nothing here, brother-sergeant,’ Telemenus reported. ‘Access to levels four and six. Shall we proceed?’

‘No, brothers, return to our position. We will hold for you and proceed together. Sergeant Seraphiel is sending in Squads Actael and Mellusian to provide a cross-sweep to our position.’

‘Understood, brother-sergeant.’ Telemenus looked up the steps once more, hoping to see a foe skulking on the steps that he had not registered previously. There was nothing.

The sound of bolters echoed in the distance and the squad comm erupted into life. Telemenus and Daellon were running even before they heard the first words, pounding back down the corridor as they listened to their squad-brothers.

‘Target the leader, Cadael. Achamenon, hold the left.’ Amanael spoke quickly but calmly.

‘They are cutting through the bulkhead, brother-sergeant.’ This was from Achamenon.

‘Throwing frag,’ warned Cadael. The crack of its detonation rolled along the metal walls around Telemenus a second later. ‘And another.’

The two Dark Angels sprinted across the corpse-choked chamber where they had first encountered the orks, striding over the mounds of the alien dead as a second fragmentation detonation echoed from the corridor ahead.

‘It is still coming, brother-sergeant! Some kind of forcefield?’ Tension had replaced Cadael’s calm as the ork leader apparently survived the Space Marine’s attacks.

‘Swap places, brother. Watch that archway on the left.’

The buzz of Amanael’s chainsword rang through the empty passageway as Telemenus and Daellon ducked beneath swaying fronds of moss and wire and squeezed through a narrow portal at the end of the corridor. They found themselves in what appeared to be an old water vaporisation chamber, the floor still covered with a few centimetres of algae-thick water. It was nearly fifty metres across and half as high. Nearly a third of the space was taken up with a festering mound of ork dung. Insects and small creatures buzzed and skittered over the disgusting hillock, which was obscured in places by forests of sprouting fungi with stems as tall as the Space Marines.

The flash of bolter fire reflected from the tarnished wall of a service duct off to Telemenus’s left and the pair headed through the miasma of thick fumes and flies. Telemenus was grateful of the sealed environment of his armour; his suit had shut down all external air the moment they had entered the vat, but the stench would have been overwhelming.

The access hatch was barely large enough for Telemenus to squeeze through. He had to turn sideways and duck to manoeuvre through the opening, his bolter held out in front of him ready to fire. Straightening, he found himself in what appeared to have once been a pumping station, judging by the huge pipes that covered the ceiling, leading from the water vaporisation vat. The machines had long ago been dismantled, though large cogs, pistons and belts littered the rusty floor of the chamber.

The cavernous space was almost as large as the mustering hall on the strike cruiser; easily three hundred metres long and a hundred wide for most of its length, opening into a nave-like space at the far end where a massive drop-pipe entered from the ceiling. Once it had housed immense processors pumping human sustaining air to a large portion of the station. In the place of the pumps was now a jumble of roughly built hovels and workshops, walled and roofed with torn bulkheads and ceiling tiles, stained carpets draped over some, smoke-spewing generators and glittering electrical wires connected to several of the ramshackle buildings.

‘A whole damned town of orks!’ exclaimed Daellon as he came up beside Telemenus. ‘Where are our brothers?’

‘There, on the right,’ Telemenus replied, pointing with his bolter towards a group of small huts about seventy metres away.

The other members of the squad had taken up a position near two shacks butting up against the wall of the chamber. Telemenus could see Achamenon on the roof, his weight causing the metal sheets to buckle as he moved from one edge of the building to the other, firing into the heart of the orkish settlement. Sergeant Amanael was on the ground with Cadael, keeping the area around the buildings clear of attackers.

There were scores of greenskins, clambering over rooftops and along swinging bridges held up by twists of cable. Many were the smaller aliens – the orks’ slave species – swarming from building to building, pausing to take pot shots with their simple rifles. The larger orks were mainly on a more robust structure towards the far end of the pump hall, laying down scatters of fire from heavy weapons that fired hails of shells and blazes of green energy.

Telemenus spied a group of orks, fifteen or more, slinking through the gap between two workshops. Moving from one pile of debris to another, keeping to the cover of mangled engine parts and scrap, they were out of sight of the Dark Angels.

‘Flanking force, brothers,’ he warned, raising his bolter to fire at the skulking aliens. ‘Engaging.’

He fired on the move, letting off single rounds as he closed with the aliens at a steady stride. Alerted to the new arrivals, the orks realised they had been found and made a dash for sanctuary behind a line of leaking drums. Telemenus’s bolter fire followed them, cutting down one of the greenskins and wounding another before they reached the shelter of the barrels.

Daellon’s flamer was of no use at this range and he moved ahead of Telemenus at a swift run, covering the ground quickly. The orks in the workshop realised his intent and a barrage of bullets screamed out of their hiding place, poorly aimed but effective from weight of fire. Daellon was forced to his right as rounds ricocheted from his armour, seeking cover at the corner of a small hovel made from piled crates. Metal splinters surrounded the Space Marine as the orks intensified their fire.

‘Suppress these bastards, if you please, Telemenus,’ said Daellon, his back to the wall of the shack.

‘My pleasure, brother.’

He switched his bolter to burst fire and stopped, locking his armour into a stable firing position. The Dark Angel loosed off the rest of the magazine into the battered oil drums, the din of the bolts’ detonations echoing back from the walls of the workshop. Reloading swiftly, he fired again, targeting the darker shapes of the orks beyond the wall of barrels.

The fire from the orks lessened under Telemenus’s attack, though whether from casualties or distraction he did not know. Swapping out his empty magazine – noting he had only two reloads left as he did so – the Space Marine advanced again, snapping off short salvos every couple of seconds, keeping the orks occupied.

‘Time to cleanse this damned filth,’ snarled Daellon, rounding the corner of the shack with his flamer levelled. He broke into a run, bullets pattering from his armour, and unleashed a sheet of promethium into the workshop’s interior. Burning flamer fuel and igniting oil filled the building with ruddy flames. Telemenus saw writhing, flailing figures dark against the wash of fire.

Some of the orks survived the flamer blast and burst out of the building, their guns chattering wildly as they charged towards Daellon. Telemenus switched quickly to single fire and aimed at the foremost alien warrior, the bolt knocking the creature from his feet as it hit its shoulder. Blood pouring from the wound, the ork snarled and pushed itself to its feet just in time for Telemenus’s next shot. The round ripped out the creature’s throat, felling it permanently.

With a glance to check his situation, Telemenus noticed more orks approaching from his left, at least a dozen of them. If he pushed on towards Daellon they would come at the pair of Dark Angels from behind and the two Space Marines would have only the burning workshop as cover.

‘Fall back, brother, to me,’ he told Daellon. ‘We cannot break through here.’

‘Damned if I retreat from orks,’ the other Dark Angel replied. He fired another gout of flames into the charging orks, killing two and forcing the rest to turn and run. ‘Not while I can still fight.’

‘We will be surrounded, brother,’ Telemenus said, breaking to his right, heading towards the blocky remnants of a pump engine. ‘We cannot reach the rest of the squad.’

‘Do as Telemenus says,’ Amanael barked over the vox. ‘Secure a position and we will pull back to you. The enemy are massing for a concerted attack. We cannot hold at our current location.’

‘As you command, brother-sergeant,’ replied a chastened Daellon.

Telemenus stopped beside the rusted carcass of the pump and checked the immediate area for foes. Several orks lay close at hand, missing limbs and heads, but he was certain they were dead. Able to inspect the enemy more closely, he saw that these aliens were scrawnier than most orks he had encountered. They had wiry limbs and thin fingers, their teeth not as prominent as most specimens he had examined. Their dress was strange, for orks, made from stitched human clothes, patched and armoured with thin pieces of metal and plastek.

Their weapons looked basically the same as the autoguns and lasguns of the Unworthy, though with typical orkoid embellishments of scrap fetishes, daubed paint and seemingly superfluous mechanical parts.

‘These creatures are amongst the Unworthy also,’ he concluded to the others. ‘Not just allied with the pirates, but numbered amongst their cult.’

‘So it seems, brother,’ replied Cadael. ‘The enemy commander is not averse to working with aliens. More proof of his sinful nature.’

Daellon reached Telemenus’s position at a run, half a dozen orks a few metres behind. Telemenus fired into the group of greenskins as Daellon turned his flamer on them, and between the two Space Marines the alien warriors were cut down in short order.

‘How much fuel do you have left, brother?’ asked Telemenus as he eyed the indistinct figures of more orks gathering around the buildings ahead and to his left.

‘Two more bursts and another canister,’ replied Daellon, his voice grim as he took stock of what Telemenus had already noticed: there were several dozen orks massing for the next attack. ‘Perhaps eight good bursts in total.’

‘We cannot hold for long, brother-sergeant,’ Telemenus announced. He could not see anything of the rest of the squad from where he was; Achamenon had left his rooftop post. ‘What is your status?’

‘Fighting withdrawal,’ Amanael replied tersely, his words punctuated by the crack of bolter rounds. ‘Brother-Sergeant Seraphiel, this is Amanael. Our situation is deteriorating swiftly. We must receive reinforcements or withdraw. What are your orders?’

Telemenus saw the three Space Marines past the burning workshop, the flames glinting from heavily scarred armour. Before they disappeared from view behind another shack he noted that Cadael was firing one-handed, his right arm hanging limply by his side.

The hall reverberated with a loud, guttural roar from the orks; a war shout that echoed across the settlement as the aliens gave voice as one. Telemenus knew well what the throaty bellowing of the greenskins signified.

The orks were readying for an all-out attack.

NO INNOCENTS

Glass splintered as Annael’s fist crashed into the console screen. The Dark Angel growled in frustration as he glared at the inoperative terminal and mentally cursed the Unworthy for their lack of maintenance. It was the fourth communications console he had accessed without success and Annael was forced to conclude that the entire internal comms network was not functional; at least not in the outer towers of Port Imperial.

He was more than half a kilometre from the collapsed rail station and had abandoned the tracks after finding the second malfunctioning terminal, heading grid-north towards the central spire in the hope of establishing contact with another part of the Dark Angels force. He had not encountered any enemies, though on occasion he had heard distant, muffled explosions that he assumed were strike cruiser attacks in preparation for the assault on the inner sanctum of the enemy.

He desperately wanted to rejoin the other Dark Angels for the final attack. He could easily imagine the comments by Sabrael and others if he was absent from the battle at such a crucial time. Perhaps he would be the little lost boy, or the wanderer, or some other gently mocking title. With so little time spent with the company, despite his earlier achievements in the Fifth, his reputation would be badly hurt, the episode a blot on his honour that would be hard to overcome. It was a shameful situation, made worse by a quirk of construction that meant his only route back to the main force would mean passing through the inner fortress.

Mounting Black Shadow, Annael cursed Sabrael’s disobedience. He would have strong words for his brother when they were reunited, if not immediately then when the battle was won. It had been Sabrael’s irresponsibility that had plunged Annael into this debacle. It was an affront to the company that Chaplain Malcifer continued to tolerate Sabrael’s wayward behaviour and if he did not receive satisfactory words from his brother, Annael resolved to bring the matter to Grand Master Sammael and, if necessary, to the Supreme Grand Master.

In a half-rage, Annael rode on, following a broad ferrocrete concourse that cut down towards the foundations of Port Imperial. Other than the communications relay, Black Shadow’s systems were working well, though the low ammunition warning icon reminded Annael that he was not well-placed to face determined resistance if he was able to access the central spire.

The dark tunnel lit by the lamps of his steed, he covered another half a kilometre, passing smaller passageways branching off to each side. Having consulted the broken schematic in his steed’s cogitation engine, he knew that these junctions led only to self-contained hab-blocks with no connecting route back to the breach or the axis of advance the Dark Angels were taking. When he was roughly halfway along the connecting corridor his bike’s scanner started showing a faint return, ahead and off to his left. It was indistinct, blurred by the intervening structure, but it was definitely an abnormal signal.

Bringing Black Shadow to a stop, Annael considered his options. It was impossible to tell from this distance whether the signal indicated hostiles, and their probable position meant that they were no threat to the Dark Angels attack, as cut off from the fighting as he was. Keenly aware of the difficulty he likely would face when negotiating his way through the central tower and his ammunition status, he was loathe to expend any more rounds in pointless battle but his instincts warned him against ignoring the signal return altogether. He reminded himself that he was Ravenwing now, and part of his role was to be the eyes of the Chapter. The hazy smudge on his scanner screen was likely to be irrelevant, but there was a chance that it might be a shuttle on stand-by, ready to bring a force of Unworthy to the attack. Remembering the conclusion of the fight at Hadria Praetoris, it occurred to him that it might also be an escape route for the enemy commander.

As eager as he was to join the main battle, his duty as a warrior of the Ravenwing overruled his personal circumstance. With good fortune the scanner response showed an active energy grid, which in turn might indicate functional infrastructure and a working communications terminal. Whatever it was, Annael realised he had to investigate.

His first attempt to locate the source of the signal brought him to a cluster of interconnecting living spaces that quickly became a dead-end. Backtracking to the main concourse he tried the next junction and after only a few seconds a dim light from ahead registered in his autosenses. On the scanner the reading became clearer, showing a scattering of returns that looked very much like life signals. Knowing that he could not afford a full confrontation with the enemy he engaged Black Shadow’s secondary engine. Running off a stacked crystal cell similar to the one in his armour’s backpack the bike’s growl quietened to a soft purr as the secondary core took over from the main motor. It was not quite silence but it would afford him the element of surprise should he need it, though at a cost of lower performance from his steed.

Edging forwards along the passage, which was barely a metre wider than his machine, the top of his helmet almost scraping along the metal roof, Annael risked a wide-spectrum scan pulse, judging that the Unworthy would not have the means to detect the millisecond burst of energy. His telemetric display updated a few seconds later as the readings were processed by Black Shadow’s cogitator, showing a maze of rooms ahead, each only a few metres square. They looked like pre-formed habitations that had been fitted at some later time onto the base of the superstructure, stacked three deep and five across on two levels. A labourer slum, he decided as he reviewed the schematic.

The scan also confirmed his suspicion of life signals, more than fifty crowded into the enclosed spaces. If they were enemy, they were doing their best to avoid the fighting, hiding out of the way in this disused part of the star fort. There seemed to be little movement, assuring Annael that his approach had gone unnoticed.

The tunnel came to an abrupt end after another twenty metres and Annael dismounted. He engaged Black Shadow’s self-protection system, ensuring that the machine would detonate its energy core if anyone tampered with the controls without entering the disarm sequence; standard procedure when leaving a mount unattended in hostile territory.

Annael took a last look at the scanner to confirm there had been no reaction to his presence and unholstered his pistol. There was only a single doorway at the end of the corridor, little more than a hatchway providing access to the rooms beyond. There was no other way to enter the chambers, and more importantly it was the only route of exit should he encounter enemies. Pausing beside the closed door, he listened for a moment and detected the soft murmur of voices.

The door was held by a simple latch bolt. He lifted the bar quickly and thrust open the door, stepping through with pistol held ready to fire.

Screams and wails greeted the Dark Angel as he was confronted by a group of people huddled together in the first chamber; wrinkled faces stared in horror and terrified infants bawled in their sudden fright. At a glance Annael took in the scene; five women and two men of advanced years and eight children ranging from babes to eight or nine Terran years old. They all looked haggard, skin pinched and waxy, hair lank and uncut, their clothes little more than rags. In the light of a bare glow-globe their pale skin seemed brittle and yellowing.

No threat was Annael’s first thought, though he kept his bolt pistol raised.

‘Stop that noise,’ he commanded, instantly irritated by the mewling and weeping coming from the shocked children. In direct defiance of his demand, some of the older folk raised their voices in wordless lament, the racket intense inside the small metal-sided cube.

There were three more doorways, one in each of the other walls, through which Annael saw more of the ragged people. Soon there was a crowd clustering at each door, shouting and yelling in anger and fear.

‘Silence!’ he roared, his projected voice thunderous in the close confines. His outburst had the desired effect on the adults, quietening them immediately though the infants showed no restraint in giving voice to their woe.

‘Mercy, lord, show us mercy,’ pleaded an elderly man crouched against the wall to Annael’s right. The call was taken up by others for a few seconds, dying away as he swept the crowd with his lensed gaze.

He had little experience dealing with non-combatants, and had never encountered any as wretched as this group. There was little in his training to prepare him for such an event and he dredged through his memory trying to remember the Chapter doctrine on the subject.

Establishing control, he recalled, was the first priority. With the adults cowed by his presence already, that seemed to have been achieved.

Establishing rapport was the next stage in dealing with the situation. Discomfited by the thought of conversing with these miserable-looking folk, Annael turned his attention to the elder that had first spoken.

‘You, what is your name?’ he said, realising when the man flinched and trembled that he had barked the question like a threat. He modified his tone, addressing the man as if he were a novitiate or Chapter serf. ‘Please tell me your name.’

‘Quaron, lord,’ the main replied in a quavering voice, the words as shaky as the man’s outstretched hands. ‘Forgive us, we were not expecting you, lord.’

‘Stop calling me that,’ said Annael, fearing that to allow them to continue using such a grandiose title made him guilty of self-aggrandisement. ‘You may address me as Brother Annael.’

This pronouncement was met with confusion and blank looks. The assembled degenerates muttered amongst themselves and exchanged perplexed shaking of heads. Quaron, realising he had been selected as spokesperson, gingerly stood up on thin legs, one hand held to the wall to support himself.

‘Brother Annael?’ he said, brow knotted with worry. He grimaced as he spoke, fearing his words caused offence. ‘Are you not the Overlord?’

‘I am no overlord, Quaron,’ Annael assured the man. ‘I am Brother Annael of the Dark Angels Chapter.’

There was more murmuring and whispers and Annael heard ‘Dark Angel’ spoken over and over. The conversation subsided into silence and save for a few of the youngest children he was pleased to note that the infants had ceased their yammering. With deliberate care, he holstered his pistol and held out his empty hands in a gesture of peaceful intent. It did not seem to settle the nerves of the people but he thought it dishonourable to make any firm promise to do them no harm, not until he had fully appraised their loyalty and situation; he did not want to make himself a liar.

‘Quaron, how do you come to be here?’

‘We are the Unworthy, Brother Annael of the Dark Angels. We follow the teachings of the Overlord but still we do not become Divine. Are you kin to the Overlord, Brother Annael of the Dark Angels?’

Annael killed a snarled retort before he gave voice to it. These people were wholly ignorant of what was happening, seemingly unaware of the attack that was ongoing elsewhere on the station. That they identified themselves with the Unworthy was worrying, for Annael had at first taken them to be prisoners. Ignoring the people for a moment, he looked at his surroundings. There were threadbare blankets and thin pillows piled in one corner, and in the room directly ahead he saw a small ceramite-slate portable stove and several pots, dishes and cups. There were no weapons in evidence, though the piles of meagre belongs could conceal blades or pistols it was doubtful these poor souls possessed any arms capable of hurting him. Even so, he remained on guard.

Aside from the obvious degradation there was something else that jarred in his mind, though he could not pinpoint the source of his unease. In demeanour the people were subservient to the point of cringing obsequiousness. He detected human bodily waste and a faint trace of rotting flesh, indicating that the inhabitants were quite prepared to live close to, if not actually with, their own filth. The youngsters looked as miserable as the elders, who in turn displayed a lethargy beyond that expected of their poorly nourished state. Most of the adults moved with involuntary twitches in the face and limbs and he had already seen a few that would fall into a momentarily vacant state, glassy-eyed and open-mouthed. Aside from those easily attributed to age and injuries, he could determine no physical blemishes that might indicate some form of plague as cause for this strange behaviour and isolation.

This strangeness unsettled Annael, quite aside from the dilemma that had immediately occurred to him upon discovering the unarmed people: to leave them be or kill them? In his experience there had been three categories of interaction. There were enemies, allies and civilians. Enemies were to be slain, allies aided and civilians protected, where possible. By their own testimony, these people were the Unworthy, part of the renegade group. As such they were enemies of the Emperor and it was his duty to eliminate them. The fact that they were of no threat whatsoever weighed against this course of action. Regardless of their loyalties, it seemed dishonourable to slay them in cold blood, especially the infants who, given a proper upbringing by loyal servants of the Emperor could become useful members of the Imperium.

It was a conundrum Annael had never expected to face, and the fact that he could not reconcile the two courses of action vexed him further. Part of him wanted to leave, secure in the knowledge that there was no threat to the Dark Angels force present. Another part of him, the part that had slowly emerged over four centuries, had questions that needed answers. Answers he could only gain from the Unworthy.

He told himself that any information he gathered here could prove of use in the fight against the pirates; quirks of behaviour or belief to be expected or exploited. He also told himself that this was just idle justification to sate his curiosity and that he had no business remaining with these people any longer.

Rheumy eyes stared listlessly at Annael as this debate raged inside him. They could see nothing of the conflict in his features, and he stood as still as a statue, but his silence was starting to unsettle many of the older folk. Inquisitiveness conquered doubt and he addressed the old man.

‘You live here, in this place, Quaron?’ Annael could not believe that the Unworthy would voluntarily live in such poor circumstance with the whole of the station to occupy. ‘Why do you not live with the rest of the Unworthy?’

‘We cannot aspire, Brother Annael of the Dark Angels. I am old and will never be Divine. The young must cleanse themselves of their birthing sins before they can join the ranks of the aspiring.’

‘You are exiles? Unable to fight for the Overlord?’ Annael felt on firmer ground here. On New Macedon, where he had been born, some of the barbaric outhive tribes divided their communities along similar lines, the old left to care for the young while the able-bodied raided and traded with the other nomads. He saw badly-healed injuries and crippling deformities in some of the older people, though none in the youngsters, and guessed that they had all been warriors of the Unworthy before age or wounds had rendered them a burden rather than an asset in battle.

‘Exile, Brother Annael? I do not understand.’

‘Perhaps there is another that can speak with me,’ Annael said, tiring of the old man’s confused state. ‘One that perhaps does not feel the weight of age so heavily.’

‘I can speak with you, Brother Annael,’ announced a scrawny-looking woman from the doorway to Annael’s left. She had a blue shawl wrapped about her shoulders over a plain grey dress much stitched and patched. ‘I am Halgeral Three-mother. Forgive Quaron, his mind withers alongside his body. Soon he will be reborn unto us.’

Ignoring this hint at heretical resurrectionist belief, Annael stepped towards Halgeral, the Unworthy shuffling and crawling out of his path with wheezing breaths and gasps to leave the route clear to the adjoining chamber. Halgeral motioned for those around her to make room and she backed away as Annael ducked through the low door. The room was much the same as the first, with carefully piled bedding. In the corner a tired-looking middle-aged woman suckled a child at her breast, her expression suspicious. Annael noticed the child’s skin was thin and lined with veins, before the mother drew the swaddling over the babe’s head to conceal it from his scrutiny.

Casting his gaze across the other inhabitants of the chamber he realised what had been nagging at his subconscious since his arrival. Amongst their rags the Unworthy wore strange necklaces and fetishes, that seemed to be made up of bones and animal scraps. Beside the nursing mother another woman was soothing a child with a rattle made of bones linked with copper wire. These morbid ornamentations were not surprising in themselves – many cultures throughout the Imperium revered ancestors by making artefacts from the deceased, and the Dark Angels were not alone amongst the Adeptus Astartes to house the remains of their heroes in reliquaries beneath their fortress-monastery – but it was at odds with what he had seen of the other Unworthy. He had seen no such beads and bangles on the foes he had slain.

Deciding the strange ways of these abandoned people were not his immediate concern, he turned his attention back to Halgeral. When she spoke there was a slight slur in her voice but she seemed the most lucid of all the adults.

‘Come, I show you our good works so that you may know we do as the Overlord commands,’ she said, turning away and gesturing for Annael to follow her.

Treading carefully between the women and children, Annael stepped after Halgeral into the next chamber. Timber trestles and boards lined the far wall, on which were arranged several long knives and serrated-edged saws, their blades stained dark. The surfaces of the boards were likewise covered with patches of deep red and black – old blood that had soaked into the grain of the wood. Instantly aware of the potential weapons, Annael moved his hand to his holster though he did not draw his pistol.

Halgeral ignored the blades and turned to the sealed door on the right. Above the crackle of the light fittings Annael could hear the hum of a motor close by, and when Halgeral opened the door a wave of chilled air washed past the Dark Angel, his suit monitors informing of a drop in the temperature by several degrees. Moisture clung to the inside of the door and rim as the cold air condensed on the metal. Halgeral stepped into the cool chamber with a smile and an enthusiastic wave.

‘Come, see,’ she said, beckoning again when Annael hesitated.

Stooping at the doorway, the Space Marine stopped, appalled by what he saw.

The room had been turned into a refrigeration unit by a machine set against the right-hand wall, spilling cold air from a coil of pipe that ran up to the ceiling. There were hooks hanging from the ceiling and on the hooks were carcasses, some intact, others dismembered.

Headless human corpses.

Shelves lined the other walls, stacked high with skulls, some flayed down to the bone, others with flesh and even scraps of hair still attached. Eyeless sockets stared at Annael as he absorbed the contents of the room further, seeing severed limbs, hands and feet piled neatly in one corner, flensed bones arranged in a metal crate opposite.

Disgusted, Annael backed away from the door, turning to find that the room had filled with the Unworthy outcasts behind him. They were looking at him with hopeful expectation, some of them smiling, others averting their gazes.

‘The Unworthy are reborn through us, master,’ Halgeral said behind him. The full import of her words sank in, deepening the Dark Angel’s loathing. ‘Is it not as you wish?’

‘I am not your master!’ Annael snarled as he swung back towards the woman, drawing his pistol. ‘I am a brother of the Emperor’s Space Marines. This... This is an abomination!’

Shocked, Halgeral fell to her knees, hands clasped to her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes.

‘Forgive us, Brother Annael. We only hope to do the Overlord’s bidding. If we are in error, please enlighten us. Is not the preparation correct? We will show the rites of rebirth! You will see, everything is as the Overlord commands.’

‘I am not an ally of the Overlord,’ Annael said grimly. ‘This station, your home, has been ruled over by a renegade from the Imperium. He has lied to you.’

‘No!’ This outburst came from behind Annael and he twisted to see an old man with a long beard and bald pate pushing his way through the crowd of Unworthy. There was madness in his eyes and saliva flew from his lips. ‘It is you that are the renegade! You defy the wishes of the Overlord!’

The man was irate, but he did not approach close enough to present a threat, but continued his tirade out of arm’s reach. Annael stayed his hand for the moment, though every instinct in him was urging him to lash out, to destroy this coven of vile cannibals.

‘The Overlord warned us that others would come, seeking to despoil our paradise. That time is now. We must seek the wisdom of the Overlord.’

There was a chorus of murmurs and calls echoing this sentiment.

‘Seek his wisdom.’

‘Let us hear his voice!’

‘The Overlord commands.’

‘Let his wishes be known to us.’

‘How?’ demanded Annael, stepping forward to seize the man by his tattered coat. ‘How do you receive the wisdom of the Overlord?’

All eyes turned to the doorway opposite the refrigeration chamber, the Unworthy parting to form a path for Annael. He released his grip on the man and strode through the haggard crowd into the chamber he had seen earlier that he had assumed to be the food preparation area.

There was a ladder on one wall leading up to a hatchway, granting access to the chambers stacked above. Three stoves were arranged in the centre of the room, a bubbling pot on one of them. Glancing inside, Annael recoiled as he saw several hands bobbing about in the froth, skin peeling away, fat melting into the water. Beyond the stoves was an upturned box on which a ragged cloth had been laid, and upon this were arranged various trinkets and skulls. A shrine of some kind, but it was not the fetishes that drew his attention. Behind the bones and glinting jewellery, propped against the wall, was a bulky box-like device, its casing much tarnished and dented. Seeing a grille and a handset he recognised it immediately as a portable communications device.

‘You are not to speak to the Overlord, intruder!’ said the angry man, hobbling past Annael to stand between the Space Marine and the grim altar. ‘His words are for our ears.’

‘Step aside,’ growled Annael, taking a stride. The man flinched but did not move from the Dark Angel’s path. ‘Step aside!’

‘You will not defile our temple, outsider.’

‘Outsider…’ The word was whispered behind Annael, growing in volume.

‘Enough,’ snarled the Dark Angel. He grabbed the man’s arm to push him aside, not seeking to injure him. The old man, who wore a necklace of finger bones Annael noticed, perhaps signifying someone of status amongst this disgusting cult, tried to resist. He lashed out at Annael’s arm, his weak blows barely registering on his armour’s systems.

Out of patience, Annael flung the man to one side. He was a lot lighter than the Space Marine had accounted for and flew across the small chamber, smashing face-first into the wall. He fell to the ground and lay in an unmoving, crumpled heap. Annael turned as the Unworthy surged towards him. He pulled his pistol, expecting attack, but the Unworthy broke around him, converging on their fallen companion.

‘Is he dead?’ one asked. There were nods from those around the man.

Annael detected no sorrow in the Unworthy as they lifted up the limp form, their aging limbs making hard work though the dead man had been so light to the Space Marine. The people started muttering, a hushed chant surrounding Annael as the Unworthy bore the body out of the room. A few remained, watching the Dark Angel, but they were as lethargic as when he had entered, no aggression in their posture or expressions.

He stepped up to the altar and lifted the vox-unit from the scraps and bangles around it.

‘The Emperor provides,’ he muttered with satisfaction, seeing that the device was of normal Imperial build, thankful for the gift of Standard Template Construct that meant the unit would work with the systems of his steed. There were several scratches and dents in the casing but a closer examination showed nothing other than cosmetic damage. As their conduit to the Overlord, the Unworthy had taken care of the device as best they could.

Ignoring the Unworthy drifting listlessly around him, Annael left the hab-units, closing the door with a resounding clang behind him. He was still not sure what to do with the degenerates. Though they were clearly corrupt and deranged, it still seemed to Annael to be dishonourable to slay them out of hand. There was also a practical issue. To conserve ammunition he would have to slay them all by hand or knife; a time-consuming activity that would keep him from the main battle. Fortunately, with the discovery of the vox-set he would be able to pass on the decision to one of his superiors.

Returning to Black Shadow, Annael placed the comm unit on the saddle of the bike, punched in the disarm code for the self-protection mechanism and opened up a protective plate beneath the display of his mount. Pulling free a cable, he plugged the set into the cogitator of the bike. The comm unit crackled into life.

‘Praise to the artifices of the Machine-God,’ he muttered, adjusting the channel dial in the middle of the set’s front. With the unit to boost the bike’s transmission power, he would be able to contact someone. Anyone. Lifting the mouthpiece to the speaker grille of his helm he carefully pressed the transmit button, wary of damaging the fragile device.

‘This is Annael. Broadcasting from enemy device. Channel not secured. Send response.’

He waited for several seconds with no reply. Inspecting the unit, the device appeared to be functioning properly. He lifted the handset again but before he could speak there was a burst of static.

‘Message received, Brother Annael.’ A wave of satisfaction washed over Annael as he recognised the voice of the Grand Master. It was not until he heard Sammael that he realised how tense his isolation had made him. To be in contact with his commander was a relief, though he had been in no physical danger. ‘State your position, brother.’

Annael read out the coordinates from the screen of Black Shadow. He felt he needed to apprise the Grand Master of what he had found, but was not sure where to begin.

‘Grand Master, I have discovered a cadre of Unworthy non-combatants. Zero threat to the attack. They are... They eat their own dead, Grand Master.’

‘Acknowledged, Annael. There are no depths to which these depraved souls will not plunge. Their behaviour condemns them, their extermination will be a cleansing.’

‘How should I proceed, Grand Master?’

‘I have despatched Lion’s Vengeance to your position. Await the Thunderhawk.’

‘And the Unworthy, Grand Master?’

‘They are no threat, brother. Unless they hinder your extraction, leave them be. Save your ammunition and strength for harder foes.’

‘Understood, Grand Master. How goes the battle?’

‘Your timing is perfect, brother. All entries to the central spire have been isolated. Fifth Company squads have encountered unexpected resistance in the form of a tribe of orks. The extermination will commence shortly. You should be with us again in time for the final assault.’

‘It is a blessing to hear that, Grand Master.’

‘You will receive full debrief on the Unworthy from Brother Malcifer once the station is secured. Until then, do not speak of it with your brothers.’

‘As you command, Grand Master.’ Annael was not sure why the horrific rites of the Unworthy should be deemed a secret but he was not one to second-guess his superiors. ‘I will await extraction.’

‘Stand steady, Annael. You will soon be amongst your brothers again. Sammael out.’

The vox-unit clicked and fell to a quiet buzzing. He kept the unit plugged in, shifting it into his lap as he stepped across the saddle of his steed. He was alone again but now it did not seem so burdensome, knowing that he would be reunited with his squadron soon.

It took some time to turn around his bike in the close confines, a fact he had overlooked earlier he was ashamed to realise. Heading back to the main concourse, he waited patiently for the Thunderhawk sent by Sammael, glancing back now and then towards the hab-block of the Unworthy. They had not ventured from their chambers and he had a sickened feeling as he wondered what perverse rites they were performing over the body of the dead man. Despite his earlier misgivings and the order of Sammael, the more he thought about what they had become, the more Annael wanted to wipe out the depraved cannibals. He had used the word abomination and that was just what they were; abhorrent to any right-thinking servant of the Emperor.

The comm sparked into life, breaking through Annael’s disturbed thoughts.

‘This is Haeral, pilot of Lion’s Vengeance. I have your position on scope, brother. Do not move from your location. Creation of extraction point commencing.’

The concourse shuddered from a shell impact, the roof caving in a hundred metres ahead of Sammael. Two more battle cannon blasts smashed a large hole through the ferrocrete through which the navigation lamps of the Thunderhawk blazed. The harsh blue of plasma jets lit the concourse as the Thunderhawk descended, stopping with its nose within the breach like a hound sniffing at the bolthole of its prey. With a whine of hydraulics the boarding ramp lowered, turning the rubble beneath to powder.

‘Come aboard, brother.’

THE PURIFICATION

Hunkered next to the pock-marked shell of the pump, Telemenus fired again, placing a shot squarely into the chest of an ork pulling itself up a ladder to one of the roofs in front of the Space Marines. The alien fell back to the ground, landing on top of another ork. Pushing itself free of the body, the green-skinned warrior was an easy target for Telemenus’s next shot, which turned the side of its skull into a blossom of blood and brains.

The floor of the pumping chamber was piled with the greenskin dead, many of them charred from the flamer; smoke from burning shacks choked the air. In the firelight, the bestial warriors roared and raged, pressed back for the moment by the weight of fire unleashed by the five Dark Angels. The enemy waited in the shadows, red eyes glinting, perhaps sensing that their foes would soon be vulnerable to another charge.

‘Last magazine,’ Telemenus told the others as he reloaded.

‘The laurels are yours brother,’ said Cadael. The ragged hole in the armour above his elbow leaked blood occasionally as he moved. He had little motion in the wounded arm and rested his bolter against the corner of the pump housing for extra stability as he fired with his other hand. ‘You are a credit to the Fifth Company.’

‘I have exceeded the mark by four kills already,’ replied Telemenus. ‘The tally will be higher shortly.’

‘We may not see the award given,’ said Achamenon. He pulled a grenade from his belt, armed it and tossed the explosive overhand, looping into a shed-like lean-to beside one of the workshops. Two seconds later the corrugated metal exploded outwards, showering body parts of the gretchin that had been cowering within. ‘Still, the honour will be yours even in death.’

‘One hundred thousand bolter kills is a remarkable achievement, brother,’ said Amanael. ‘It is a privilege to fight alongside you.’

Telemenus had never really considered the raw number of kills before; it had existed as only an abstract target to achieve. When he had gained the marksman’s award at fifty thousand he had thought nothing of it, and now that he had earned the laurels for that award it seemed inconsequential. Despite their dire situation, there was only one thought in Telemenus’s head.

‘Each fallen foe moves me towards the golden skull for a quarter of a million kills,’ he said to the others. ‘Only seventeen brothers have ever reached that mark. A shame that I have not enough bolts for every foe we face here.’

‘Have mine, brother. You can make better use of them.’ said Cadael. He laid his bolter against the pumping machine and drew a magazine from his belt with his good hand, tossing it to his grateful battle-brother. Telemenus caught the magazine easily, slapping it to his thigh, the bonding plate on the side of the magazine sticking to his armour. Cadael left his bolter where it was and drew his knife, the monomolecular-edged blade shining in the light of the flames.

‘Gratitude, brother,’ said Telemenus. He sighted on a particularly bulky greenskin half-hidden behind a pile of debris from a toppled building. It was pointing at the Dark Angels and bellowing at its companions, no doubt giving the call to attack. Telemenus smiled as he pulled the trigger, sending three bolts into the ork leader’s chest and head. It collapsed onto the rubble, howls of shock erupting from the warriors around it. ‘Be assured they will not be wasted.’

‘They are readying to come again, brothers,’ warned Amanael. The sergeant gestured behind the squad, indicating the doorway to the vaporisation vat by which they had entered. ‘Fall back on my command and we will make a choke point at the exit.’

The sergeant was not willing to meekly turn tail and raised his bolt pistol as a group of orks came running around a building only a dozen metres ahead, waving cleavers and serrated swords, guns spitting shells and las-bolts.

Telemenus was not sure for a moment what happened next. His sergeant fired into the press of aliens, targeting the closest. A massive detonation hurled orks in every direction, bodies ragged with cuts, limbs hewn away by the unexpected blast. Only after his autosenses returned did Telemenus see the telltale vapour trail of a missile. Following it back to its source, the Dark Angel saw Brother Nethor to the left, the squad’s missile launcher on his shoulder. With him was the rest of Squad Amanael, advancing swiftly, their bolters spewing a storm of fire.

‘Praise the Lion,’ laughed Daellon. ‘You took your damned time, brothers!’

‘You have been entertaining most of these beasts, but not all,’ came the reply from Saphael, the combat squad leader.

The growl of engines sounded across the pumping hall and black shapes darted through the flames: three Ravenwing attack bikes. In the armoured sidecar of each was mounted a heavy weapon, unleashing a furious salvo as the machines skidded into view between two buildings a few dozen metres in front of Telemenus. A beam from a lascannon sliced through an ork as it turned towards this new threat, cutting it in half, while bursts from the heavy bolters of the other two machines stitched bloody holes across more of the greenskins.

‘And you have brought us more friends,’ said Cadael. ‘How thoughtful of you to share the glory.’

‘The Grand Master insisted his company lent their aid,’ Saphael told them as he and the other combat squad ran across the hall to rejoin their battle-brothers. The orks had been thrown into disarray by the unexpected attack and were caught between the Fifth Company squad and the attack bikes, ineffectually firing at both.

Halted again, Nethor fired another missile, the fragmentation warhead scything down three more orks as they broke into a loping run towards the squad. Telemenus sent a bolt into one of the greenskins as it tried to push itself up despite missing a leg. He turned to Nethor who was now standing to his left, his stance braced, firing on full automatic.

‘A spare magazine, brother?’ Telemenus said as he loaded the one given to him by Cadael. ‘I am running a little short.’

‘I am sure you are, brother,’ replied Nemean. ‘You have earned enough honour today, it is time you allowed the rest of us a fair attempt at the foe.’

‘We will resupply when we link up with the rest of the company,’ Amanael assured them as Telemenus emptied the magazine into the remaining orks.

There were still thirty or forty orks still alive, and they were converging on the squad from ahead and to the right, snarling and bellowing. The attack bikes circled around to the left, preparing for another drive-past.

‘I would prefer to defend myself than rely on the charity of others,’ Telemenus complained, ejecting his spent magazine.

‘That is why we have knives, brother,’ said Cadael, holding up his blade. ‘There is yet time for you to start earning the swordsman’s award, yes?’

Hooking his bolter on his hip, Telemenus drew his knife and looked at it. In two hundred and twenty-three years since becoming a full battle-brother he had killed only four hundred and seven foes with it, compared to the immense tally of his bolter. Even in the press of melee he preferred his bolter, and many were the times that a point-blank shot had served him better than fifty centimetres of razor-sharp plasteel.

Telemenus looked at the orks, now barely twenty metres away, charging at full-speed despite the fire of his squad-brothers. Many of the aliens toppled and tumbled from the fusillade, and though sensing defeat the enemy struck with venomous spite, determined to exact some kind of payment for their fallen. The blade felt light compared to his bolter, flimsy and weak. It was no weapon for a true warrior, more useful for cutting into rations containers and prying open ammunition crates.

‘Needs must when the Lion turns a blind eye,’ he muttered to himself, launching himself at the orks as they closed with the squad. Around him the others met the attack with blade and bolter too.

With his right arm Telemenus batted aside a pistol shoved into his face, driving the point of the knife in his left hand through the eye of the ork. Amazingly, the creature did not fall, but wrenched its head back, pulling free of the blade with its eyeball still attached to the knife. A cacophony of impacts rang in the Space Marine’s ears as the alien fired, a cloud of metal pellets scattering from Telemenus’s helm, one of them ricocheting back into the open mouth of the beast, felling it as blood fountained from the top of its scalp.

There was no time to process the unlikely demise of the ork as another smashed headlong into Telemenus, trying to barrel him from his feet. His armour locked at the first moment of impact and the charging alien slammed into him with the same effect as running into a solid wall, its head bouncing from the Space Marine’s midriff. Telemenus drove his dagger into its spine as it tried to stand, separating the vertebrae with a twist. Its legs paralysed, the ork collapsed while Telemenus pulled his knife free. With a sneer of distaste the Dark Angel stamped on the wounded alien’s head, crushing it to a pulp beneath the tread of his boot.

While his squad-brothers spat battle-cries and sang litanies, Telemenus fought in silence, as collected and calm as if he were on a firing range. He saw the gleam of a powered axe just in time to dodge aside from the sweeping blade, cognisant of the danger posed by such a weapon, which would make a mockery of his armour if it struck. He lashed out with a fist, breaking the ork’s jaw and cracking teeth. As thick blood trickled from its lips, the ork seemed to laugh; a laugh that was cut short by Telemenus’s knife slashing across its throat.

‘Hand-to-hand is so... barbaric,’ Telemenus commented to the others as a maul smashed across his left pauldron, showering splinters of ceramite. He grabbed the handle of the weapon as the ork tried again, aiming for his face. With a twist of his arm the Dark Angel pulled the club from the alien’s grip. The creature lunged forwards to regain its weapon, but was met by Telemenus’s swing, the jagged head of the maul cracking open the side of the creature’s skull. He let the bloodied weapon fall from his grasp onto the dead ork’s body and stepped forward to confront the next foe. ‘It is so brutal and wild.’

The roaring of Amanael’s chainsword sounded to the Dark Angel’s right, a second before the sergeant’s weapon lopped the head from an ork ahead of Telemenus. Realising there were no more foes in front, the two of them turned, only to find that the orks were all dead. Amongst the heap of bodies lay Cadael, his armour awash with alien blood, his armour scored and cracked in dozens of places. Telemenus feared the worst and stepped forward, speaking his battle-brother’s name. The toppled Space Marine pushed aside a corpse and sat up, shaking his head.

‘You were supposed to watch my back, brother,’ Cadael said as he offered up his good arm to be hauled to his feet. Telemenus assisted him and bowed his head in shame.

‘Apologies, brother, I became distracted,’ he said.

‘You shall receive fresh instruction in squad combat doctrine when we return to the strike cruiser,’ said Amanael. ‘You have grown so fond of your bolter you have forgotten the lessons of the mêlée. It is fortunate that Brother Cadael has not suffered further injury.’

‘Had Brother Nemeon furnished me with the ammunition I requested it would not have been an issue,’ replied Telemenus. ‘I would have been better placed to defend my brother if armed properly.’

‘No harm suffered,’ said Cadael, laying his hand on the arm of Telemenus. ‘Your apology is accepted.’

‘No.’ Amanael’s sharp word stung like a whip to Telemenus’s pride. ‘You are becoming insular and selfish, Telemenus. Apology is not enough. You risk contempt of your brothers with this behaviour. You will make further amends as I deem required.’

‘There is no contempt, brother-sergeant, I assure you,’ Telemenus argued. ‘I was distracted, that is all.’

‘Your deeds speak differently to your words,’ Amanael said, turning away. The Ravenwing attack bikes were advancing slowly towards the squad, moving between the piles of orkish casualties, the riders putting rounds from their bolt pistols into any alien that still moved. ‘Offer no further argument, my judgement has been made. Do not embarrass us in front of the Second Company.’

‘I submit to your will, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, lowering to one knee in deference to his superior.

‘Good.’ Amanael beckoned to Nemeon with a finger. ‘Brother, give Telemenus a spare magazine, if you have one.’

Still shamed, Telemenus mumbled his thanks as Nemeon proffered the ammunition. He stood up, sheathed his knife and loaded his bolter, feeling better the moment the magazine slid into place.

‘Sergeant Seraphiel is mustering the company grid-north,’ said Saphael, pointing past the smouldering ruins of the ork settlement. ‘About three hundred metres. We should move.’

‘Good,’ said Amanael. ‘Take lead, brother. Apollon, accompany Brother Cadael until we can render him into the care of the Apothecary.’

‘I can still fight, brother-sergeant!’ protested Cadael as Saphael led the squad into the ruins.

‘Only just,’ replied the sergeant. ‘If Gideon cannot improve the mobility in your arm you will return to the rearguard at the main breach.’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ Cadael said with a heavy sigh. ‘As you command.’

‘I want to hear no more complaint or bickering,’ Amanael said. ‘We still have a stern test to face. These ‘Divine’ will not be as easy to defeat as the Unworthy, I am sure. We must keep our wits sharp and our weapons ready.’

The words were spoken to the whole squad but Telemenus felt them directed at him in particular.

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ he chorused with the others as the squad advanced into the fire and smoke.

STRANGE FORCES

Following behind Sammael, as the Grand Master and his command squad followed the circular transitway that ran around Port Imperial’s central tower, Epistolary Harahel felt uneasy. The encounters with the cannibal cults had left him suspicious of some deeper motive behind the existence of the Unworthy. He had not spoken of the matter with Sammael or Malcifer but he was sure that they each harboured similar disconcerting thoughts.

He had mind-scanned a few of the Unworthy and found nothing more sinister than misguided teachings of cannibalistic resurrectionism. They had only ever eaten their own dead in the belief that the souls of the deceased would be reborn again in future generations. It was part of the Overlord’s mechanism to control the renegades, making them believe they were a favoured people, cutting off contact with outsiders. It was an effective measure to instil fervent loyalty and fanatical devotion in the Unworthy, and having achieved higher status those who were selected to become Divine owed their success to the patronage of the Overlord.

The squad passed over an enclosed bridge, the tunnels of the rail system beneath. Through crystalflex panels in the ceiling Harahel could see the spire stretching up towards the stars, its surface pinpricked by windows, their white light harsh and sharp in the vacuum outside the station. Above the tower flickered three blue stars; the plasma engines of the Implacable Justice seen against the darkness as the strike cruiser orbited above Port Imperial.

In many of the spire’s arching windows there were reflected flames from the starships’ bombardment, the battery magazines and power housings ablaze while oxygen from the breaches fuelled fires that danced as shimmers in the distant windows. Amongst the ruin of the rest of the star fort, the central spire rose untouched; Sammael had not wished risking the death of the Overlord by attacking the tower directly. It was the starlight and tower lights and firelight that illuminated the transitway with rectangles of shifting brightness, the black-armoured command squad passing in and out of the darkness as they raced along the road. The metronomic changes between light and dark were almost hypnotic.

As the tunnelway dipped back towards the foundation plate of the station Harahel felt something at the edge of his perception. His instincts were telling him something was amiss and he pulled over his bike so that he could concentrate. Noticing this manoeuvre, Sammael brought the squad to a halt a short way ahead and over the comm made inquiries about the nature of the delay. Harahel said nothing but held up a hand to signal for the interruptions to cease.

He had come to a stop in one of the patches of light from the overhead windows. Dismounting, the Epistolary looked up at the spear-thrust of the spire and then closed his eyes, picturing the tower in his mind. He allowed his othersense to strengthen, his mind flowing from the confines of his head, his soul detaching from its mortal vessel to seek the truth.

Blue sparks flared along the cables of the Librarian’s psychic hood and danced across the lenses of his helm. He felt the warp opening up like a gulf beneath him, the ground shifting to a maelstrom of energy under his feet. Like quicksand sucking him down, Harahel felt the warp drawing him in, trying to drown him. It was only a momentary sensation and one that he had been trained long ago to dismiss. The whirling gulf narrowed as Harahel exerted his will, drawing together the edges of the ravine that sought to topple him into the immaterium. Leaving only the tiniest cracks in his mind, through which the power of the warp could pass into real space, the Epistolary focused on the tower.

He could feel dozens, scores of minds. There were two hundred and thirty-five, all of them adult humans, but touched by something else. He did not want to delve too deeply for the moment, but widened the crack into the warp a little more to allow a greater flow of energy into his mind. With this he was able to reach out further, sensing the gestalt entity of the Divine.

All thought, all emotion, all life made ripples in the warp. The lives and thoughts of a normal human were brief flickers that barely registered. The minds of psykers were like candle flames or bright bonfires depending upon their power. Where there was similarity of purpose, the thoughts gathered, like attracting like. The Dark Angels’ purpose was like an iron curtain across the warp, forged from faith and courage. It was a near-impenetrable barrier. For the Unworthy, it had been pools of despair, surrounded by a miasma of bleakness yet each of them had also lit the warp with a flickering spark of hope. The after-images of the orks’ psyche was dimming, a roaring green wave that had pulsed and thrashed during the battle and was now subsiding.

From the tower, from the minds of the fighters within, Harahel sensed very little. There was a background buzz of blood and war, but that was only to be expected from a cadre of pirates and murderers. The Epistolary could not quite identify the binding sensation of the Divine, too few perhaps or maybe the Overlord had taught them techniques for shielding themselves from psychic attack; one of the Fallen could well know such tricks. Certainly the enemy were masked in some part by their false faith in the Overlord, shielding them from the warp as the pure faith of the Space Marines guarded their minds.

Seeking more power Harahel opened up the breach into the warp just a little further still, though nowhere near the boundary of his ability to tap into its energy. Even so, he felt nauseous, a sensation he had not felt for many years. His gene-seed-modified organs did not sicken easily and nor was his physiologically-improved body prone to dizziness or vomiting. Yet on touching the power of the warp and the minds of the Divine, Harahel felt something utterly corrupt. The feel of it was slick on his skin and cloying in his nostrils, stinging his eyes and making his ears ring.

He choked, coughing just once, before recovering. Even this momentary lapse had not gone unnoticed by Sammael.

‘Brother, what is it?’ the Grand Master asked. ‘Is it psychic attack?’

‘Worse,’ Harahel replied over the command channel, his words for Sammael and Malcifer. He coughed again, trying to clear a lump in his throat that he knew was only in his mind. ‘There is something more to the enemy than we know.’

‘And of the Overlord?’ asked Malcifer, turning his bike around and riding back to the Librarian. ‘Do you detect the Overlord?’

‘Alas, no, Brother-Chaplain,’ Harahel replied with a shake of the head. Malcifer growled but the Librarian sought to dampen the Chaplain’s frustration. ‘It is not conclusive. The effect of the Divine forced me to break the scan before I was able to register on individual minds. It may be that we are dealing with one of the Fallen Librarians.’

This news was greeted with silence and Harahel knew well why it was such a cause for concern. All Fallen were corrupt, their treachery confirmed as such. Some had descended further than others, though, and there were some Fallen who gratefully accepted the judgement and mercy of the Chapter. Many of the Fallen were simply renegades, but also many of them had turned to the worship of the Dark Powers of Chaos. So far, every Fallen who had been a psyker was in the latter category.

According to the records of the Librarium, there had been twenty-eight psykers on Caliban when the Lion had returned from fighting Horus, and of those three were accounted for in the fighting, which left twenty-five psykers of varying skill, power and discipline. The Chapter had found seventeen in the last ten thousand years and Harahel considered it a good omen that they may have discovered another. Despite this, apprehending the Overlord would be dangerous. Combining the discipline of a Space Marine Librarian – and Harahel had no idea of the rank the Overlord had attained before turning on the primarch – and the raw power of the Chaos sorcerer, the Fallen Librarian would not allow himself to be taken meekly.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Sammael.

‘Of course not, brother,’ said the Librarian. ‘Nothing we know at the moment is for sure. We have still to prove beyond doubt that the Fallen are still here, or were ever here. With that borne in mind, the conditioning of the Unworthy, the psychic barrier protecting the Divine, both point to the interference of a psyker. Whether present or not, I could only say if I press further with my scans.’

‘Is that hazardous?’ asked Malcifer. ‘What threat does this psyker pose if you do so?’

‘I am unwilling to risk a direct psychic confrontation at this time,’ Harahel told them. ‘For all that we can say, the Divine are also psykers, and it is a measure of talent that separates them from the Unworthy. It would be prideful to assume that my mind is strong enough to resist or defeat a foe that has access to the raw power of... of the Empyrean Dwellers to draw upon. Against such energy my psychic hood might prove insufficient defence.’

‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked Sammael. ‘Should I alter the attack plan?’

‘Not for the moment, Grand Master,’ said Harahel. ‘We shall be in the vanguard of the attack and so I will be on hand to deliver a fresher verdict once we have encountered the foe directly. You may wish to issue warning to the rest of the force, to be aware of possible psychic manipulation or attack.’

‘Better to be prepared than sorrowful,’ agreed Sammael. ‘Is there any particular reason why we should remain at this place?’

Harahel looked around but neither saw nor felt anything remarkable about the stretch of bridge they were on.

‘No, it is simply where we were when I felt the disturbance,’ said the Librarian.

‘What disturbance?’ said Malcifer. ‘A warp-related event?’

‘No fear of a breach,’ Harahel assured the Chaplain, realising that Malcifer was skirting around the subject of daemonic intrusion. ‘There is nothing here to suggest the veil is any weaker. If the Overlord is a pawn of the Dark Powers he has not entreated them to send otherworldly minions at his behest. I think it is simply that the inner tower has wards placed upon it, to guard against psychic attack. It is dampening my powers and it was this effect that I sensed as we approached closer.’

‘What could have such an effect at this range?’ said Sammael. ‘It is a powerful psyker that can suppress his abilities nearly half a kilometre distant. The tower itself would take immense reserves of psychic energy to shield.

‘When we approached, you noted that Port Imperial’s void shields were inoperative, correct?’

‘Yes, there should be several banks of void shields protecting a star fort such as this. None were activated in defence of the station.’

‘An intriguing possibility suggests itself,’ said Harahel as he stepped across his bike. He and Malcifer rejoined the others and Sammael signalled for the squad to continue towards their rendezvous with other elements of the Ravenwing force. ‘It is highly speculative, though. I should not waste time with idle chatter. We should concentrate on the execution of the battle plan.’

‘Be brief, brother, and no distraction will be incurred,’ said Sammael. ‘Tell us what intrigues you.’

‘Often when a star fort such as this is moved from system to system, it must be evacuated – it has no Geller fields to protect the populace while in the warp. Specialist teams from the Navigator houses and the scholastica psykana must be brought in to guide the fort through the warp whilst protected by battle psykers. Void shields utilise warp energy to create a defensive barrier, in effect an omni-directional warp portal that displaces incoming matter and energy.’

Harahel stopped, realising he was rambling slightly, telling his companions what they already knew. He focused on the point of his explanation.

‘The sensation I felt was not dissimilar to the warp-suppression effect of a Geller field. The Overlord could possibly have used the warp cores of the void shields to create a Geller-type effect.’

‘That seems to be a lot of effort expended to counter the rare eventuality that Port Imperial would be discovered and that it would come under psychic attack,’ said Malcifer.

‘You misinterpret my hypothesis, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Harahel. There were sealed doors ahead and the squadron slowed. In less than a minute they would be back with other members of the company and the Librarian’s speculation would have to end. ‘The Overlord could be preparing to move Port Imperial through the warp.’

‘A roving battlestation?’ said Sammael, not quite masking his incredulity.

‘A one-way journey, by my estimation. The field encloses only the province of the Divine, not the rest of the station. The areas inhabited by the Unworthy would be left open to the raw element of the warp. Perhaps that is even the Overlord’s intent, to smooth passage with his infernal masters with a sacrifice of his people?’

‘Disturbing,’ said Sammael. ‘Speak no more of this idea for the moment. We shall discuss it further when the spire has been won.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Harahel, bringing his bike to a stop with the others while Daedis accessed the door controls.

The doors hissed open, revealing a plaza-like area at the conjunction of several corridors. The command squadron moved forwards to join the rest of the Ravenwing force at the area designated Assault Zone Alpha. Several Land Speeders floated close by, two attack bikes and two bike squadrons with them. To the left was a single passageway that gently rose up towards the central spire. It was one of half a dozen entrances that Sammael had identified as routes of attack. The Ravenwing and Fifth Company would assault together, the bikes and Land Speeders securing the main access and transit routes while the Fifth Company cleared the tower level-by-level.

Checking the chronometer display of his bike, Harahel saw there were forty-five seconds until the attack began. Letting just a chink open between his mind and the warp, he surveyed the tower beyond the gate at the end of the passage. He felt nothing; no life at all. Checking the digital display, he saw that the energy reading from his bike’s sensors confirmed his psychic scan. There were no enemies directly guarding the doorway.

‘The portal is undefended,’ he said to Sammael, surprised.

‘I know, and I like it not,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘Scans from the Implacable Justice place them at three main areas in the upper levels of the spire. We can expect the road ahead to have been prepared for us.’ The vox-bead in Harahel’s ear hissed as the Grand Master changed to the company-wide channel.

‘The enemy have been expecting us for some time and have made suitable welcome, I am sure,’ Sammael told his warriors. ‘So far we have encountered dregs of this rebel force. The Divine who hold the central spire may be tougher opposition but they are no match for the Dark Angels. The Emperor is on our side and with the righteousness of our cause to propel us we shall overcome all foes. This cohort forms the last defence of Port Imperial and when they are vanquished victory will be ours. Strike hard, strike swift, strike sure. For the Emperor! Praise the Lion!’

‘Praise the Lion,’ whispered Harahel, pulling his force axe free. Its blade sprang into crackling life as he eased part of his psychic power through the crystalline matrix embedded in the weapon. ‘Praise the Lion, indeed.’

THE DIVINE

The interior of the central tower was in the same state of disrepair as the rest of the star fort, a fact that surprised Telemenus. The squad, minus Cadael who had been deemed unfit for battle by Apothecary Gideon, had pushed into the spire with the other squads of the Fifth Company, advancing into a cordon set up by the swift-moving attack of the Ravenwing. Establishing a perimeter at the major transport hub at the heart of the tower, the Ravenwing had pushed up several levels via the system of conveyors and goods elevators that reached two-thirds of the way to the summit of the tower.

As expected, the foe offered no initial resistance and while several squads of the Fifth had been allocated to provide rearguard to the advancing forces, Squad Amanael was at the forefront of the Dark Angels’ thrust. They currently occupied a split-level apartment complex in a subsidiary tower to grid-northwest of the main spire. Such furnishings as they discovered were mouldering, the wood of couches and tables rotted through, the painted plaster on the walls crumbling.

Having established their position, only a few hundred metres from a skybridge that linked the central tower to an offshoot complex believed to be the enemy command base, the squad were waiting for the Ravenwing to report back from their scouting missions.

Standing in a one of the living areas, through a window Telemenus could see the enemy-held complex, like a spar across a mast extending several hundred metres to either side of the tower, each end of the spar tipped by a hexagonal structure. He turned to the others as they cleared out the other rooms of the apartment.

‘Why would the warrior elite live in the same squalor as the Unworthy?’ he asked, of no one in particular. He prodded a dilapidated chair with the toe of his boot, causing it to collapse into a pile of splinters and dust. ‘Surely the aspiration to the status of Divine is based upon a desire for superior accommodation, authority and privileges?’

‘Do you seek such things, brother?’ replied Amanael. ‘Are the trappings of status your goal when you strive for the Chapter?’

‘Of course not, brother-sergeant,’ Telemenus replied quickly, still conscious of the chastisement Amanael had meted out after the confrontation with the orks. ‘We are different. We are bonded together by brotherhood and service to the Emperor. Honour is the reward of dutiful service. You cannot compare this rabble with the Chapter, surely?’

‘Many different people fight for many different reasons,’ said Amanael. He nodded to Daellon to investigate a stairwell at the far side of the living space. The sweep was purely down to doctrine; no signal registered on the auspex within three hundred metres of their current position. ‘Some fight for anger, for temporal gain or in a bid for power. Others are driven by survival, love and duty. Although our foes exhibit barbaric practices and have become piratical parasites it is an error to assume that they desire only physical reward. The names themselves, the Unworthy and the Divine, indicate that this particular nest of pirates has a spiritual core, however flawed it may be.’

‘So the Unworthy aspire to become Divine out of a sense of higher purpose? If that is the case, why would they turn from the Emperor in the first place?’

‘You are too simplistic sometimes, brother,’ said Daellon, returning from his foray into the lower level. ‘The Emperor alone knows how long this station has been renegade. The collapse of fundamental systems and the divergent society of the renegades suggest it is some considerable time, several generations. They did not become the Unworthy overnight.’

‘Why does this occupy you?’ asked Amanael. ‘The corrupt nature of our foes is evident, why do you seek to understand their motives further?’

‘Idle curiosity, brother-sergeant.’

‘No curiosity is idle,’ Amanael said, motioning for the other two Space Marines to follow as he headed back towards the apartment entranceway. He led them out onto the balconied landing overlooking the other apartments, the rest of the squad assembling in the concourse below. ‘Do not allow the ways of the Ravenwing to colour your thoughts, Telemenus. One needs to know only enough about the foe to defeat them. Excessive interest in external cultures breeds doubt, and doubt brings dereliction of duty.’

‘As you say, brother-sergeant.’ Telemenus strode down the ramp leading to the others, walking beside his sergeant. ‘Perhaps idle was the wrong word. I confess that since Piscina I have become vexed by the nature of treachery. If we are to guard against the forces of rebellion, and to see the seed of it in others, we must understand it. Do you not agree, brother-sergeant?’

‘A would-be Grand Master,’ said Amanael, ‘who seeks greater understanding of the enemy. It is not our place nor our burden to think on such matters. Should you be honoured enough to be elevated to a position of command no doubt you will be occupied by these wider considerations. For the moment, be content that we act against the renegade and the heretic without mercy. It is not fit to wonder why they are misguided, nor is it your duty to seek empathy with them.’

Though he was not satisfied with this response, Telemenus knew better than to press the point further or ask more questions. He found it remarkable that Amanael, who had shown himself to be an insightful and gifted warrior and leader, could care so little about the motivations of their enemy.

A thought occurred to Telemenus as the squad departed the complex, heading back to the main through-channel that ran crosswise through the whole width of the tower. Perhaps it was Amanael’s dedication and focus that made him such a good candidate for leadership. A warrior with his honours and history should have been promoted to the First Company half a century earlier, but Amanael steadfastly remained a sergeant in the Fifth and seemed not only content but proud of that fact. He revelled in his strict adherence to the Chapter codes, and although he always gave fair hearing to the opinions of the battle-brothers, Amanael also countenanced no lack of discipline or dispute.

‘Hold position,’ ordered the sergeant as they headed grid-north along the broad corridor. They waited for a short while before Amanael spoke again. ‘We have fresh orders, brothers.’

The enemy headquarters could only be reached by securing the spar on which it was built. Scanner and Ravenwing reports had determined that the Divine were holding their positions at the entrances to the spar and fierce resistance was expected. The task of the Fifth Company was to drive a gap through the defenders, allowing the Ravenwing to pass through the enemy lines and attack from the rear. Amanael’s squad were the closest to the grid-east entrance and they set off as other squads mustered for the attack.

Passing along connecting walkways and corridors, cutting through deserted rooms that seemed as abandoned as the rest of the station, the squad made swift progress. Two hundred metres from their objective Apollon called their attention to the readings on his auspex.

‘Signals, in the chamber at the end of the corridor, on the right,’ he warned. ‘Unknown but significant number.’

‘Full attack,’ said Amanael.

‘Should we not wait for the others?’ suggested Nemeon. ‘Attack in force?’

‘We are nine warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, what manner of foe do you think we face?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Form up for attack. Achamenon and Telemenus take lead.’

Each side of the corridor was lined with wide archways, through which Telemenus could see large halls. He assumed that once they had perhaps been meeting chambers of the station’s elite. He could see the ragged remains of banners and tapestries on the walls, their designs long-faded and obscured with decades of grime. Fifty metres ahead the corridor opened out into the broad concourse of a transportation terminal, covered with a large dome of crystalflex and plasteel. The tiled floor was heavily cracked, the panes of glass so smeared with a patina of filth that nothing could be seen of the stars beyond. Lampposts flickered and crackled, bathing the concourse in fitful patches of yellow light.

There were remnants of counters and desks spread across the open area and more faded banners hung from chains above, while others lay draped over what remained of the furnishings, slashed and burned. Above, a gallery stretched three-quarters of the way around the edge of the chamber and on the left Telemenus could see rows of lifeless cogitator consoles through a line of arched windows.

With a gesture, Apollon indicated a set of double-doors a dozen metres along the wall to the right. Telemenus and Achamenon took up position on either side of the entrance while the rest of the squad dispersed across the concourse, taking up positions to cover the other doorways and the balcony.

Telemenus inspected the doors. Like the rest of the wood on the station, they were eaten through by insects and rot, and slicked with moss. Despite their size, they seemed to be little obstacle to entry.

‘After you, brother,’ he said, motioning with his bolter to Achamenon.

The other Space Marine nodded and stepped squarely in front of the portal. With a single well-placed kicked he smashed through the wood, the doors tumbling from rusted hinges.

Half a second later an explosion engulfed Achamenon with a hail of red-hot shrapnel. The Dark Angel was thrown back by the blast, clattering to the tiled floor. Molten metal and jagged shards studded his armour from waist to helm, the ceramite outer casing of his plastron shorn away by the force of the explosion to expose inner fibre bundles and reinforced cabling.

Telemenus reacted immediately, stepping between his wounded battle-brother and the doorway, bolter ready, providing physical cover while one of the others attended to Achamenon.

The room beyond was large, bigger than even the pumping chamber where the orks had made their lair. It was a cathedral of some sort, its high-vaulted ceiling thirty metres above Telemenus’s head. Rows of decaying pews stretched for a hundred metres, the floor covered with carpet that had once been red, the colour showing through in patches amongst a slick of dirt. The detonation of the trap had thrown up a huge cloud of dust and stirred hundreds of flies and beetles, which flitted back and forth in the dim red light of fixtures hanging like censers from the ceiling.

There was a shallow crater in the floor just behind the doorway and the nearest benches and fittings had been torn apart by the blast, a ring of black spread across the ground. Pieces of debris littered the doorway.

Beyond the main floor, the hall was raised up to a dais bordered by a rail of rusted ironwork. It was from here that the ministers of the Ecclesiarch would have held forth with their sermons and the remains of a stone altar – deliberately toppled and broken – dominated the centre of the raised area.

It was also from here, and on walkways lining the hall to the left and right, that the Divine opened fire.

In the moment before the hail of fire engulfed him, Telemenus glimpsed armoured warriors. They did not wear suits of power armour, but the figures he saw wore some form of exo-skeletal harnesses fitted with roughly cut metal plates. Their heads were encased with helms that hid their faces behind gold-mirrored visors. Fortunately for him, their weapons were no better than those of the Unworthy and his armour weathered the storm of fire for half a second before he retreated out of the enemy line of fire.

‘Twenty-five, in superior firing positions,’ he reported as he grabbed the arm of Achamenon and dragged him away from the door, Daellon and Nemeon sprinting past to secure either side of the breached door. ‘Crude armour, basic weapons.’

The others in the squad opened fire as more of the enemy poured onto the gallery overlooking the concourse, their fire falling upon the Dark Angels from two directions. Telemenus raked the edge of the balcony opposite, forcing back the figures that appeared there.

‘Brother, respond,’ snapped Amanael, kneeling beside Achamenon.

Telemenus looked at the fallen Space Marine, knowing that what he saw was not encouraging. Blood pumped from several deep wounds at Achemenon’s groin and stomach. The explosive must have had some form of shaped charge to punch through the armour, and the mangle of cables and flesh that had once been Achemenon’s abdomen had been melted through as if hit by a plasma bolt.

As Daellon and Nemeon unleashed their bolters from the doorway into the shrine room, Telemenus looked between them into the temple-hall. With more time to study the environment, he noticed the coil of wires and suspicious-looking boxes threaded around the lines of pews; more charges. He turned back to Amanael, who was attempting to reach Apothecary Gideon on the comm, still knelt beside Achamenon.

‘Brother-sergeant, our foes have made the whole area a deathtrap,’ he said. ‘You must warn the rest of the force.’

‘I have already informed the Grand Master,’ replied the sergeant, standing up. ‘Daellon, see if the flamer can deal with some of the devices. Telemenus, ready frag grenades.’

Doing as he was ordered, Telemenus moved back from the door just as Daellon stepped out. The fire of the Divine greeted the Dark Angel but he was undeterred, firing a three-second burst from the flamer before retreating. Detonations rocked the hall, sending a cloud of dust and wooden shards billowing through the open door.

‘The damned fools placed the charges too close together,’ said Daellon as more charges were set off by the detonations, cascading along the hall with a noise like a long roll of thunder.

‘Attack!’ snarled Amanael. His chainsword growled into motion as he stepped towards the door. ‘Full attack!’

Apollon and Nemeon stood back-to-back near the centre of the concourse, firing up at the gallery. Under the cover of their fire, the rest of the squad assembled by the door. Daellon stepped aside to allow Nethor to take up his position. The Dark Angel angled his missile launcher through the doorway and fired. A moment later, Telemenus charged into the shrine on the heels of Amanael, sprinting to clear the door for the others. The missile exploded on the altar stage, hurling fragmented marble and shrapnel through the Divine lurking there.

The hall was lined with ferrocrete columns broad enough to provide shelter even for a Space Marine. Telemenus headed for the closest as bullets whistled past, crashing into the pillar shoulder-first as he skidded to a halt.

Saphael and Menthius advanced more boldly, firing with the bolters as they strode to the left, picking out targets on the gallery above. The flare of their bolts lit the gloom, the spark of detonations flashing along the balustrade sheltering the enemy. Amanael stood just inside the door, snapping off shots with his bolt pistol, oblivious to the fire of the foe.

‘Reward their defiance with death,’ the sergeant told his squad, waving them on with his chainsword. ‘Swiftly, brothers.’

Telemenus stepped out from behind the column and sighted on the Divine taking cover on the altar dais. Seeing them more clearly now, beneath their crude armour they wore much the same outfits as the other pirates. He realised that the harnesses were modified cargo-haulage suits, used by labourers for loading and unloading stores. The helms were also from the station’s original personnel, intended for use outside the star fort to prevent blindness from star glare.

His bolt smashed through the golden visor of an enemy warrior, sending the Divine reeling back. From a raised pulpit at the right-hand end of the dais, two more manned a tripod-mounted heavy bolter. Explosive rounds shrieked into the pillar next to Telemenus as the Space Marine adjusted his aim towards this new threat. One of the heavy bolter’s rounds hit him in the arm as he opened fire, causing his burst of fire to pass harmlessly over the heads of the Divine.

Reassessing his position, Telemenus moved back behind the column and emerged from the other side, sending a flurry of bolts into the heavy weapon position. The wooden rail of the pulpit turned to splinters and the Divine were cut down, the heavy bolter toppling over as one of them slumped across it, missing an arm.

A plasma bolt seared across the cathedral from the gallery above Telemenus. He watched it smash into the smouldering remains of the pew beside Menthius. The Dark Angel spun on his heel and returned fire, sending a flash of bolts over Telemenus’s head.

‘More enemies, coming from grid-west,’ Apollon reported from back on the concourse.

‘Brother Seraphiel, how long until you reach our position?’ Amanael asked over the comm. The sergeant broke into a run, heading down the aisle between the burning pews towards the altar. ‘Heavy resistance encountered.’

‘Disengage and push through to the accessway,’ came the reply. ‘Squads arriving at your position in three minutes, they will provide rearguard.’

‘Acknowledged, brother-sergeant,’ said Amanael. Through a hail of enemy fire the sergeant leapt up the steps to the dais with one bound. His chainsword swept left and right, bolt pistol blazing in his other hand as he charged into the Divine.

‘Plasma gunner still alive,’ warned Menthius. ‘Right above you, Telemenus.’

Glancing up, Telemenus readied a frag grenade.

‘Watch this,’ he said, stepping out from under the balcony. He tossed up the grenade, bouncing it from a column so that it arced easily over the rail of the gallery. Even before it detonated, he unleashed a fusillade of bolts through the wooden panelling lining the gallery, and a moment later the frag grenade exploded, sending bodies and debris tumbling around Telemenus.

One of the Divine crashed to the floor just in front of Telemenus. The enemy fighter wore a padded jerkin beneath his armoured exoskeleton, revealing heavily muscled arms pocked with scars, blisters and lesions on pale skin. The man stank of decay and filth, his clothes soiled, the struts of the exoskeleton showing spots of rust.

Disgusted, Telemenus turned away, focusing on Sergeant Amanael as he chopped his way along the altar platform. A warrior behind the sergeant, armour rent open by Amanael’s chainsword, pushed himself back to his feet despite the horrendous gash across his chest. Telemenus fired a single bolt, hitting the man between the shoulder blades as he made a lunge for the sergeant, knocking the warrior down again.

The wheeze of actuators caused Telemenus to look back. The Divine behind him surged from the ground and slammed into the Dark Angel, the force of the impact forcing Telemenus back a step. Arms powered by the exoskeleton wrapped around the Space Marine in a crushing bear hug, lighting up Telemenus’s visual display with a flurry of pressure warning icons. His bolter pinned beside him, Telemenus smashed his free arm onto the top of the Divine’s helmeted head, cracking open the helm. Still the warrior did not release his grip, Telemenus’s armour creaking under the strain; in seconds something would give way.

Reaching over the shoulder of his assailant, Telemenus drove his gauntleted fingers down into the power plant strapped across the warriors’ back. The casing buckled and split and Telemenus closed his fingers and pulled, ripping out the mangled remains of the motor. Fuel ignited, swathing both fighters in a bloom of fire.

Though the inward pressure had stopped, the Divine’s power frame was locked in position, fastened to Telemenus like a limpet. Two more enemies dropped over the balcony to Telemenus’s left, the curved blades in their hands gleaming. Unable to move, Telemenus would be cut apart by the power swords.

Boosting as much power as possible to the muscle bundles of his armour, Telemenus seized hold of the Divine and lifted. His vision faded as energy was shunted from his autosenses, giving him just enough strength to rip the man’s left arm away, flesh and exoskeleton together. The augmented man moaned as blood poured from his ravaged shoulder, a sound more of pleasure than pain.

Telemenus pivoted, twisting at the hips to hurl the Divine into his two companions, impeding their advance. In the moment this bought him, Telemenus raised his bolter and fired on full automatic, shredding the two warriors in a hail of small explosions.

‘These bastards do not die easily,’ said Daellon, coming up beside Telemenus. The other Dark Angel’s flamer spat fire up into the gallery, promethium sticking to the balustrade and walls. ‘Time to fall back.’

Telemenus reloaded and backed towards the doorway. The rest of the squad were pulling back, the fire of the Divine following Amanael as he jumped down from the altar dais and ran to rejoin the others.

‘We must secure the entrance to the accessway,’ said the sergeant, turning to snap off several shots from his pistol at the Divine still firing from the gallery to the left. ‘Apollon, Nemeon, push forward.’

The squad emerged onto the concourse in quick succession, moving away from the door swiftly. Telemenus noticed that Achamenon had not moved from where he had been left. He glanced at Amanael, but the sergeant’s attention was elsewhere, directing the squad to concentrate their fire on the enemy above an armoured door on the opposite side of the concourse. A missile from Nethor streaked past Telemenus’s shoulder, exploding amongst the Divine protecting the portal.

Apollon and Nemeon reached the armoured door as the rest of the squad fanned out across the concourse. Daellon stood guard at the shrine door in case the enemy within decided to follow, his flamer shedding droplets of burning promethium to the floor.

Glass shattered behind Telemenus as more shots from the Divine erupted through the windows of the metriculator chamber. The enemy had entered from another doorway and taken up firing positions using the cogitators for cover. Telemenus shouted a warning as he spied the distinctive muzzle and barrel of a lascannon protruding between the casings of two of the cogitating engines. He brought up his bolter to fire as a beam of red energy stabbed from the lascannon, passing centimetres from the Dark Angel’s head. More glass splintered and consoles exploded as he returned fire, bolts from his squad-brothers screaming past him as the others added their fire to the attack.

‘Entranceway is sealed,’ said Nemeon. ‘Brother-sergeant, we need your melta bombs.’

Telemenus could spare no attention to the actions of the rest of the squad. Surrounded on three sides, his armour already much battered from previous engagements, he made a dash for the cover of a long, marble-topped counter facing the cogitator room. Splinters from the stone surface shattered into his armour as a foe opened up on Telemenus with a heavy stubber, the perforated barrel of the machine-gun spitting fire.

The Divine were no more than forty metres away, bobbing up and down from their cover. It was almost like the firing range on the strike cruiser. Telemenus pushed aside everything else, focusing on the targets in front of him, responding only with a grunt to acknowledge the assurance from Menthius that his back was covered. He became aware of the other Dark Angel beside him, firing up at the galleries.

Selecting single-fire mode, Telemenus targeted the lascannon first. The man wielding it was sheltering close to the doorway of the terminal room, not so well that he was completely hidden from view. Seeing a knee and lower leg poking around the edge of the cogitator, Telemenus fired. The Divine’s shin shattered, toppling the warrior into view. Telemenus ignored him and fired his next shot into the lascannon that was still in the enemy’s grasp. The bolt detonated the lascannon’s energy cell with a bright flash.

Firing again, his next bolt punching into the shoulder of a warrior moving from one console to another, Telemenus heard a dull crump behind him: the sound of a melta-charge. He did not move, adjusting his aim through the console room to the doorway, where more Divine were arriving. Three shots in quick succession took down the next two enemies to appear, the bolts hitting their targets in the shoulders and throat where their armour provided no protection.

Something large and black sped into Telemenus’s view. The Ravenwing Land Speeder strafed sideways across the concourse, its underslung assault cannon unleashing a blur of shells into the console chamber. Databanks and cogitators turned to spinning, lethal fragments. The Land Speeder gunner added the fire of his heavy bolter, the salvo chewing through the flimsy walls, tearing flesh and armour to pieces.

‘Telemenus!’ The Dark Angel realised it was the third time Amanael had called his name, so fixated had he been on his targets.

‘Yes, brother-sergeant?’ He tore his gaze away from the destruction being wreaked by the Land Speeder as it made another pass, bringing down the ceiling of the cogitator room with another two-second assault cannon burst. Telemenus saw that the rest of the squad were moving out through the molten remains of the entranceway doors, heading into the passage beyond.

‘Fall in, brother,’ the sergeant said, standing at the threshold of the ruined portal. ‘More Ravenwing forces will be here presently. Time to push on.’

Telemenus crossed the open space at a full run, still under fire from their attackers on the galleries above, though the weight of the enemy firepower was much diminished. As he plunged into the smoke-filled passageway after his squad-brothers, he detected the echo of roaring motors approaching behind.

The accessway ran straight to grid-east for three hundred metres, bare plasteel walls and mesh decking, a continuous light strip running its whole length. Thick stanchions every few metres supported the roof, and from behind these several dozen Divine were resisting the Dark Angels advance. Telemenus moved into position, reloading his bolter as he took cover behind one of the ferrocrete supports on the opposite side of the passage to Daellon.

Just ahead of him on his left, Nethor fired the missile launcher. The missile sped through the blaze of bullets filling the corridor to exploded against a stanchion halfway along the corridor. Though it filled the passage with smoke and shrapnel, the missile did not appear to have caused any casualties.

‘Tracking is off,’ complained Nethor, lowering the missile launcher from his shoulder so that he could inspect the boxy sighting array on its side. He gave the weapon a thump with the heel of his hand, shaking his head.

‘Or perhaps just your aim, brother,’ said Telemenus.

‘Your wit is as sharp as your blade, brother,’ replied Nethor, ‘and used even less.’

Advancing two at a time, the squad moved along the passage, stanchion by stanchion, the rest of the squad unleashing suppressive fire before each pair moved. The Divine held their ground rather than fall back, and the corridor quickly filled with bodies and wounded.

When the squad had advanced nearly a hundred metres, the noise of engines grew louder and Telemenus felt the decking shake under his feet. He fired at a woman straight ahead of him, sending her ducking back into cover, and turned his head in time to see four black bikes of the Ravenwing speeding into the entranceway from the main terminus.

‘Stand aside.’

Telemenus barely had time to obey the command from the Ravenwing biker before the squadron flashed past. The moment they were beyond the squad, the Ravenwing opened fire, their bike-mounted bolters leaving a trail of holes and bodies along both walls as they raced on without pause.

‘You missed some!’ Daellon shouted after the squadron as they continued towards the far end of the corridor, heedless of the Divine who had avoided the fusillade. The enemy fighters concentrated their fire on the retreating backs of the riders until they disappeared from view.

‘Press on!’ urged Amanael. ‘Attack before the enemy recovers.’

‘Squad Amanael, hold position.’ The command from Sergeant Seraphiel came across the comm-net just as Telemenus stepped out of cover. ‘Secure the entranceway but do not move forward. Ravenwing forces will secure the objective.’

‘By the Lion’s balls, they will!’ snarled Daellon. The Dark Angel stormed from his position, flamer in both hands. Gunfire sparked from his armour as he pounded towards the enemy. ‘Vengeance for Achamenon!’

Telemenus and Nemeon followed, ignoring the shout of Amanael as they ran past.

‘You are blocking our fire,’ shouted Nethor.

‘Stand your ground!’ Amanael’s command was a roar across the comm, stopping Telemenus in his tracks.

Distracted, Telemenus saw too late a piston-boosted warrior rising up from the shadow of a stanchion behind Nemeon. The enemy warrior had a large axe in both hands. The edge of the blade shone with some form of energy field. As though time had slowed, while he brought up his bolter to fire Telemenus watched the axe swinging towards Nemeon. His shot left his bolter just as the axe head slashed into the back of Nemeon’s helm. The bolt sped along the corridor as the power axe crackled, flares of light erupting from the blade as it carved into the skull of Nemeon.

Nemeon and the Divine went down at the same time; the former with half his head missing and the latter with heart and lungs blown out through splayed ribcage.

Daellon’s flamer filled the passage ahead with a wave of fire, incinerating more than a dozen foes. Telemenus had no time to spare to check on Nemeon as he fired again, cutting down another enemy warrior.

‘That is why you obey orders,’ snarled Amanael, coming up beside Telemenus.

‘I would spend a year in the penitentium rather than fight my way across this bloody station only for the Ravenwing to get the glory and honour,’ said Daellon, firing again as he continued to advance down the corridor.

‘Very well.’ Amanael’s quiet reply almost went unheard amidst the zip of las-beams and the crack of bolt-rounds.

‘Really?’ Telemenus glanced at the sergeant in surprise.

‘As a squad,’ Amanael continued, his voice an angry growl. ‘We will settle this matter later. Show some discipline. Telemenus, suppression on the right. Menthius, on the left. Nethor, have you fixed that missile launcher yet?’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ came the reply.

‘Good. We are not Ravenwing, dashing about as we please. Let us show these glory-hounds the mettle of the Fifth Company.’

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

It caused Annael some misgiving to ride past his former companions of the Fifth Company but the Grand Master’s orders had been especially clear. While the Divine were occupied with the defence of the terminal hubs and accessway, Squadron Cassiel was to secure the chambers at the end of the jutting spar. They were to hold against counter-attack until Sammael arrived with other Ravenwing elements.

After rejoining the squadron, punching through the enemy perimeter had been straightforward enough. The Fifth Company had secured the ground well, leaving minimal resistance to oppose the Ravenwing as they had made their final push. In fact, so effective had Squad Amanael’s suppression been, Annael and his brothers gained entry to the suspected enemy command area two minutes ahead of schedule.

The communications and control pod at the end of the accessway was a hexagon nearly two hundred metres across, on three levels. The squadron split as they left the accessway, Annael and Araton heading left while Zarall and Sabrael turned right. An outer corridor the height of the whole pod ran the circumference of the housing, the outer wall broken every few metres by slit-like windows, while sets of steps accessing the upper and lower levels ran from the inner side. At right angles to the accessway, blast doors sealed the central chamber.

From the open stairwells, Divine warriors fired at the incoming bikers. Araton was forced to make an emergency evasion as a missile sped from a set of steps leading down, passing between the two bikers before crashing into the outer wall.

Annael steered his bike to the right, directing his machine into the stairwell. He plunged down the steps, punching through the huddle of fighters like a bullet parting flesh. One of the Divine was nimble enough to avoid being crushed by Annael’s mount, throwing himself aside as the Space Marine roared past. The Dark Angel turned in the saddle and fired his bolt pistol into the warrior’s chest, holding tight to the handlebars as Black Shadow crashed down into the tunnel below.

Reaching the next stairway, Annael came face-to-face with half a dozen enemies piling down the steps to confront him. Black Shadow’s bolters cut down two and his pistol slew another before rider and mount reached the group of warriors. Strength bolstered by his lifting harness, one of the Divine leapt at Annael, landing awkwardly on the front faring of his machine, a pistol pointed into the face of the Dark Angel.

Annael braked and wrenched Black Shadow to the right, sending the Divine flying across from his perch to slam loudly and painfully into the inner wall. Something hit Annael from behind, pinging from the right heat exchange vent of his backpack. Ignoring the two warriors behind him, Annael gunned the engine and ran over the man in front as he pushed himself to his knees. Black Shadow bucked as the bike bounced over the reinforced harness of the enemy fighter, smearing tracks of blood from its tyres as Annael powered away. A few metres on, Annael slung the bike into a tight turn, bringing the mounted bolters to bear as the two surviving Divine took cover behind the open steps of the stairway. The sanctuary of their position proved false as a hail of bolts flew between the steps, scything down both men in a single salvo.

Completing a circuit of the pod, Annael cleared away one more group of foes before returning to the main level to reunite with the rest of the squadron. Araton and Zarall had taken up position to either side of the entranceway, ready to gun down any foes that broke away from Amanael’s squad to follow the Ravenwing. This left Sabrael and Annael to guard their backs against any enemy concealed within the main chamber or upper rooms who might sally forth; the scanners detected no life signs but interference from the power lines and communications systems was affecting the sensor readings.

Annael waited patiently, keeping an eye on the stairwells a few metres in from of him, gaze flicking between the steps and the corner of the outer corridor ahead. Now and then bolter fire from the Fifth Company echoed along the accessway and occasionally the complex shuddered slightly as the boom of a missile explosion reverberated along the passage.

‘Why do we not make the breach ourselves?’ he asked. Growing swiftly bored of the inactivity, he switched the scan on Black Shadow to thermal. The energy grid stood out in stark yellow lines on the display, but it was impossible to tell if the darker red smudges in the closed rooms were people or activated terminals. ‘There would be no risk of attack if we cleared every room.’

‘The Grand Master has ordered that we secure only this area.’ This seemed sufficient reply for Araton.

‘I understand, brother, but why can we not fully secure the facility?’ Annael persisted, turning in the saddle to address the rest of the squadron, occasionally glancing at the scanner screen. ‘He has already confided in us the possible renegade nature of the enemy commander. What harm is there in conducting a full search?’

‘We guard against undue discovery by other forces,’ said Araton. Almost as if summoned by the squad leader’s words, figures in dark green armour strode into view at the end of the accessway. ‘Halt, brothers, proceed no closer.’

‘We are here to secure the objective,’ said one of the Fifth Company warriors. Annael recognised the voice from when he had been in the company.

‘Telemenus, you should not be here,’ he told the Space Marine.

‘Brother-sergeant, this area is off-limits until Grand Master Sammael arrives.’ Araton spoke formally, with no hint of anger. ‘Return to your positions and defend the accessway.’

‘If it is just the bloody same to you, we will wait at the objective,’ the squad brother with the flamer announced, continuing forwards. Araton edged his bike into the Space Marine’s path, blocking his progress.

‘This area is not secure,’ said Zarall. ‘Your disobedience shames your company, and the whole Chapter.’

‘We just wish to complete the mission,’ said Telemenus. ‘We have lost two brothers to get here, and we are so close it – makes no sense to guard an empty passageway.’

‘Deepest respect to your fallen brothers,’ said Zarall, ‘but you cannot pass this point. Our honour would be stained if we did not enforce the command of the Grand Master.’

‘Run along and do as you are told.’ Annael felt himself tense as soon as Sabrael spoke. ‘With speed and precision, this area has been seized and secured by the Ravenwing. We do not need you here.’

Annael knew that even Sabrael was not being deliberately dismissive of the squad’s losses, but his tone verged on contempt. The flamer-armed Dark Angel turned, moving his gaze from Araton to Sabrael.

‘Is that so? You have a damned loose tongue, brother.’ Annael finally worked out that it was Daellon, who was known across the Fifth Company for his coarse language and forthright manner.

‘Make apology, brother,’ instructed Araton. ‘Assure our brothers that no offense was intended.’

‘If they have not the wit to decide that for themselves, what chance apology will be accepted?’ replied Sabrael. Annael sighed and heard a groan from Zarall.

‘We have also suffered loss,’ Annael said quickly, trying to defuse the building confrontation. ‘Our sergeant lies in the care of Apothecary Gideon, minus a leg. He may never ride again.’

‘A sad loss,’ said Sergeant Amanael. The Fifth Company sergeant looked at Araton. ‘I see that you bear no sergeant’s markings, brother. Do not seek to impede a superior.’

‘Rank and superiority are not the same thing,’ said Sabrael. ‘Besides, we have specific orders from the Grand Master.’

Telemenus strode up to Sabrael. The Ravenwing biker did not move as the warrior of the Fifth Company leaned in close.

‘Do not hide behind the words of the Grand Master,’ said Telemenus, menace in his tone. ‘Say what you really mean, brother.’

‘Test me further, brother, and I shall demonstrate with actions, not words.’ The humour had drained from Sabrael’s voice. He leaned back in his saddle, one hand resting on the pommel of a short blade sheathed behind him. Sabrael’s meaning was clear, for the blade he indicated was an honour sword handed to him by the Grand Master for skill at arms. If Telemenus wished to pursue the matter, Sabrael would call him out in an honour duel. Everyone in the Chapter knew that Telemenus was one of the best marksmen to have ever fought for the Dark Angels, but his blade-work was far inferior to Sabrael’s.

The honour duel would be no contest.

The two squads stood for a moment in tense silence, neither willing to back down.

‘What is the meaning of this gaggle?’ Grand Master Sammael’s irate voice cut across the comm as his jetbike glided into view. His command squadron followed a few metres behind, coming to a stop as Corvex slid to a halt beside Sergeant Amanael. ‘What are you doing here, sergeant? You, Araton, why are you not monitoring your scanners and keeping watch as ordered?’

‘Apologies, Grand Master,’ said Araton. ‘The sergeant and his squad were attempting to pass the perimeter.’

‘Why?’ demanded Sammael, turning his attention to Amanael again. ‘Did you not receive the command to secure position and hold?’

‘Evidently not,’ said Malcifer before Amanael could reply. The Chaplain stepped off his bike and approached Amanael. ‘I do not recall hearing his acknowledgement over the comm. Is that not so, sergeant?’

Annael returned his gaze to the front, or rather to the rear of the squadron, and wondered what Amanael would do. He had a reputation of being quite a stickler for doctrine and duty, but Malcifer had, whether unwitting or deliberately, offered him a way to back down from the confrontation with honour intact on both sides. Annael was not sure the sergeant would accept it, given the warrior’s past behaviour.

‘That is correct, Brother-Chaplain,’ Amanael said, speaking slowly as he chose his words. ‘There was no acknowledgement signal.’

It sounded for a moment that Amanael was going to say something else, but the sergeant held his tongue.

‘Very well,’ said Sammael. ‘Sergeant, return to the accessway and link up with the arriving Fifth Company forces. Araton, your squadron will remain on guard here. Stand by to respond if I call for you.’

‘Grand Master, may we not secure the objective with you?’ asked Sabrael, earning himself glances from the departing Fifth Company squad. ‘It is an honour fitting for those who led the charge.’

‘Sabrael, why am I not surprised that there is conflict between the Second and Fifth Companies where you are present? You will remain on post, as ordered, and be glad that I do not think your question insubordinate.’ Sammael looked at each of the Ravenwing riders in turn, his gaze moving from one to the next without haste. ‘Am I understood?’

Annael bowed his head as the stare of Sammael fell upon him. Sabrael had acted dishonourably, and the rest of the squadron realised they shared his shame.

‘Understood, Grand Master,’ they chorused, like unruly pupils chastised by their tutor.

‘I am sure Brother Malcifer will elaborate at length once we return to the Implacable Justice.’

‘Something for you all to anticipate with joy in your hearts,’ said the Chaplain. ‘An occasion that will make the longest sentry duty seem like the most exciting deployment you have ever undertaken.’

‘If there are no other objections?’ Sammael looked at the squadron, expecting no reply, and nodded. ‘Good. Let us unmask the Overlord.’

THE INTERROGATOR

Even before the door to the inner chamber hissed open Sammael knew that the enigmatic Overlord of the Divine and Unworthy was not aboard Port Imperial. The Divine had made their stands at the transport hub and the accessway, not within the communications and command chambers themselves. Their strategy from the outset had been one of delaying the inevitable, not defending a revered leader to the last man.

The command chamber was not empty of foes, however. Half a dozen augmented soldiers rounded on the Grand Master and Harahel as they entered on foot. They had been working at the terminal cluster at the centre of the room and reached for lasrifles, bolters and a plasma gun that had been kept close to hand on top of the consoles.

‘Hand-to-hand,’ snarled Sammael, drawing the Raven Sword. ‘Do not damage the data terminals.’

One of the Divine grabbed the plasma gun and fired at Sammael, aiming squarely for the Grand Master’s chest. The ball of energy exploded into streamers of blue light as it struck Sammael’s personal field.

‘Praise to the artifices of the Mechanicus,’ he muttered, sweeping the Raven Sword two-handed through the leg of his foe, sending the warrior crashing to the ground. He raised his voice as he stepped over the body and glanced at the terminal where the man had been working. ‘They are deleting the databanks – take them prisoner.’

The instruction was not soon enough to save the life of the foe Harahel had targeted; the Librarian’s force axe swept off the man’s head with a blaze of psychic sparks. One of the Divine scrambled for the doorway opposite the one through which the Ravenwing had entered, snapping off shots with his autogun. He stopped in the alcove, using a cogitator access terminal as cover.

A moment later, the doors wheezed open behind him, revealing the black-armoured form of Daedis. The Black Knight lashed out with the butt of his corvus hammer, cracking the Divine across the back of the neck. The man tipped forwards, helmeted head bouncing from the corner of the console before hitting the floor.

The others were subdued in short order, the last of them losing an arm to the Raven Sword just as Malcifer entered. The Divine fell to his knees, staring at the cauterized stump just below his elbow. Remarkably the man did not go into shock but turned hate-filled eyes on Sammael.

‘Flesh is a prison, oblivion is release,’ snarled the man. He opened his mouth to speak again but Sammael’s boot crashed into his jaw, not hard enough to break bones but sufficient to force the man to the ground, his servo-harness whining in protest as he fell.

The Grand Master pulled off the man’s helm, revealing a square-jawed face, handsome by most standards but for a blistering disfigurement around the left eye which gave the man a squinting appearance. Like the Divine Sammael had encountered earlier, the warrior had scars and lesions across his flesh, and a rash that made his greying skin leathery in patches.

‘What were you deleting?’ Sammael demanded, grasping the captive by the throat.

‘Everything,’ the man replied with a defiant grin. ‘Communications logs, navigation records, everything. You’ll never find him.’

‘Find who?’ Malcifer appeared at Sammael’s shoulder, a skull-faced apparition whose voice was edged with anger. ‘The Overlord?’

The man did not reply but the flicker of his gaze groundwards betrayed his thoughts.

‘Allow me, Grand Master,’ said the Chaplain, grabbing the exoskeletal strut that ran from the Divine’s shoulder to elbow on his remaining arm. Malcifer lifted the man to his feet and then twisted, the metal of the harness biting into muscle and bone. ‘Where is he?’

Grunting and grimacing, the prisoner said nothing. There was an insane gleam in his eye. Malcifer turned his attention to the stump of the other arm, cupping the wound in his hand, squeezing slowly. The Divine’s eyelids fluttered and his lips parted as though caught between agony and ecstasy.

‘Pain is an illusion,’ the man moaned. ‘Oblivion is reality.’

Malcifer’s fingers dug into ravaged flesh, causing blood to bubble from the scabbed wound, dripping to the floor in a stream of droplets.

‘His name,’ said Malcifer. ‘What is the Overlord’s true name?’

‘I do not know,’ said the Divine.

‘A lie!’ Malcifer sounded triumphant, and with reason. Sammael’s autosenses had detected the same momentary surge of pulse and flicker in the eyes that had been seen by the Chaplain. The captive certainly knew the name of the Overlord, otherwise he would not have felt the need to deny it.

‘Anovel? Methelas?’ There was another tiny movement at the mention of the second name, a miniscule furrowing of the brow and narrowing of the eyes. Malcifer released his grip and stood up, looking at Sammael. ‘So it is Methelas who masquerades as the Overlord. At least we can confirm that one of the Fallen returned here after Astelan’s departure.’

Sammael nodded and strode over to one of the other Divine. He picked up the warrior, the weight of the exo-harness no effort for the power armour of the Grand Master. Looking closely, Sammael saw that the servo-harness was not just worn like an exoskeleton; some of the bolts and rivets pierced the man’s flesh. Old scar tissue grew around the threads of the bolts, skin fusing with metal like the bark of a tree growing round an obstruction, taking it into itself. Juts of bone, spurs grafted into the servos and joints of the harnesses, linked the man’s nervous system to the machine in a crude imitation of powered armour. Surveying the other prisoners, Sammael saw this was the case with them all. The Divine had allowed the machine skeletons to become part of them.

Sickened, knowing that this had to be the work of the Fallen, Sammael was determined that his hunt would not end in this place. Sammael addressed Harahel and Malcifer across the command channel.

‘Methelas has a plan greater than petty piracy,’ said the Grand Master. ‘Brother-Chaplain, what can you recall of Astelan’s testimony regarding Port Imperial.’

‘There is little detail,’ replied Malcifer. ‘Astelan, Methelas and Anovel took over the principal ship by force and subjugated the group already based at Port Imperial. I think it is not his testimony of Port Imperial that is of import, but what Astelan did at Tharsis.’

‘Enlighten us, brother,’ said Harahel. ‘What happened at Tharsis?’

‘Astelan staged a coup, after freeing the planet of rebels, riding atop the crest of popular opinion to replace the Imperial Commander by force. He then set about creating a cultus personalis about himself, including the creation of a warrior elite, his so-called sacred bands. The parallels are all too clear now that I think on them.’

‘So Astelan and Methelas set about creating societies in some twisted image of the Imperium as it was during the Great Crusade?’ Harahel grabbed the harness of an unconscious Divine and half-lifted her, the woman hanging like a child’s doll in the Space Marine’s grip. If not for the narrower shoulders and wider hips, and the slight protrusion of breasts, she would have been indistinguishable from the men, her arms heavily muscled, wrinkled skin and flesh covered with blisters and sores. ‘Astelan was a heretic, to be certain, but Tharsis and its people were not corrupted. The stench of the Infernal Powers fills this place. The cannibalism, the unnatural hardiness and malady of the Divine, the fanaticism and craving for oblivion point to the basest of corruption.’

‘Perhaps Astelan was not forthcoming in his reasons for the split from Methelas and Anovel,’ said Sammael. ‘We all know that the Fallen are not of one mind or one loyalty. Some are misguided like Astelan, believing their loyalty to the Emperor justified rebellion against the Lion. There are those Fallen wholly corrupted, sworn to the Ruinous Powers in body and soul. And there are those that run the whole spectrum between. Methelas is obviously of the unrepentant persuasion, embracing the dark masters who turned Horus on the Emperor.’

‘It is well that we came here to learn such,’ said Malcifer. ‘If Methelas has some grander scheme, we must anticipate it and stop him.’

‘Let us assemble the facts as we know them,’ said Harahel. The woman in his grasp started to stir, groaning and shaking her head. Fumbling fingers released the strap of her helm, revealing a pinched face and short-cropped black hair. Boils puckered one side of her face, a mess of reddened skin and pus. Distracted for a moment, Harahel rapped the woman’s head with the pommel of his axe, knocking her unconscious again. ‘Methelas has assembled a fanatical army of warriors. He plans to move Port Imperial somewhere else, sacrificing the majority of his force in the process. The Divine are powerful in comparison to the Unworthy, but they are not so strong nor numerous to be effective on their own against a significant opponent. If Methelas has grand ambitions, he cannot achieve them with the Divine alone.’

Sammael nodded, accepting the Librarian’s conclusions.

‘They have been purging the databases of all information that might shed light on their master’s plan,’ said Malcifer, inspecting one of the consoles. ‘It is a self-destructive last spasm of effort to protect their Overlord before succumbing to oblivion. They know that their master’s plan has been thwarted by our arrival, and only his survival remains as a cause. It could take some time to break their will, but it can be done.’

Only the prisoners could answer the questions Sammael wanted to ask; the cogitator banks would be useless. It was all a matter of patience, finding the weakness and dread that every man harboured in the shadows of his soul. Even Space Marines knew fear; fear of failure, loss of honour and defeat. If a Fallen could be broken, the Divine were only a temporary challenge.

Sammael grabbed the wrist of the Divine at his feet, the bars of the harness buckling in his grip. The Grand Master twisted slowly, pulling the man’s arm up and back, rotating the shoulder painfully. Pneumatic pipes split apart, releasing a hiss of vapour as the servo-skeleton struggled to cope with the unnatural movement.

‘Where is Methelas now?’ asked the Grand Master, applying just enough pressure to keep the arm in its socket. ‘Is he aboard the Scar?’

‘Why should I tell you?’ replied the captive. ‘You will kill us anyway. Oblivion is peace.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Sammael. The man had unwittingly revealed his fear, as all men did sooner or later. The Divine perhaps did not even realise it but Methelas’s creed, his twisted version of the Adeptus Astartes doctrines, had left room for pressure to be applied. It was simply a matter of finding the correct purchase in the captive’s psyche and applying appropriate leverage.

‘Perhaps we will keep you alive,’ said Sammael. ‘We are very good at that. No oblivion, only torment and pain.’

There was hesitation in the captive’s eyes, a brief chink of weakness in his veneer of contempt. Sammael saw his opening, his triumphant glare hidden by his helm.

‘You believe me, do you not?’ Sammael released the man, sending him falling to all fours on the decking. The Grand Master flicked the tip of the Raven Sword across three pipes linking the harness engine to the left side of the Divine, severing the connections. The man slumped sideways, effectively paralysed. ‘We will feed you and water you like a plant, ensuring that you do not die of starvation of dehydration, though you will be forever on the brink of raving thirst and ravaging hunger. Slowly, part by part, your body will fail, but we can fix that as well. Anti-aging treatments and bionics will preserve your physical form, all the while trapping your soul in a prison of decaying flesh. The Overlord’s gift to you, the toughness and stamina his blessing has brought, will become a curse. When lesser men would die, you will persist, on the brink of the oblivion you seek, able to feel its presence but never to reach out and grasp it.

‘Madness will consume you, eating at your mind moment by moment, day by day, year by year, century by century.’ Sammael could see the fear now, like a living thing trying to break out of the Divine. It writhed in his eyes and contorted his lips, burying its poisonous fangs into his heart and gut. Sammael poured his scorn into his words, feeding the dread, nurturing it to full strength. ‘Yes, centuries will pass and still you will not attain oblivion. This weak, pained flesh will sustain you just enough, so that when insanity comes, there will be a part of you, the part listening to me now, that will survive. You will see the drooling, mewling beast that you have become, slavering in a cell for eternity.’

Sammael parted the other servo cables, hydraulic fluid spraying black across the man’s skin as he slumped face-first into the deck. He was just able to turn his head, one eye gazing up as the Grand Master stepped over the prone warrior. Sammael planted the tip of the Raven Sword a few centimetres from the neck of the man, the blade sliding into the metal of the decking as its powerfield disrupted the molecules of plasteel.

‘Oblivion can be granted so swiftly,’ Sammael said, crouching down, moving the edge of the Raven Sword fractionally closer to the throat of the Divine. ‘The release you crave is moments away, if you but ask for it. A single word will grant your release. No more. Just one word, whispered so that only I can hear it. No one will know, and then oblivion shall claim you.’

‘One word?’ whispered the captive. Hope had pushed aside the fear and Sammael knew that he had broken the man. ‘What word?’

‘Where was Port Imperial to travel?’ asked Sammael. ‘Give me the name of the system and you will be free. Defy me and you will suffer.’

The man’s lips moved, muttering something so quiet even Sammael did not hear it. The Grand Master crouched and leaned closer.

‘Again,’ he said.

‘Thyestes,’ murmured the man, the word nothing more than a breath.

‘Well done,’ said Sammael, standing up. With hardly any effort, he drew the Raven Sword across the throat of the Divine, blood hissing and boiling as it spat along the powered blade. The man slumped, still looking at Sammael. For a moment the Grand Master thought he saw peace in that grey eye, and then all life fled, rasping from the man’s lips with his final breath.

‘Thyestes,’ said Malcifer. He looked at Harahel and then Sammael. ‘I have never heard of this place before.’

‘It means nothing to me,’ confessed Harahel.

‘Kill the others,’ said Sammael, waving his sword at the remaining Divine. ‘Scour the station database for mention of Thyestes. I shall return to the Implacable Justice and inspect our records.’

‘What if he lied?’ asked Harahel, gesturing towards the dead man at Sammael’s feet. ‘Allow me to inspect one of the others, to confirm that this place exists.’

‘He did not lie,’ said Sammael. He had seen the fear and the hope and knew that the truth had been told. ‘However, do what you wish to satisfy yourself. I do not think you will be able to glean much more from these creatures. They are no less fodder for Methelas’s plan than the Unworthy. Their ignorance protects them.’

‘As it protects us all,’ said Malcifer.

THE TRAIL IS FRESH

The view of Port Imperial dominated the screen on the main bridge of the Implacable Justice. With Harahel and Malcifer beside him, on the left, and Sergeant Seraphiel on his right, Sammael waited for the small flashes of blue to reach the grey structure. The gleam of the torpedoes’ engines was lost against the fires raging across the star fort. From a few thousand kilometres starboard of the strike cruiser, the Penitent Warrior unleashed another shell from its bombardment cannon. For the previous thirty minutes it had sent a steady stream of rounds into the station, cracking open the armoured plates, smashing crystalflex domes and punching through the reactor housing.

‘Twenty seconds to impact,’ reported Judoc Pichon, standing a short distance from the force’s commanders. ‘Torpedo separation in ten seconds.’

‘Very well,’ said Sammael. ‘Send word to the Penitent Warrior. Cease fire and make all speed for Rat One. Destroy target without delay. Sergeant Seraphiel will rejoin his company later.’

Seraphiel turned to look at the Grand Master, surprised by this announcement.

‘You wish for me to remain aboard, Grand Master?’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ replied Sammael. ‘There is much we need to discuss. Your debriefing on Port Imperial is not yet complete and there are plans to set in motion for our next act.’

On the screen, the three blots of blue became brighter sparks for a moment, becoming dozens of tiny red stars as the torpedoes broke into their final approach warheads.

‘The Fifth Company is to remain with the Ravenwing?’

‘That is one of the matters we will discuss,’ said Sammael, smiling reassuringly. ‘I would learn your thoughts before I make a decision.’

‘I am honoured, Grand Master.’

Sammael did not reply immediately. All eyes returned to the screen as the cyclotronic warheads hit their target. Blossoms of bright light grew across the towers and superstructure of Port Imperial, becoming raging spheres of energy. Lightning flashed from the expanding clouds of plasma and radiation, particles spewing in long streams like rivulets of burning ice as the ravening energies chewed through adamantium and ferrocrete, plasteel and armourglas. Like all-devouring whirlwinds, the cyclotronic tempests burrowed into the station’s interior, the mass of the star fort fuelling the reaction, its own size speeding its demise.

A harbour spar broke away, repulsed by an exploding artificial gravity module, sent spinning towards the distant star. Arcs of electricity forked from the summit of the central spire, earthing through the tips of the other towers, so that Port Imperial looked like a massive inverted chandelier burning with flames of lightning. Supports melted and walkways buckled, foundations cracked and linking bridges collapsed. Its heart melted through by the warheads, Port Imperial fell in upon itself.

A second star shone at its heart as the plasma reactor overloaded, releasing the energy of a sun. The white heat devoured all that remained, turning everything into a slowly expanding cloud of gas and dust, the debris swallowed up by the detonation.

‘The Unworthy know oblivion,’ said Sammael.

‘Falsehoods fed to them by the lies of the Overlord,’ said Malcifer. ‘If they are lucky they shall be taken by oblivion. If not...’

‘What then?’ asked Seraphiel.

‘A conversation best left to another time and place,’ Sammael said quickly, looking pointedly at the Chapter serfs attending their battle stations. Now was not the time for a discussion involving the vagaries of Chaos and the Sea of Souls. ‘Pichon, set course and full-speed for the crippled frigate. Have the torpedoes reloaded, standard warheads, and prepare all batteries for close attack.’

‘As you wish, Grand Master,’ said Pichon, bowing low. ‘I endeavour to please.’

‘Come with me,’ the Grand Master said to the others, striding to the entrance of the adjoining command chamber. ‘Let us turn our thoughts to subsequent acts.’

Passing in, the other Space Marines followed Sammael. He waved them to chairs arranged around the hololith. Harahel was the last to enter, deep in thought, and Sammael sealed the door behind him as the Librarian stood at one end of the console desk.

The commander of the Ravenwing sat down at the head of the glass-topped table and gently rested his hands on the edge in front of him. He looked at each of the others in turn. Harahel seemed distracted, his eyes looking at something not inside the chamber. Malcifer was intent, brow creased by a slight frown as he sat hunched over the hololith. Seraphiel was attentive, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the Grand Master.

‘We are agreed that the lead to Thyestes is genuine?’ he asked.

‘For certain,’ said Malcifer. ‘Despite the efforts of the Divine, the datalogs showed several repeated journeys to the system by the Scar.’

‘While it is in my mind, do we know anything more about this ship?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘Class, armament, crew?’

‘A light cruiser of some kind, or possibly a heavy frigate depending upon how you wish to make the distinction,’ said Malcifer. ‘Torpedoes and lance batteries.’

‘The ship was not expected to return,’ murmured Harahel. He realised the others were looking at him and focused, eyes moving between Sammael and Malcifer. ‘At least, the Divine I was able to scrutinise were not expecting the ship to come back to Port Imperial. The Rapacious, which is to say the starship designated Mongrel, was being re-equipped to fetch the Overlord and bring him back to the station.’

‘If I understand your preliminary report correctly, the Overlord – which is to say the Fallen – Methelas, was planning to move the station through the warp to Thyestes. Am I right?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘Do we know when he planned to perform this feat?’

‘Soon, but not immediately,’ said Harahel. ‘None of the heretics that survived knew the plan in detail. Indeed, it seems that Methelas wisely told them the bare minimum, keeping his plans to himself. The purpose of the transition, and why Thyestes is the target we can only guess at.’

‘Anything on the system from our records?’ asked Sammael, looking at Malcifer who had been tasked with the investigation.

‘Nothing remarkable,’ said the Chaplain. ‘The system is on our star charts, about fifty light years from our current position. Not so far to move Port Imperial without Navigators. One inhabited world, Thyestes Five. Last Administratum census was a little more than seven hundred years ago. Population between three and three-and-a-half billion. Self-sustaining agriculture and industry, widespread settlement across two main landmasses. Normal tithes rate, met more or less on target for previous seventeen hundred years. Imperium-standard technology level, Planetary defence force called the Thyestes Provosts. Three Imperial Guard regiments raised there about fifteen hundred years ago, no longer active. Last threat, ork attacks nearly two thousand years ago.’

‘No priority supplies to strategic worlds?’ asked Seraphiel.

‘None. Utterly unremarkable, as I said.’

‘Almost a backwater, one might say,’ said Sammael. ‘A world unlikely to register highly on anyone’s scanners. If something were to happen there, nobody would notice for many years. Plenty of time for Methelas to establish himself as ruler. Who can say, it could be centuries before anybody in the Administratum realised all was not well, and another century or two before any response could be mounted.’

‘In that case, it is a stroke of luck that has brought it to our attention,’ said Seraphiel.

‘It is unwise to attribute to luck that which has an alternative explanation,’ said Harahel. The Librarian finally sat down, taking the chair to Sammael’s right, and steepled his fingers to his chin. ‘I am still collating the reports, but the account of Brother Annael and some of the images I gleaned from my psychic scans of the Divine suggests that the Overlord was not always alone.’

‘We know from Astelan that a third Fallen frequented Port Imperial,’ said Malcifer. ‘The renegade known as Anovel.’

‘Precisely,’ said Harahel. ‘Astelan parted company from the other two several hundred years ago, before his exploits on Tharsis. Why did he lie about the destruction of Port Imperial?’

‘He is Fallen, it is in his nature to lie,’ said Malcifer. ‘He needs no reason or excuse.’

‘Tharsis is only twenty-three light years from Thyestes,’ said Harahel. Sammael sat back in his chair, surprised by this fact.

‘I do not like the coincidence,’ said the Grand Master.

‘Conspiracy seems more likely than coincidence,’ said Harahel.

‘You think that when they parted ways, the three Fallen were not in fact separating, but instead instigating some wider plan?’

‘Anovel certainly visited Port Imperial on several occasions during the lifetime of the Divine I interrogated,’ said Harahel. He scratched his ear, and shrugged. ‘That or another Fallen, but Anovel seems the most likely candidate.’

‘Something does not sit right with me,’ said Seraphiel. ‘What does any of this have to do with Piscina?’

‘I do not understand,’ said Harahel.

‘Seraphiel makes a fine point. We have forgotten where the hunt began,’ said Sammael. He nodded with appreciation. ‘Perhaps the hound not quite so close to the chase sees more clearly than the courser on the tail of the prey.’

‘The testimony of Astelan, via Boreas, brought us to Port Imperial,’ said Malcifer. ‘It is Boreas that is the link.’

‘What of the Fallen that travelled to Piscina?’ said Sammael, his suspicions aroused by Seraphiel. ‘We witnessed what happened in the wake of their arrival: anarchy. Boreas was led astray by a deliberate ploy of the Fallen, allowing them to enact their plan on Piscina without hindrance. It is from that point, and with that fact in mind, that we progressed to our current position. It must bear consideration that it may not have been by Boreas’s hand that we were brought here.’

‘For what other purpose?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘If it was Anovel, for the sake of argument, he must have known that we would destroy Port Imperial, and why risk our discovery of the presence of Fallen on Thyestes? It is a grand sacrifice to make, simply to distract the Ravenwing.’

‘We must remember Boreas’s words,’ said Harahel. ‘We thought him heretic, but perhaps he spoke a truth we did not see at the time. He said that the Fallen had been able to mislead him because the hunt consumed his thoughts, making him predictable. That is a warning we must heed now.’

‘So we do not travel to Thyestes?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘Is it a distraction or perhaps even a trap?’

‘I will not countenance this second-guessing,’ snapped Malcifer. ‘It is in confounding reasoned thought and through duplicitous behaviour that the Fallen are able to elude our attention. We can fall victim to over-analysis and circular doubt. The Divine believed Port Imperial was destined to travel to Thyestes. Whatever answers we seek, and perhaps Methelas himself, will be at Thyestes. To waste energy contemplating nebulous schemes is to fall prey to the very manipulation we seek to avoid.’

‘Thank you, Brother-Chaplain, your words are timely,’ said Sammael. He received a nod of thanks from Malcifer. Turning his attention to Seraphiel, Sammael continued. ‘It is my intent to continue the hunt without reinforcement from the Chapter. To delay risks our quarry learning of our plans, or even the fruition of his. We cannot wait for the Rock to receive our message and meet us at Thyestes.’

‘And it is your intent that the Fifth Company continue in the deployment alongside the Ravenwing,’ said Seraphiel. ‘I am honoured, but I must speak a note of caution. The closer we come to Methelas, the greater exposure of my warriors to the potential truth and the magnitude of the hunt. I am a sergeant of the Fifth Company but my first loyalty is to the Deathwing and Inner Circle. If the Ravenwing wish to continue unaided, I will pass suitable explanation to my warriors.’

‘You have my gratitude for the offer, sergeant, but it is unnecessary,’ said Sammael. ‘The assistance of the Fifth may prove vital in apprehending Methelas.’

‘I disagree,’ said Malcifer. ‘The confrontation between Squadron Cassiel and Squad Amanael is a demonstration of the tension that can arise when the Ravenwing operates for too long in the company of the uninitiated. It compromises the company’s operational capabilities and weakens the morale and resolve of the Fifth.’

‘Your objection has been noted, Brother-Chaplain, but until we know what manner of enemy we face, the Fifth Company provide a vital bolster to our strength. Sergeant, during transit to Thyestes, you must do all you can to ensure discipline is maintained. If you cannot keep your squads in check, Brother Malcifer will assume command in your place, with my full authority. Am I clear? Brother?’

‘Yes, Grand Master,’ said Seraphiel. He stood up and gave a nod of respect. ‘Be assured that I will deal with any trouble promptly and effectively. In fact, with your permission I will return to the company as soon as practicable, to deal with those brothers who have shamed us’

‘Ill-discipline and disobedience must be dealt with surely and strongly, brother-sergeant,’ said Malcifer, also standing. ‘I am willing to offer my assistance.’

‘Not yet, Brother-Chaplain,’ Seraphiel said with a smile. ‘It serves my purpose better if you remain a higher, harsher authority to which I might turn if further pressed. Amongst my warriors, the name of Brother Malcifer carries more weight as a threat than a reality.’

‘As you see fit,’ Malcifer said with a short laugh. ‘They have fought hard for little glory in these past encounters. My advice would be to allow them an opportunity to vent their disappointment a little. Their frustration is understandable.’

‘Good advice, brother,’ said Seraphiel. ‘I have something in mind.’

‘Remain at battle stations and prepare to receive warp transit orders shortly,’ said Sammael. ‘Let us hope that we run our prey to ground at Thyestes.’

‘The Emperor wills it,’ said Malcifer. He raised a fist to his chest, the gesture duplicated by the others. ‘Death to the Fallen! Vengeance for the Lion!’

HONOUR

Three days from the translation to warp space, the Fifth Company and the Ravenwing came together aboard the Penitent Warrior at the behest of Sergeant Seraphiel. With the blessing of Grand Master Sammael, the veteran sergeant had announced a tourney, ostensibly to award Telemenus his marksman’s laurels and celebrate the achievement; in truth the Dark Angels knew there had been some growing rivalry between the companies and the tourney offered opportunity for divisions to be healed and arguments to be settled between the Second and Fifth.

Annael was pleased that Sergeant Cassiel was recovered enough to accompany the squadron to the Penitent Warrior, his missing lower leg replaced by a crude but sturdy bionic. They were shuttled across by Thunderhawk along with the rest of the Ravenwing, minus the seven warriors who had not survived Port Imperial and the sixteen others in the apothecarion of the Implacable Justice.

The sergeant walked with a pronounced limp, swaying as if on a sailing ship in heavy seas, but seemed in good humour. Annael was keen for the sergeant to return to the squadron. Though he did not confess as much to Cassiel, he found Araton inflexible and lacking the natural qualities of a leader. Cassiel did not know how long his absence would last; possibly until he had returned to the Rock and received a more sophisticated augmetic limb.

Annael had been surprised that the tourney was being held so soon after the battle for Port Imperial, and said as much to his companions as the Thunderhawk prepared to set down in the launch bay of the Penitent Warrior.

‘It is safe to say that we will not be seeing the Tower of Angels soon,’ said Cassiel. ‘In all likelihood our next warp jump will take us straight into fresh conflict. Seraphiel and Sammael wish all bad blood to be made good before the next battle.’

‘Is it always like this, with the Ravenwing, jumping from one battle to the next without pause?’ asked Annael. ‘I know the company is fitted for extended patrol, but we have fought three serious engagements without proper resupply and refit.’

‘Sometimes it is the way, though more often not,’ said Zarall. ‘Normally we would return to the Rock between missions like any other company.’

‘The Grand Master is on the scent,’ said Sabrael.

‘The scent of what?’ asked Annael.

‘Prey,’ replied his squadron-brother with a broad grin. ‘The last time we fought like this we ended up capturing a renegade at Hellenis. Something happened at Hadria Praetoris, I would wager. It has been one warzone to the next ever since.’

‘If traitor Space Marines were involved, that would explain our unseemly reception in Kadillus,’ said Zarall.

‘Such speculation is counter-productive,’ said Araton. ‘It is guesswork at best, and meaningless distraction at worst.’

‘I think Sabrael is right, for once,’ said Annael. His brothers were slow to reply, caught up in their own thoughts he assumed, and he continued. ‘It makes sense really. The rebel leader that tried to escape by gyrocopter could have been a renegade himself, or an ally or follower of one.’

Annael realised that his squadron-brothers’ lack of response was not accidental. They were pointedly ignoring what he said, glancing past him towards the rear of the Thunderhawk. Annael became aware of a figure standing at the end of the companionway leading to the rear of the gunship. He turned his head and was met by the scowl of Tybalain. The jewelled daggers piercing the scarred face of the Huntmaster sparkled like droplets of blood as the Black Knight approached.

‘Loose talk,’ growled the Huntmaster. Annael avoided the gaze of the veteran, realising that he had been chattering like an excited novitiate. ‘Be sure to keep better control of your tongues in the presence of the Fifth Company.’

‘Apologies, Huntmaster,’ said Cassiel, placing a fist to his brow as a gesture of remorse. ‘I have been too lenient with my brothers of late.’

‘How you lead your squad is not my concern, brother-sergeant,’ said Tybalain, the natural timbre of his voice a harsh rasp that made anything he said sound like an admonishment. He sat next to Sabrael on the bench opposite Annael. Sabrael, locked in his safety harness, looked uncomfortable though the Huntmaster did not spare the warrior a glance. ‘If Brother Malcifer overhead your mutterings you can be sure he would have harsher words.’

‘I will heed your wisdom, Huntmaster,’ said Cassiel.

‘Turn thought to the tourney instead of conspiracy,’ Tybalain advised. ‘Brother Telemenus earns the Fifth Company great honour with his award. It would be well to not allow the glory of the day to escape the Ravenwing.’

‘You seek to set challenge?’ asked Zarall, animated by the prospect. ‘Against whom?’

‘The Grand Master has named me seneschal for the tourney,’ Tybalain said with a lopsided smile. ‘I will contest with Sergeant Seraphiel, as champion for the Fifth. It will be close, but I think I have the bettering of him.’

‘Would it be indelicate to offer advice against my former company?’ asked Annael.

‘You are Ravenwing now, brother,’ said Cassiel. ‘Speak without shame.’

Annael waited until he received a nod of confirmation from Tybalain.

‘Seraphiel’s right shoulder is not as articulate as it once was,’ Annael said quietly. ‘On Gomgrath an ork shell pierced the joint. Ever since, he has not been able to raise his arm more than level.’

‘That is useful to know, brother,’ said Tybalain, leaning forward to pat Annael on the shoulder. ‘A skilled fighter can take advantage of such.’

The Huntmaster stood up, nodding to each of the squadron in turn before returning to his Black Knights sitting on the far side of the gunship’s compartment. Sabrael breathed out heavily, evidently relieved by the departure of the Black Knight.

‘He has the ear of the Brother-Chaplain and the Grand Master,’ Sabrael said in answer to the inquiring looks from his brethren. This being insufficient explanation, the Dark Angel was forced to continue by the blank looks of the others. ‘Surely each of you harbours the desire to become a Black Knight? Even a harmless incident such as this, a minor remonstration, could count in the tally against promotion.’

‘You think you will become a Black Knight?’ Araton’s voice conveyed the same doubt that Annael silently harboured. ‘You frequently flout doctrine and even disobey orders, Sabrael. You are no candidate for the upper echelons of the company.’

‘And you are?’ snapped Sabrael.

‘Keep words soft,’ cautioned Cassiel, raising a finger to Sabrael in warning. The sergeant pointed at the Black Knights where Tybalain had rejoined his squadron.

Sabrael nodded and remained silent, though his glare at Araton betrayed his thoughts.

Annael had not even considered moving on to the Black Knights. His transfer to the Ravenwing was unintended, and he harboured no particular ambition to ascend the hierarchy of the Chapter any further. If he was called upon to serve in the cadre of the Grand Master, he would be honoured, but he did not seek out favour or position.

It occurred to him that Sabrael’s flamboyance was a means of attracting attention, though often of the wrong kind. Annael did not think Sabrael ambitious, not by the measures of ordinary men who might desire power. It was not authority or even respect that Sabrael desired. Instead, his squadron-brother seemed set on gaining glory, at the expense of all other consideration. Regardless of the work of the Tenth Company and the Chaplains, something still remained of the privileged son of nobility who had no doubt been the centre of attention since his birth. Fighting for decades as one amongst many had brought forth that hidden desire for recognition.

Looking at Tybalain, Annael knew that Araton spoke the truth. The Black Knights were the bravest warriors, the most skilled riders, but they were also something else. There was hardness in their eyes that Sabrael lacked. Annael was well aware that there were greater truths than those he had already learnt from Malcifer and the Black Knights had been taught those truths. There was something unforgiving in their demeanour; unforgiving of themselves as if they harboured some deep guilt that they could not share. As with Malcifer and Sammael, the burden of knowing something great and terrible weighed on their minds and often showed through the facade of control.

These thoughts fled Annael’s mind as the Thunderhawk touched down. Today was not a day for grim contemplation, but a time of celebration. It was a tourney, and he was very much looking forward to the event.

Disembarking, they were led by orderlies of the Fifth to the grand hall, situated just below the command deck and officer’s quarters of the strike cruiser. Clad in their black robes and boots, shoulders and heads covered with dark green cowls, the Ravenwing made solemn procession to the venue of the tourney, led by Sammael, Malcifer and Harahel, followed by the Black Knights. Each warrior bore a short blade at his hip and a bolter in his hands, ceremonially armed if not truly prepared for combat.

The Fifth Company lined the wall of the hall, standing beneath their squad banners with blades drawn and raised in salute as the Ravenwing entered.

‘Make honour!’ barked Sammael, drawing the Raven Sword. He raised the hilt to the level of his eyes.

Following his lead, like silver rippling along a snake’s body, the Ravenwing presented their blades to the Fifth Company, squad-by-squad as they entered the hall. Sammael led the Second Company to the left, where they lined up opposite the Fifth.

The formalities and schedule of the tourney were well-established by Chapter tradition. After a brief exchange of brotherhood vows between Sammael and Seraphiel, challenges would be issued and met first. Any Dark Angel present was allowed to call out any other warrior attending the tourney, whether of the same or different company, even a superior. It was often that a Space Marine with a grievance against his sergeant would seek redress at the next tourney, providing a valuable outlet for expressing dissatisfaction without being insubordinate. It was rare that superiors issued challenges to the lesser ranks; they had more straightforward authority to deal with warriors that spoke out of turn or otherwise tested the patience of a sergeant or officer.

The tourneys ensured that grudges were not borne and vendettas stifled, maintaining the discipline and fraternal relationships of a company. No reason needed to be given, and often challenges were fought as wager or simply for the honour of a squad or company. Once the matter of the challenges had been dealt with, and all scores settled, the attending Dark Angels could relax and enjoy the remaining festivities without harbouring any dissent with one another. Feasting, the award of commendations, recitals and the customary duel of champions would follow.

Sergeant Seraphiel, having instigated the tourney, was the presiding judge, and as the only Grand Master present Sammael would also stand witness to the challenges and their subsequent duels. Brother Malcifer finished the trio who would recognise the efforts of the challengers and challenged and ultimately arbitrated on who was victorious.

The Black Knights acted as marshals, providing the blunted training blades with which the duels would be fought and keeping watch to ensure the code of challenge was not breached by participants and spectators alike.

As host, Seraphiel invited the first challenger to make his presence known. Next to Annael, Sabrael stepped forwards, fist raised.

‘I offer challenge!’ shouted Sabrael. Though no explanation was needed, the challenger was allowed to make brief reference to the nature of his grievance if he desired. ‘I seek satisfaction against Telemenus of the Fifth Company. He gave personal offence and through ill-discipline endangered the mission just completed.’

This caused a very non-traditional hubbub to course along the hall. Sammael and Seraphiel had a whispered conversation, the former shrugging and shaking his head throughout. It was most unusual for a warrior due to be honoured by the assembled warriors to be sought in a challenge, but evidently not against the code.

Telemenus stepped forward from the line of the Fifth, somewhat hesitantly.

‘I intercede!’ shouted Annael, stepping up beside Sabrael, earning himself a scowl from his squadron-brother. ‘I have prior claim to satisfaction from Brother Sabrael.’

‘How can such a claim be made?’ demanded Seraphiel. ‘The tourney has just this moment commenced.’

‘Should proof be needed, I refer the brother-sergeant to communications logs recorded during the last mission,’ said Annael. He briefly looked at Sabrael, lip curled with anger, before addressing the veteran sergeant. ‘I made clear to Brother Sabrael a demand for recompense for abandoning his post against orders and my request.’

‘What recompense do you seek?’ asked Seraphiel.

‘A full apology,’ said Annael. There was little reaction from Sabrael, and Annael realised that his battle-brother was quite prepared to make a public apology if it meant that he could still humiliate Telemenus on the occasion that celebrated his marksman’s laurels. Annael sought something else that Sabrael regarded more highly than his reputation, gaze flitting briefly to the sword in Sabrael’s hand. ‘And he must surrender the bladesman’s honour, for his actions have brought shame to the title.’

There was a hushed murmuring, for this was a grave insult amongst the Dark Angels. Nobody could comply with such a demand and retain any dignity, least of all Sabrael. Annael had made it clear that he wanted to fight, and Sabrael realised as much.

‘You do know what this blade is, brother?’ asked Sabrael quietly, holding the ornate sword in front of Annael.

‘It is the Blade of Corswain,’ replied Annael, his voice equally soft-spoken. ‘I do not need to be reminded of its pedigree nor its history. You are vain and ill-mannered, Sabrael. Qualities that disqualify you from bearing such an honour.’

‘This sword marks me out as the best bladesman amongst the ranks of the company,’ said Sabrael. ‘You cannot hope to defeat me.’

‘Still, that is my intent.’ Annael raised his voice. ‘The challenge is issued as before.’

‘And accepted!’ barked Sabrael.

‘Then let us begin,’ announced Seraphiel.

The two warriors stood in the space cleared between the two companies, ten metres apart, weapons at the ready. Sabrael had surrendered the Blade of Corswain to one of the Black Knights, so that both competitors were armed with short duelling blades, each a metre long with a broad crosspiece, basket guard and heavy pommel. The two would fight until one conceded defeat or two out of the three judges named a victor.

‘Do not think to make a name for yourself at my expense, brother,’ Sabrael said casually.

‘It is time that you were taught some humility, brother,’ replied Annael.

Seraphiel stood between the two of them. He checked that each duellist was ready, receiving nods from both.

‘Commence!’ said the veteran sergeant, stepping out of the way.

Sabrael attacked swiftly, as Annael knew he would. It was all Annael could do to bring up his blade to guard before his foe had advanced and was sweeping his sword towards Annael’s chest. He parried and adjusted his stride, fending off Sabrael’s next lightning-fast attack with the basket of his sword, mere centimetres from his face.

Sabrael backed away, stepping lightly from one foot to the other, always on the move, shifting balance from right to left and back again. It annoyed Annael that his brother was obviously toying with him, and there were some amongst the watching companies that started to shout condemnation. It was also equally clear to Annael that Sabrael had not been boastful. He was clearly one of the finest swordsmen in the Chapter, never mind the Ravenwing, and Annael would never beat him blade-to-blade.

There was little enough time to regret his challenge as Sabrael leapt forward, thrusting low towards Annael’s groin. Annael managed to block the blow with the edge of his sword and span, slashing the point of the blade at Sabrael’s head. His opponent ducked, the blade slicing air a few centimetres above Sabrael’s scalp.

Annael jumped back as Sabrael’s sword flicked towards his chest, and managed to fend off two rapid thrusts, though on the back foot he was not able to mount any offensive of his own. Sabrael’s expression grew intent as he feinted low and then quickly raised his sword towards Annael’s throat. In desperation, Annael ducked forwards, past the blade, driving the pommel of his own blade into Sabrael’s chin. The blow knocked his opponent backwards to the floor.

‘Win for Annael,’ announced Seraphiel. Sammael and Malcifer were not so quick to declare victory though, as Sabrael rolled to his feet, stepping into the attack once more.

‘A dishonourable strike,’ said Sabrael as the two of them met blades and closed, faces less than a sword’s width apart.

‘Victory is honour,’ Annael replied. He pushed hard, forcing Sabrael back and the two of them circled, wary of each other.

Annael parried the next attack and smashed the elbow of his sword arm back across Sabrael’s face. Sabrael span with the blow, however, slapping the flat of his sword across the back of Annael’s head, stunning him.

‘Victory to Sabrael,’ announced Malcifer.

All eyes turned to Sammael. The Grand Master stood with arms folded, dispassionate almost to the point of boredom. He slowly, casually shook his head, lips pursed.

‘Your dirty tricks cannot help you,’ laughed Sabrael. ‘At least lose like a true warrior.’

Annael did not reply, but threw his blade, point first, at Sabrael. Surprised, his foe dodged aside, only to be hit in the midriff with Annael’s shoulder as he charged full-speed. The two of them tumbled to the ground. Annael raining punches, blocked by Sabrael’s upraised arms. Annael trapped Sabrael’s sword arm between his left arm and his body, and rolled away, forcing the weapon from his opponent’s grasp.

He snatched up the weapon as he rolled to his feet, spinning to present the blade point first at Sabrael. He was met by the other Dark Angel coming straight for him, a blade in his hand. Annael realised that Sabrael had snatched up the weapon he had thrown, too slow to stop the strike as it smashed into the side of his head.

‘Victory to Sabrael!’ declared Sammael.

Warriors converged on the two duellists, offering congratulations and commiserations in equal measure. Dropping his sword, Sabrael grabbed Annael in a tight embrace, pounding slaps against his back.

‘You had me worried for a moment, brother,’ said Sabrael, grinning broadly.

‘For a moment?’ Annael asked. His head started to throb from the victorious blow to his temple. ‘Only a moment?’

‘Do you think I have not faced brawlers before, brother? Class always beats aggression.’ Sabrael pulled away as his arm was raised in victory by Seraphiel. The veteran sergeant dispersed the crowd, leaving the two fighters facing each other once more.

Sabrael winked as he bowed and Annael returned the gesture with more formality.

‘For what it is worth,’ Sabrael announced, growing serious, ‘I offer apology to Brother Annael for my dereliction of duty. It was remiss of me to desert my post, and for that I offer sincere regret.’

Annael was expected to reply. He could refuse the apology, but after suffering defeat it would be very churlish. There was a hush from the surrounding Dark Angels as Annael weighed up his decision. He paused, thinking about what happened in the tunnel station. Had Sabrael stayed where he had been ordered, would the consequences have been so very different? It was impossible to say, and Sabrael had proven his quick wit and skill just moments earlier. The Ravenwing were not the Fifth Company. Independence of thought and improvisation were sometimes needed more than regulations and doctrine. Could he really blame Sabrael for what happened, or was it just one of those incidents of war that befell a warrior every now and then?

‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Annael, and he meant it. Through his skill at arms, Sabrael had proven his act justified, his argument backed up by the will of the Emperor. ‘I retract my accusation. You are a worthy bearer of the Blade of Corswain, and you will bring honour to that sword many more times.’

The other Dark Angels pressed forwards again, shouting support as Sabrael was returned the Blade of Corswain. As Sabrael held the badge of honour aloft for all to see, Annael felt a tug at the arm of his robe. He turned to find Telemenus gesturing for him to follow. They moved out of the crowd, and Telemenus seemed humble, eyes cast to the deck.

‘Thank you, brother,’ said the warrior of the Fifth Company. ‘In your place I would not have lasted a handful of seconds.’

‘You are confused, brother,’ said Annael, though he understood Telemenus’s intent. Having fought already, Sabrael could not issue any further challenge. Each warrior could fight only once, to prevent bullying or glory-seeking. ‘I did not act to preserve your honour. I know you Telemenus, and you are not so dissimilar to Sabrael. It was not to save your humiliation that I acted, but in an attempt to forestall Sabrael’s victory. In that, I have failed.’

‘Yet you have my thanks again, whether sought or not,’ said Telemenus. Annael said nothing and the other Dark Angel eventually turned away, returning with his brothers to take his place against the far wall.

Standing next to Sabrael, back to the wall, Annael looked at his neighbour. Sabrael felt Annael’s gaze and turned his head, a smile on his lips.

‘I see Telemenus spoke with you,’ he said. ‘No doubt grateful for your intervention.’

Annael nodded but said nothing.

‘I must offer thanks for the interruption also,’ said Sabrael. ‘It was childish of me to seek to spoil Telemenus’s occasion. He has earned his laurels and I should not have sought to mar his moment.’

‘I am happy to be of service,’ said Annael.

‘Also,’ added Sabrael, nudging Annael with his elbow, ‘fighting Telemenus was just a matter of honour. I actually enjoyed beating you, brother.’

‘And I take no shame from the loss,’ said Annael. He extended a hand and Sabrael took it. ‘Brother.’

FOUR

THYESTES

GUILE AND SUBTERFUGE

The situation at Thyestes was painfully similar to events at Piscina. As Sammael started briefing Harahel, Seraphiel and Malcifer, it was clear to him that there was some greater plan at work than first appeared. Methelas’s influence seemed to be everywhere, and the Grand Master had brought his two officers to council directly after he had ended his communication with Lasper Drazinoff, the Imperial Commander of the world. A hazy, static broken hololith of Seraphiel hovered between the Chaplain and Librarian as Sammael paced back and forth at the head of the console desk.

‘Thyestes Five is a world embattled,’ the Grand Master told his companions. ‘The Imperial Commander is still loyal to the Emperor and is grateful for any assistance he might receive. There is no guarantee that Methelas has returned here, but someone has been fomenting rebellion for some time, over a decade in fact. Anti-Imperial factions have secretly been uniting for many years, leading to an outright rebellion that started two-hundred-and-forty-two days ago. Much of the populace has been corrupted by an anti-Imperial sect, and according to what Drazinoff has just told me there are remarkable correspondences to the Unworthy and Divine we destroyed at Port Imperial. If not currently leading the insurrection, I am convinced that Methelas must be sponsoring and supporting the uprising in some way.’

‘We need to discover whether Methelas is here,’ said Malcifer. ‘As with Piscina, we cannot become embroiled in a prolonged engagement, unless it will serve to capture the Fallen.’

‘Harahel, can you provide any assistance in this matter?’ asked Sammael. ‘Any inclination that Methelas may be on Thyestes Five?’

‘There have been some reports of psychic activity logged by the local Adeptus Arbites, but nothing upon which to base a solid conclusion,’ said the Epistolary. ‘If you can get me closer to a probable location, I would be able to tell if someone as powerful as a Space Marine Librarian is tapping into the warp. From orbit, there is no way to be sure, not for someone of my limited rank and ability.’

‘There still exists the option to send for the Tower of Angels,’ said Seraphiel. ‘Not to abrogate any decision on our part, but to better deal with the forces we are likely to face. Planet-wide rebellion is difficult to counter with less than two full companies.’

‘Brother-sergeant, you are correct to be pessimistic,’ said Sammael. ‘Unlike Hadria Praetoris, we do not know the location of the enemy stronghold or command. There is no swift victory for the Dark Angels here. The insurgents are a powerful but dispersed forced, with no central authority or geographic location that has been detected. I believe that Methelas is responsible, and there will be a headquarters somewhere on Thyestes Five, but that is only suspicion. The Imperial Commander has access to sophisticated orbital stations, which have not furnished any usable information regarding the rebels’ lines of supply, strategy or disposition.’

‘Surely the planetary defence force have some idea where they might battle their foes,’ said Malcifer.

‘The Thyestes Provosts are waging a defensive battle, and losing badly,’ said Sammael. ‘Not knowing where they might be attacked next, the Imperial Commander and his men have been forced into an ever more defensive stance, retreating to keeps and bunker lines while the enemy bring terror to the wider populace.’

‘This may prove a challenge too great for the force we have,’ said Seraphiel. ‘I return to my earlier point. The Tower of Angels can be contacted and greater strength, and wisdom, brought to bear upon the problem.’

‘Time is against us, and not just in the possibility of wasting precious resources seeking Methelas where he will not be found,’ said Sammael. ‘As soon as the insurgency began, Imperial Commander Drazinoff sent word by astropath of the deteriorating situation. Sooner or later, the Departmento Munitorum will mobilise the Imperial Navy and the Imperial Guard and a military force will arrive.’

‘Given that the nature of the threat is rebellion, the matter will come to the attention of at least one inquisitor,’ said Malcifer. He clenched his fists. ‘We stand between the beast and the abyss. On the one hand, if Methelas is here and we delay, we run the risk that one of the Fallen is captured by forces not of the Chapter.’

‘That cannot be allowed,’ said Sammael, shaking his head vehemently.

For ten thousand long years the Dark Angels had kept their secret from prying eyes. Inquisitors came and went, but the truth of the Fallen remained the sole property of the Chapter. Sammael’s name would become as infamous as the likes of the thrice-cursed traitor if he was the first Grand Master of the Ravenwing to allow a Fallen to be taken into the clutches of the Inquisition. It would spell disaster for the Chapter and the Successors. The Unforgiven would be shamed across the galaxy for their failings; perhaps even destroyed for the measures they had taken subsequently to conceal their dark secret. In the eyes of their fellow Space Marines, and before the Emperor Himself, they would be dishonoured.

‘An alternative peril is to engage in the fighting here, encountering only delays and casualties while Methelas makes good his escape,’ said Malcifer. He shook his head. ‘This is a decision that you alone can make, Grand Master.’

‘Not without counsel,’ Sammael replied. ‘I refuse to choose between vague improbabilities. As with Piscina, we must cut through the fog and seek the heart of the matter. If Methelas is present, he must possess some form of base of operations.’

‘Not if he intended Port Imperial to be his base, Grand Master,’ interjected Seraphiel. ‘We would be wiser looking for the ship that brought him here.’

‘No,’ said Sammael. ‘Thyestes has considerable orbital augurs and defences. If the Scar committed any warlike act, it would have been easily destroyed. There are no warships currently in orbit, that much is certain.’

‘But Scar was not due to return to Port Imperial,’ said Seraphiel.

‘Which means that there was something else for the ship and crew to do,’ said Harahel. He cleared his throat, a sign of agitation. ‘It matters not. If Scar was ever here, it arrived under cover and departed the same. The surest route, and the swiftest, will be to locate the enemy headquarters, whomever may be in command, and learn what we must from there.’

‘And how do you suppose we succeed where the Imperial Commander and all of his forces have failed?’ said Sammael. ‘If you can find me a target I will lead the strike.’

‘The rebels are fighting for an ideal, not territory,’ said Harahel. ‘Their attacks seem sporadic, random. They are perhaps politically motivated, but we cannot deduce from their locations any intent or scheme. Instead, we must lure the rebels into revealing themselves.’

‘It must be carefully done,’ said Malcifer. ‘It is my worry that should Methelas learn of our presence here he will flee.’

‘With the Penitent Warrior and Implacable Justice on hand, the orbital cordon is solid,’ said Sammael. ‘If Methelas is on the surface, he will be trapped. Brother-Epistolary, I still do not see how we can force the rebels to reveal the whereabouts of any base or headquarters.’

‘We must give them something so valuable that they will take it to their most secure facility,’ said Harahel. ‘If we can offer up a prize worthy enough, they will take it back to their lair like ants delivering food to their queen.’

Sammael considered this for some time, trying to think of alternative courses of action. Eventually he nodded, liking what he heard.

‘What do you propose we offer as bait to the trap?’ he asked Harahel.

‘We will use the Imperial Commander as the prize.’ The suggestion was met with silence. Harahel looked from Malcifer to Sammael and back again. ‘Why does my suggestion elicit such shock, brothers?’

‘You cannot expect me to easily agree to sacrifice an Imperial Commander on the slim chance that his capture will reveal the identity of the rebel leader?’ Sammael leaned on the hololith slab with both hands, shaking his head. ‘The risks are too great.’

‘He is only a single man,’ said Malcifer, the words slow and quiet as he came round to the idea.

‘The world is unstable enough already, and the loss of the governor could tip more people towards the rebellion,’ said Sammael. The horror of Piscina IV’s collapse was fresh in his mind and he would save Thyestes V that trouble. ‘It might be the case that we leave the matter as it is for the moment. The Imperial Guard will arrive and their numbers will eventually grind down the opposition forces and bring the planet back under total Imperial control. At all times we stand ready to act should Methelas reveal his presence.’

‘There is no conflict between the desire to hunt Methelas and the military needs of Thyestes Five,’ said Malcifer. The Chaplain leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap. ‘Regardless of whether the rebel commander is Methelas, if we can locate an enemy stronghold, we can decapitate the enemy command in a single stroke, as we did at Hadria Praetoria. If it turns out that one of the Fallen is leading the rebellion, then we will capture him and take him back to the Tower of Angels to confess his crimes.’

‘There is considerable uncertainty in that proposal, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Sammael, though Malcifer’s argument was convincing. The Grand Master straightened and turned away, so that he did not see the eyes of the others upon him. He cleared his thoughts and tried to think objectively about the situation analysing his misgivings.

Using the Imperial Commander felt dishonourable. Whatever plan he concocted to deliver Drazinoff to the rebels, he could not do so with the compliance of the Imperial Commander. That would mean lying, and quite possibly collaborating with the rebels in some fashion.

Had he the luxury of this being just any other war, Sammael would have spoken up then, refusing Harahel’s plan outright. As it was, he had a higher duty calling to him; the hunt for the Fallen. There were strong suspicions that Methelas was somewhere on Thyestes V, and if that was the case Sammael was beholden to his oaths as Master of the Ravenwing to use any and all means to bring his prey to account. His predecessors had sacrificed worlds to that cause, was he any less of a Dark Angel?

‘How will we do it?’ he asked, turning to Harahel, knowing that to ask the question was to give consent, if only for the moment.

‘We will tell the Imperial Commander that we have solid information that his palace has been infiltrated by rebels and that they are planning another offensive soon,’ said Harahel, his gaze distant as he thought through the scheme. ‘You will suggest an alternative location where he will be safe with just a handful of guards. Meanwhile, the nature of this move will be leaked to the rebels. I am sure that the Provosts make unsecured communications all of the time, we simply need to replicate their carelessness.’

‘So, Drazinoff will be intercepted by the rebels en route to this new location?’ said Seraphiel. ‘Rather than a few guards, it would be better that he is escorted by some of my squads. I shall take personal command and ensure that he is delivered up to the rebels without them becoming suspicious.’

‘You agree with this ploy?’ asked Sammael.

‘If we are to do this, it is better it is done properly,’ said the veteran sergeant. ‘My approval is irrelevant, if you give the command, Grand Master.’

‘Very well,’ said Sammael. The others were making it abundantly clear that they considered him the final and solitary authority, and by his word alone would the subterfuge be undertaken. In other company he might have suspected that his companions were protecting themselves against reproach, but he knew better. As he faced this almost impossible decision, all three were giving him that unequivocal support, whatever decision he made.

‘Once Drazinoff is with the rebels, they will take him to their headquarters, we shall track them and the target is revealed,’ said the Grand Master. ‘Simple, yet effective.’

‘There are no certainties,’ warned Harahel. ‘If Methelas leaves his lair to meet his captive we may not be aware of the fact.’

‘We have to stay close to the bait,’ said Sammael. ‘You will have to stay close to the bait. If Methelas makes a move, you must be on hand to detect him. I will have the Ravenwing on constant drop stand-by. We strike as soon as we are able. Seraphiel, your Fifth Company will remain on the ground after the failed escort, ready to respond and provide support.’

Sammael turned away again, conscious of the decision he had made. He told himself that removing Methelas, or whoever was leading the rebels, was the best way to bring peace to Thyestes V. Were he to be offered the choice, Drazinoff might well agree with the plan.

The Imperial Commander was not being offered the choice, and Sammael knew he risked greater tumult and prolonging the war if the ploy failed. There were too many variables for the plan to be justified in purely military terms: if Drazinoff was killed; if the Ravenwing were unable to track the rebels; if the enemy commander was not killed or captured. Yet Sammael was able to justify his decision all too easily when he considered the honour of the Chapter was at stake. Compared to the loss of a world, the loss of the Dark Angels’ reputation was a tragedy that would endanger many more billions of lives in the longer term.

Faced with the machinations of the Fallen, Sammael had no other choice.

THE STAKES ARE RAISED

‘Entering the forest,’ Sergeant Atleus reported from the lead Rhino transport.

From his vantage point in the cupola of the fourth and final vehicle in the column, Telemenus could see the woods thickening to either side of the broad highway, the embankments to the left and right growing steeper and more overgrown with bushes.

Twenty metres behind the Rhino of Squad Atleus was Castigator, a Dark Angels Predator tank armed with lascannons and heavy bolters. The gunners in the turret and sponsons swivelled their weapons to and fro as they searched the woods for threats. Telemenus curled his fingers around the grip of the storm bolter in front of him and swung right in the cupola, sighting up the steep hill to the side of the convoy. He noticed the newly-painted laurels on the badge upon his arm and smiled inside his helm. To return to the Rock with such decoration would be a pleasure, though achieving the marksman’s laurels had not provided the lift to his spirit he had expected. The circumstances surrounding the recent campaign nagged at him.

‘Sector clear,’ he announced to Sergeant Amanael in the troop compartment below him.

Halfway between the rear Rhino and Castigator was Imperial Commander Drazinoff’s personal carrier. Its basic chassis was the same as the Chimera transports used by the Imperial Guard and many planetary defence forces across the Imperium. This particular variant of the ubiquitous design boasted thicker armour plates fixed atop the roof where normally a firing hatch was located. A remote-operated missile launcher dominated the front of the vehicle, next to the rotating dish of an enhanced communications array. Whatever happened, the Imperial Commander wanted to stay in contact with his forces.

‘Kaspor Gorge two kilometres ahead,’ said Sergeant Seraphiel. The Fifth Company’s commander was riding below with Squad Amanael. ‘Scanners clear.’

During his briefing, Seraphiel had made it clear that the narrow gorge, nearly four kilometres long, would be the most likely site of an enemy attack. The vehicles would have little room to manoeuvre, and any ambushing foe would have the advantage of the heights rising up several hundred metres on both sides of the road. The downside of the area, from an attacker’s perspective, was the rough terrain stretching for dozens of kilometres around the gorge; dense forest and a rocky mountain pass barred access to wheeled and tracked vehicles. If the enemy attacked, it would be on foot.

Telemenus had been confused by the emphasis placed on the gorge, and Seraphiel’s description of it. While highlighting the unlikelihood of any rebel attack on the column, the company commander had seemed almost convinced that there would be trouble at Kaspor Gorge. When Amanael had made inquiry into the under-strength nature of the column, Seraphiel had been keen to point out that secrecy and speed would be the best protection for the Imperial Commander, which accounted for the lack of close support air cover and the small escort.

The departure of the column had been timed to ensure that the vehicles reached the gorge just after noon, when the sun lit the steep valley in its entirety. Unfortunately, the weather was not inclined to cooperate. Dark grey clouds filled the sky, unleashing a steady drizzle of rain onto Telemenus, splashing from his armour and the top of the Rhino with a constant, irritating patter.

He moved the storm bolter to the right and left, scanning his sector, autosenses on thermal with full magnification. Small animals and birds fluttered between the trees, startled by the growl of the vehicles’ engines, but he saw nothing else.

‘One kilometre to Kaspor Gorge,’ announced Seraphiel. ‘Scanner clear.’

Given recent incidents, Telemenus had left unasked the questions he had regarding the transfer of the Imperial Commander. Though he could understand why a potential security breach amongst his staff had prompted the relocation and the involvement of the Dark Angels, it made little sense to him to move Drazinoff by land. A Thunderhawk would be far less vulnerable and a lot swifter.

At least he was away from the strike cruiser, he told himself. After the frustration of the last three missions – the rebels at Hadria Praetoris captured by Ravenwing, the withdrawal without action at Kadillus and the debacle that had concluded the attack on port Imperial – Telemenus was glad to have an objective that was clear and simple. With any luck, the rebels would find out about the convoy and try to mount some kind of kidnap attempt, giving him the opportunity to unburden himself of some of the dissatisfaction he had been feeling of late.

Despite his meandering thoughts, he remained alert, conscious of the wooded slopes giving way to steeper, rockier ground as they passed into the mouth of the gorge. He waited for Seraphiel to signal the all clear, scanning back and forth across the boulders and scree.

Telemenus heard the crack of a large gun firing a moment before Squad Atleus’s Rhino was hit by a shell. The front of the transport erupted outwards, flinging the driver and armoured plates across the highway.

Acting despite the shock of the attack, Telemenus swung the storm bolter to look at the heights of the gorge walls. He saw something bulky and dark about two hundred metres ahead. There was a flash, just as he opened his mouth to give warning.

‘Enemy veh–’

The shell hit the right flank of the Rhino, smashing into the tracks. The force of the blast lifted up the vehicle and Telemenus felt himself about to topple from the cupola as the Rhino flipped over. He pushed himself inside and slammed the hatch shut half a second before the transport crashed down onto its roof.

The transport compartment was not breached, but his squad-brothers and Seraphiel lay heaped on the roof-now-floor of the vehicle just to the rear of Telemenus.

‘Report, brothers,’ snapped Seraphiel, dragging himself clear as the Dark Angels pushed themselves away from each other. Telemenus answered his name as Amanael snapped out the roll-call, pleased to hear that everyone still in the squad replied.

‘Some kind of vehicle with a battle cannon,’ said Telemenus. ‘Two, actually, at least. One on each side of the gorge.’

‘How could the rebels get a damned tank up there?’ asked Daellon. The Space Marine made his way to the rear hatch, bolter in one hand. He jabbed his fist against the emergency release. Explosive charges hurled the rear doors away from the chassis and pale light flooded into the compartment.

‘They were walkers,’ said Telemenus, recalling the glimpse of the enemy in the moments before the shell had struck, of a monstrous, spider-like vehicle perched on the edge of the ravine. He joined the others as they clambered from their wrecked transport. The flipped Rhino had become a deathtrap, but Telemenus waited patiently while the others disembarked, half-expecting another mighty explosion to rock the transport.

‘The only walkers on Thyestes Five are light recon units,’ said Seraphiel. ‘Where would the rebels get such vehicles?’

The question went unanswered as another booming retort echoed along the gorge. Telemenus’s momentary relief that the shell had been targeted elsewhere was replaced by concern for his brothers in the lead Rhino. Right behind Amanael, he snatched a bolter from the rack beside the exit hatch and plunged out of the Rhino wreckage. As Amanael moved right with most of the squad, Telemenus veered to the left, moving around the inverted transport with Daellon, scanning the top of the gorge wall for more foes.

The walker he had first seen was lowering itself down the cliff with six mechanical limbs, serrated claws digging into the chalky rock. As it picked its way down the slope, the engine looked like an obscene metal spider with a turreted cannon atop its back. The machine was almost perpendicular to the floor of the valley and unable to fire, and Telemenus was grateful for this minor mercy.

Reaching the front of the Rhino, he saw where the third shell had been aimed. Smoke billowed from the rear grating of Castigator, thick and oily from the burning engine. The tank’s turret was still operational though, the barrel elevating to target the crab-like walker on the far side of the gorge. The machine was silhouetted against the grey sky, its front appendages raised, tipped with spinning saw blades. A howl resonated along the defile, inhuman and drawn out, ringing with a metallic edge.

‘Heretic engines,’ muttered Seraphiel. ‘Daemonically possessed war machines. Imperial Commander, remain in your transport for the moment.’

Whatever reply came from Drazinoff was made over the command channel, unheard by Telemenus and the rest of the squad.

‘Troops moving to the front of the column,’ Sergeant Atleus reported. His squad, only seven strong, Telemenus noted, fanned out through the rocks either side of the highway, following their leader. ‘Armoured.’

‘Renegade Space Marines,’ warned Seraphiel. ‘Betrayers of the Emperor.’

This pronouncement hit Telemenus like a fist in the gut, making him stop in his tracks. It was not the first time he had faced such foes, but the memories of his previous encounters were vague, half-remembered as though only a dream. The realisation that he faced former warriors of the Adeptus Astartes brought to mind a plethora of questions; questions he suppressed as he focused on the immediate situation.

‘Damned traitors,’ snarled Daellon. He disappeared back into the upturned wreckage of the Rhino and emerged a few seconds later, a plasma gun in his hands. ‘This will prove most useful.’

‘Incoming!’

The shout from Amanael sent the Dark Angels running from the Rhino. Moments later, the wreck exploded into flames as another shell from the machine atop the gorge wall hit the transport. Heat and smoke washed over Telemenus and secondary detonations rattled through the burning hull as storm bolter ammunition was cooked off by the flames.

‘Not targeting the chimera,’ he noted to the others. The observation came with a worrying conclusion. ‘This is no opportunistic attack. They know we are escorting Drazinoff!’

‘Traitor legionaires approaching from the north, three hundred metres. More walkers and battle tanks,’ said Atleus. His squad were firing along the canyon at targets out of Telemenus’s line of sight. The continuous hail of fire did not bode well. ‘We must extract the Imperial Commander and retreat.’

‘Negative!’ shouted Seraphiel. He paused as Castigator opened fire, its twin lascannons sending bright beams of energy lancing through the torso of the armoured walker atop the ridge. A keening wail drifted down the gorge as the machine slumped to one side and scrabbled out of view, its churning claws sending chunks of rock and boulders rolling and bouncing down the slope. ‘Sergeant Atleus, hold your ground. Squad Amanael, take out that other war engine.’

Nethor readied the missile launcher as the rest of the squad turned their bolters on the approaching mechanical beast. Through the magnification of his targeter, Telemenus could see the unholy conglomeration of metal, flesh and daemon more clearly. Sheathed in metal, there seemed to be muscle and bone beneath the hull of the machine. Dark runes emblazoned on the outer armour burned with black fire, trapping the ethereal spirits of the daemons inside the artifice of traitor tech-priests.

‘Notice the rust and decay?’ said Menthius. ‘Recent acquaintances make it familiar.’

Castigator’s turret turned towards the remaining war machine as Nethor opened fire with a krak missile. His aim was pure, but the warhead split against the armour of the daemonic engine, showering sparks and shrapnel against the cliff-face but doing no lasting damage. Telemenus raised his bolter, but knew he was helpless against the armoured monster.

The walker halted in its descent, digging in four of its claws deep into the stone. As it adjusted its stance, the machine’s wide-muzzled cannon swung towards the Predator and the Space Marines standing not far behind the tank. Castigator’s main gunner fired first as Telemenus and the others broke away from the battle tank, but the shot was too hasty, carving a gouge into the chalk below the abominable walker. The enemy walker returned fire, noxious smoke billowing from its gun as it sent a shell crashing into the side of the Predator. The battle tank skidded sideways, shedding track links across the highways as road wheels fell from their mountings and clanged onto the pitted ferrocrete. The heavy bolter sponson was a tangled mess of metal and flesh, the unfortunate gunner – Brother Amneos, Telemenus recalled – torn apart inside the weapon mounting.

His bolter no better than thrown stones, his armour no defence against the firepower of the mechanical beast, Telemenus snarled in frustration. Nethor was bracing himself, lifting the missile launcher to his shoulder.

‘For Emperor’s sake, take it out,’ Telemenus snapped, stepping up beside his squad-brother. ‘We cannot let it reach the convoy.’

The Predator’s lascannons swivelled as they adjusted for their new position and let forth twin stabs of energy. The blasts sheared through one of the walker’s legs, melting through the metal in a flash. A mixture of oil and blood spilled from the damage, splashing down the white slope in a slick of black and scarlet.

The firing from Atleus’s squad attracted Telemenus’s attention for a moment. The Dark Angels were still unleashing a steady hail from their bolters at targets further along the highway. Telemenus wanted to move forward to join them knowing that his superior marksmanship would prove valuable. Seraphiel’s orders were clear, though, and Telemenus returned his gaze to the machine.

Recovering from losing its rear leg, the daemon engine ripped its claws free, letting itself slide down the white slope towards the column. Nethor lined up another shot with the missile launcher as the enemy walker ploughed onto the highway fifty metres in front of Squad Atleus. Twin beams of laser energy from the Predator obliterated a boulder that had tumbled along with the walker, turning it to dust and fragments but leaving no mark on the machine. The metal beast picked up speed, legs pumping as it headed towards the Space Marine force. Churning up the ferrocrete road with its claws, the half-daemonic machine leaked a trail of dark fluid from its severed limb. Telemenus lifted his bolter, ready to fire. He knew it was a futile gesture, and the thought of fighting against the other Space Marines following in its wake left him feeling cold inside, but he would not simply allow the enemy to attack without reply.

Nethor fired. The missile streaked over the wreckage of the lead Rhino to slam into the front armour of the walker’s turret. The machine stumbled, swaying to its left, knees buckling with a hiss of hydraulics. The daemon-machine let forth a loud, plaintive moan. As the smoke of the missile’s detonation cleared, a large gouge could be seen, running for two-thirds of the cannon barrel protruding from the turret. Bubbling, unnatural liquid dribbled from the wound, dripping like tar on to the hull.

‘Again!’ snapped Amanael.

‘One more hit should finish it,’ said Telemenus.

His satisfaction was short-lived though as the half-machine beast reared up on its three remaining legs, claw-tipped front limbs raised high. A piercing screech of defiance caused Telemenus’s autosenses to momentarily shut out all audio input. When his hearing returned the noise of bolters firing and rounds pinging from metal filled the gorge. He added the fire of his weapon to his brothers’ trying to hit the swaying pipes and cables that ran along its splayed limbs.

Atleus’s squad switched their fire from the approaching renegades to the war machine lumbering into their midst. Armed with an autocannon, one of the brothers fired a salvo of shells into the approaching engine, buckling and cracking rusted armour plates but not penetrating into the machine’s innards. Just as hope was beginning to stir in Telemenus’s heart once more, it was quashed.

Without stopping in its stride, the daemon-tank lashed out with a claw the size of a Space Marine, smashing aside the Dark Angel with the autocannon. The unfortunate battle-brother was hurled several metres into the air and crashed down onto the road, where he lay unmoving. The squad’s flamer set light to the remains of the turret but the war engine thundered on, heading straight for the Castigator. Bolter fire from Telemenus and the others sprayed harmlessly from its metal skin as it threw aside the smouldering remnants of the lead Rhino.

Clambering to the top of the battle tank, the enemy walker set upon the Predator, its front claws leaving ragged welts across the metal as it sought to drive its pincer-like appendages underneath the turret. Telemenus reloaded and fired again, desperate to pick out some weak point revealed by the enemy walker’s elevated position. His rounds pattered harmlessly, sending up puffs of rust and slivers of metal but inflicting no real damage.

Daellon stepped forward, raising the plasma gun to the firing position. As the walker sank its claws through the top of the Predator’s hull, the scream of tearing metal almost deafening, Daellon fired. The plasma bolt passed between the machine’s legs, striking the armoured underbelly. Droplets of molten metal showered onto the roof of the Predator, but still the daemon-machine was not stopped.

Levering with its arms and remaining legs, the daemonic engine ripped free Castigator’s sloping turret. With a fluid movement, it tossed the turret aside, the wreckage sent through Squad Atleus. Roaring insanely, the mechanical creature slammed its claws down, smashing into the interior of the roofless Predator with blow after blow.

‘We have to get Drazinoff,’ said Amanael.

Telemenus moved slowly, recovering from the fugue of confusion that had gripped him since the first shell had hit the convoy. He broke into a run, following after his sergeant and Menthius as they dashed towards the Imperial Commander’s armoured carrier.

‘Fall back!’ yelled Seraphiel, grabbing Daellon as he tried to run past. ‘Protect yourselves.’

The war machine pounced, leaping from the back of the Predator to land on the roof of the Chimera. Suspension cylinders exploded and rivets popped from their seals under the sudden weight. The walker swept out with a claw, driving a pointed tip into the shoulder of Amanael, hurling the sergeant sideways.

‘Fall back!’ Seraphiel’s order was a bellow, cutting through the fog of madness that had descended on Telemenus. The Dark Angel looked up at the behemoth of flesh and metal towering over him and realised that his commander was right; there was nothing that he or his brothers could do to save Drazinoff.

‘Help me with the sergeant.’ Telemenus dragged his eyes away from the enemy at the shout from Menthius.

The other Space Marine had Amanael by one arm. Telemenus grabbed the other wrist and between the two of them they dragged the unconscious sergeant back along the road. Ahead of them, the dead and wounded of Squad Atleus were being pulled back by two of the battle-brothers, leaving two more to hold the front of the convoy. Splinters of rock surrounded them as the approaching renegades showered their position with bolter fire.

A flurry of explosions tore through the rocks and stunted trees where Squad Atleus were still holding ground. Depositing Amanael beside the wreckage of the squad’s Rhino, Telemenus could just about make out the attacking traitors along the road. Figures in filth-daubed white and green power armour advanced in the wake of two Rhinos, the hulls of the vehicles encrusted with rust and filth like the walker. A Land Raider, almost twice as large as the troop transports, its heavy tracks grinding along the ferrocrete, loomed over the attacking column. From its back long pennants and tall banners fluttered, the white of the cloth heavily soiled and marked. A Space Marine in the top hatch directed the fire of a heavy bolter towards Squad Atleus, forcing them back into cover.

‘Death Guard,’ snarled Seraphiel. The name meant nothing to Telemenus, nor did the pale-green livery and dirt-smeared armour of the foe. It did not matter. The column was clearly outmatched. Just metres from Telemenus, the daemon engine was peeling back the top of the Chimera like an Imperial Guardsman opening a rations can. Las-fire erupted from the transport’s interior as the Imperial Commander’s bodyguard defended their charge.

‘Better that the governor is not taken prisoner,’ said Telemenus, thinking clearly for the first time in several minutes. He raised his bolter to his shoulder and sighted on the target. His finger rested lightly on the trigger of his bolter as the claw of the machine reached inside. It lifted out a slender, aging man dressed in dark robes of office.

For a moment Telemenus’s cross hairs were centred in the forehead of the Imperial Commander; a sure kill.

‘All brothers, withdraw,’ ordered Seraphiel, stepping in front of Telemenus, the sergeant blocking the shot as he waved the front line of Space Marines to fall back.

The moment had passed. Telemenus moved his finger from the trigger and lowered his weapon when Seraphiel had cleared the line of fire, seeing that the walker had shifted. Its bulk now between him and the Chimera, the Imperial Commander obscured from view as the engine clambered back to the roadway with its prize.

‘Thunderhawk extraction is on the way,’ announced Seraphiel.

The words filled Telemenus with a mixture of relief and regret. It was not the first time he had been forced to retreat, but it felt like a more damning failure than before. The Imperial Commander was just twenty metres away and there was nothing he could do as heavy weapon fire from the Death Guard raked the convoy, forcing the Dark Angels to retreat further.

‘What about Drazinoff?’ demanded Amanael. The sergeant pushed himself to his feet, his armour ripped open from his left shoulder to his abdomen. Thick blood congealed in the wound, and the sergeant swayed for the moment, weak from the loss.

‘We have failed,’ Seraphiel replied. The flat statement sent a chill through Telemenus; words he feared more than death and injury. ‘We had no idea the enemy had such strength. Fall back. There is nothing more that can be done here.’

Telemenus stood looking up the road for a few seconds while Seraphiel turned and started southwards, back towards the forest. It was almost too much to bear; to have glory snatched from him by the Ravenwing and now a damning failure to protect the Imperial Commander.

He saw a Space Marine from the vanguard of the traitor force reaching the wreckage of Squad Atleus’s Rhino. Raising his bolter, he looked closely at the foe. The traitor’s armour was a mish-mash of ancient marks, heavily reinforced and riveted in places. His helm was tipped by a long spike, the conventional front grille replaced with an armour-banded respirator tubing. Oil leaked from the joints and fungal growths were growing in the gaps between plates. The armour had once been white, but most of it was marked with filthy green mould and brown from coagulated oil.

Filled with hatred and disgust, Telemenus fired, putting a round through the cracked eye lens of the Space Marine. The Death Guard staggered back, half his helmet missing. Remarkably, the traitor did not fall, but turned towards Telemenus, bolt gun raised. Through the targeter magnification Telemenus could see that half the Space Marine’s head was missing, one eye popped from the socket by the bolt detonation, the fleshy orb dangling on the warrior’s exposed cheek. Even for a Space Marine the warrior’s survival was unnatural.

‘No time for that!’ snapped Daellon, seizing Telemenus by the arm as he aimed again. ‘We will be back for vengeance against these rotten bastards.’

Telemenus allowed himself to be led away, breaking into a quick jog with a final glance over his shoulder. The Death Guard were swarming over the remnants of the convoy. With a wordless, anguished shout, Telemenus tore away his gaze and sprinted after his retreating companions.

SILENT HUNTERS

‘Understood, Paladin Two. Commencing close observation. Return to orbit.’ Sammael sighed as the comm cut out. It was the third time since the Death Guard ambush that storms had forced his aircraft to abort their sensor tracking. Ten kilometres above the ground, far from the eyes and scanners of the enemy, the aircraft had proved invaluable in keeping the Death Guard force under scrutiny; for six days and twelve hundred kilometres north and east across the tundra of Thyestes V.

Now that the Death Guard were entering the Kurkarusk Mountains’ cloud cover, storms and snow would mask the foe from the sub-orbital tracking of the Dark Angels. It was time for the Ravenwing to close the gap on their prey.

The ride had already been an arduous one, keeping within striking distance of the Death Guard without approaching too closely. Winter was fast setting in on this part of the world, and the further north the enemy travelled, the rougher the conditions for the Second Company. The enemy had travelled so far it was impossible for Sammael to believe that they were not heading back to some headquarters or permanent outpost in the frozen north. He called Harahel and Malcifer to council as the order to move out was spread through the company.

The Ravenwing had been on the move constantly since the Death Guard ambush, subsisting off their armour systems, occasionally supplemented with high-protein rations. When the Death Guard force had split the evening before, just after sunset, Sammael had been forced to call a halt while the fighter jets scouted out the routes ahead. The Dark Angels had taken shelter amongst the pine trees that swathed this part of the taiga, sleeping fitfully for the first time in days. The recon flights returned with the information that one force was heading for the inhospitable permafrost beyond the mountains ahead, while the other was turning westward at some speed.

‘I believe the enemy must have their base in the mountains,’ the Grand Master told his companions. ‘Any further north puts them on the polar icecap, which would provide ideal concealment but does not make sense from a logistical standpoint.’

As Sammael ordered the company to head north, the trio steered their mounts into the line, exhaust smoke drifting between the pines, tyres leaving deep tracks in the snow. The two Black Knights silently joined their masters, bringing the squadron up to strength. To the left and right, Land Speeders flitted through the trees, their anti-grav engines kicking up flurries of snow in their wake. A rumble of thunder rolled across the skies, the clouds darkening through the breaks in the tree canopy above.

‘I concur,’ said Harahel. ‘The only alternative is that the enemy know we are following them and are deliberately leading us astray.’

‘Thank you for that thought, brother,’ said Malcifer. ‘Now that I think of that possibility, my optimism is quite diminished.’

‘I said it was a possibility, not the likeliest scenario in the balance of probability,’ replied the Librarian. ‘The enemy have had ample opportunity to turn and attack if they knew of our presence.’

‘That would make more sense than wasting fuel and time leading us a merry chase through the tundra and mountains,’ said Sammael. ‘That they have not done so stands testimony to the continued secrecy of our pursuit. We will close to within thirty-five kilometres, with a Land Speeder vanguard to keep visual contact with the enemy. There are dozens of mountain passes ahead, we must know into which one the enemy move. It is vital that we strike before the enemy can make any capital from their capture of the Imperial Commander.’

‘Do we regard Methelas as the principal target now?’ asked Malcifer. His bike hit something hard buried beneath a snowdrift, rocking the Chaplain in his saddle for a moment. Regaining his posture, he continued. ‘The presence of the Death Guard reinforces my suspicions that Methelas is conspiring as part of some grander plan.’

‘We cannot dismiss the similarities between the decayed state of Port Imperial and the particular affectations of the Death Guard,’ Harahel said. ‘It would not be the first time that Fallen have worked with members of the Traitor Legions.’

‘The Cult of Decay is certainly a major influence in the rebellion on Thyestes, and I see its work now amongst the Unworthy and Divine on Port Imperial,’ said Sammael. His knowledge of the Ruinous Powers was vague, but he was aware that some Chaos followers pledged their allegiance to a god of entropy and plague. In return for their sacrifices and obedience they became inured to pain and disease. The oblivion so valued by the Divine and their followers could be a euphemism for the Lord of Pestilence.

‘If this is true, Methelas is to be numbered amongst those Fallen who embraced the Dark Powers,’ said Malcifer. ‘He will be exceptionally dangerous if cornered.’

‘Not only by the bile and spite of his words. Methelas’s psychic power will have been strengthened by daemonic pacts and other vile rituals,’ said Harahel. ‘Already we have witnessed the use of daemon engines. There could be other diabolic servants of Chaos summoned to the cause of the Fallen.’

‘You wish to end the pursuit now?’ said Sammael, concerned by the Epistolary’s words.

‘And risk the Grey Knights becoming involved?’ Malcifer said harshly. ‘I remind you, brothers, that the reason we are riding across this bleak, Emperor-forsaken wilderness is to ensure that no suspicion of the Fallen comes to the attention of the Inquisition.’

‘I do not suspect full-scale daemonic incursion, brothers,’ Harahel said hurriedly, realising his words had caused alarm. ‘But it may be the intent of Methelas and his allies to bring about such a fate for Thyestes. We cannot be sure.’

‘What we can be sure of is the fact that a swift and deadly strike will bring to an end whatever scheme Methelas pursues,’ said Sammael. ‘The presence of the Death Guard makes the enemy a more challenging obstacle, but it does not alter the fundamentals of the mission.’

‘Attack fast, take Methelas and then withdraw?’ said Malcifer.

‘Exactly,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘I harbour no desire to seek extended confrontation with the Death Guard if it can be avoided.’

‘What of the Fifth Company?’ said Harahel. ‘Do you think the Ravenwing alone will be sufficient for the task?’

‘Seraphiel and the Fifth have returned to the Penitent Warrior and are on emergency drop-alert,’ said Sammael. The forest ahead thinned to scattered trees, revealing the mountain range in all of its glory. Cloud-shrouded peaks jutted into the blue sky, the flanks of the mountains purple and red beneath the snowline, broken by the green of trees further down the slopes. A lake glittered in the foothills, reflecting the clouds above.

Deep within the catacombs of the Rock were tapestries and paintings from the ancient founding of the Chapter. They depicted the vast forests and majestic peaks of Caliban before the treachery that had destroyed the Dark Angel’s home world. Looking at the mountains ahead reminded Sammael of those scenes, lost forever by the treason of the Fallen.

‘It would be best if the Fifth Company were not exposed again to the traitor legionaries,’ said Malcifer. ‘The more they encounter the Death Guard, the more awkward questions stirred in their minds.’

‘Let us hope that we are nearing the end of the campaign, for their sake,’ said Sammael. ‘If we swiftly conclude our business on Thyestes we shall return to the Rock in victory. Reunited with their brothers, and coming under the full scrutiny of the Chaplaincy, I am sure the brothers will soon be freed from doubts and curiosity. In the meantime, the presence of the Death Guard make for suitable distraction for the Ravenwing. As long as he is secured by the Black Knights or one of us, Methelas can be passed off as another Death Guard renegade.’

There were no objections to this conclusion and the command squadron rode on in silence. The forest gave way to snowfields, which gave way to foothills as the company trailed the Death Guard into the mountains.

A rotating shift of Land Speeders kept constant vigil on the enemy, ensuring that no matter how winding a path the enemy took, the Ravenwing remained just behind, unseen but ready to strike.

There was little to discuss for Sammael and his companions, until the nature of the enemy stronghold was known. They rode for days on end without speaking, each warrior alone with his thoughts, contemplating the meaning of the hunt and the peril of the Fallen. Sammael did not break these silences, though they made him uncomfortable. Being alone with his thoughts forced him to face the decisions he had made, the path he had chosen since becoming Grand Master.

There was one side of his tale, lit with glory and courage, recorded with praise and pride in the annals of the Chapter. These were the missions that the Chapter boasted of to their Successors, holding up Sammael and the other Grand Masters as beacons of hope in a galaxy benighted by enemies. The alien warlords slain, the heretic empires toppled, the mutant and psyker purged by the Raven Sword. These exploits were the face of Sammael turned outwards, that his company and brethren saw when they looked at him.

But the light masked a darkness; a darkness that resided in the hearts of all the Inner Circle. As glorious as Sammael’s life had been, there were too many times when the shadow had called to him. The brothers sacrificed, the worlds left to ruin, the enemies unconquered so that the hunt could continue. It was these times that filled his thoughts, occupied his mind in the silent contemplation of his cell or the long road such as he now followed. It was the decisions made not for glory but necessity that filled his dreams, such as he had, and haunted his waking hours when sleep became impossible.

These last months had been particularly trying. The words of Boreas were etched in Sammael’s thoughts, like a worm burrowing through rotten wood. He tried to expunge them, tried to leave behind the nagging of their intent, but Sammael could not be free of the truth they held.

What does it mean to be Dark Angels without the Fallen? We have come to define ourselves by them. Take them away and we are left without purpose. We have strayed far from the path, and it is my fervent prayer that you, Grand Masters of the Chapter, the wisest of us, can find the true course again.

The sun was setting and Sammael looked at the descending darkness and felt as though the shadow was a blot upon his soul. Boreas had been driven mad by what he had concluded, and now that madness had infected Sammael. While he had been hot on the trail, in the fiery heat of battle, the truth had been easy to put aside, his conscience simple to assuage. Now as twilight crept into the valley where the Ravenwing hunted their prey, Sammael wondered if he was right to risk a world for one enemy.

And in this, he was fortunate. Boreas had been alone, set adrift by the Chapter with no peer or superior to hear his doubts. His strength had been tested and without support had proven weak. Sammael was not alone. He was in the company of friends; the company of brothers.

‘What is the righteous path?’ he asked, looking at Malcifer who rode beside him, almost lost in the darkness.

‘It is the most difficult path, brother,’ the Chaplain replied carefully, understanding the weight of the Grand Master’s question. ‘To be righteous is a burden we all bear. I sense this is not idle philosophical questioning, Grand Master.’

‘What is the righteousness that guides our hand this night, Malcifer?’ Sammael asked, quiet and thoughtful. ‘If we bring Methelas to account, what do we achieve?’

‘You know the reasons, Grand Master,’ said Malcifer, cautious if not a little worried.

‘I know the sermons and the canticles and the catechisms, yes. I do not mean in general terms, but specifically, on this night, against this foe. I have put in grave danger the future of several billion servants of the Emperor. I feel it is justified, but I do not know if it is righteous.’

‘Ah, well, that is a different matter, brother.’ The Chaplain relaxed, his tone become conversational. ‘If you wish to speak of specifics, I can assist. It was not you, nor I, nor any Dark Angel that placed Thyestes in danger. It was the enemy. Whatever contorted, vile plan he pursues, the one we hunt brought war to their world. Sometimes we must shatter the peace to being a lasting victory, but not tonight. Tonight we act to end war. In one strike, we can deliver this world from the evil of rebellion.’

‘And Methelas, why do we seek his capture and not his death? In righteous terms?’

‘Other than the salvation of his soul through confession and repentance?’ Malcifer laughed, obviously thinking that this was righteous reason enough. The Chaplain continued nevertheless. ‘Cast your mind back to how this particular hunt began. We seek a greater enemy than Methelas. The Fallen had struck a blow directly against the Chapter. This is not an esoteric threat, nor a philosophical supposition. With malicious intent, warriors of the Fallen attacked a keep of the Dark Angels, slaughtered recruits and stole precious gene-seed from us. The act was calculated to cause the most grievous damage possible, and it was guilt at allowing it to happen that drove poor Boreas to end his life and that of his brothers.’

‘Vengeance cannot be righteous,’ said Sammael.

‘Not in itself, but in avenging the dead of Piscina, we have accomplished much. Port Imperial is no longer a scourge on the shipping of the Imperium, and whatever intent Methelas had for the station is now thwarted. Thyestes Five will be delivered from the shadow of treachery, whether Methelas is killed or not. These are indisputable facts. But in order to tread the truly righteous path, it is not enough to simply counter evil as one discovers it. It must be torn out at the root, and no root grows deeper than the vile master that leads the Fallen.’

Sammael had almost forgotten the involvement of the Chapter’s nemesis. Malcifer, animated now by the topic, continued before the Grand Master could say anything.

‘A number of paths lead away from Piscina. We know that our greatest foe was involved in the massacre somehow. We also know that the Saint Carthen, a ship connected to Port Imperial, was in the system. Methelas is connected to Port Imperial, which connects him to Piscina, which connects him to the chief of the Fallen. The web extends, becoming more complex the further one looks, but the Fallen are always interrelated on some level. That is the righteousness of the hunt, to continue the chase even when the trail grows dark.’

‘Methelas leads us to him?’ asked Sammael, heartened by the thought. The shadow lifted from him at the prospect of taking a step closer to apprehending the Dark Angel’s most hated foe.

‘Directly or indirectly, that is for certain,’ said Malcifer. ‘Three Fallen there were that knew of Port Imperial. Astelan is accounted for. Methelas, Emperor-willing, is upon the brink of capture. That leaves only Anovel. Even if Methelas does not take us to the corruptor himself, I believe that Anovel was commander of the Saint Carthen, working with Methelas.’

‘That is a goal worth riding through the darkness for,’ said Sammael. He steered Corvex close to the Chaplain’s bike and lifted a fist, gently banging Malcifer’s pauldron in thanks. ‘To bring the great heretic to account for his crimes would shed light for eternity upon those who did so.’

‘Yet that light must forever be hidden from those outside the Chapter,’ cautioned Malcifer. ‘It is not a glory that can be shared.’

‘It is a glory one would take happily to the grave in the knowing.’ Sammael grinned, imagining what it would be like to be the Grand Master who finally ran the most loathed enemy of the Chapter to ground. With this thought, he looked at the sun disappearing behind the mountains and found that the night was easier to face.

THE ASSAULT

Except for the distant whine of anti-grav motors from the patrolling Land Speeder, the forest was silent. Their black armour rendering them almost invisible in the darkness, the warriors of the Ravenwing gathered, leaving their bikes and attack bikes in the shadows beneath the tree canopy. The mountain slope was rocky, the forest floor covered in light undergrowth, only a faint carpet of snow and bushes. Above, twin moons shone down, half full, but their silvery light did not reach through the entwined pine branches above. With Araton, Zarall and Sabrael, Annael joined the rest of the company, ranks of dark statues facing the Grand Master amongst the trees. The Black Knights stood beside their lord, hammers couched in their arms. Only the glint of eye lenses in the darkness betrayed the presence of the unmoving sentinels.

When the company had assembled, Sammael stepped forward, head bowed. His words were quiet over the vox, thoughtful rather than theatrical.

‘We have followed the trail of the hunt, from system to system and across the chill wilderness of this world. Our enemy have returned to their lair at last, unknowing of the vengeance that follows on their heels. They think they are safe, their fastness perched atop the summit of this mountain, but they are wrong. We are the Ravenwing and there is no hiding from our wrath.’

The Grand Master paused, resting one hand on the pommel of the Raven Sword at his waist.

‘To outsiders, even those amongst our Chapter brethren, our steeds are the symbol of the Ravenwing. We are the all-seeing eye that roams wide. We are the blade that strikes swift. They are not wrong, but we are far more than that. The Ravenwing are the hunters that cannot be eluded. Our mounts have served us proudly, bearing us into battle, and we honour their spirits with our victories as we honour the company and the Chapter. Yet we are not beholden to machines. We must forego our steeds to negotiate the terrain ahead. The enemy reside upon the pinnacle, unreachable by our mounts unless we wish to drive into the teeth of their defences.

‘We are a cannier hunter than that. On foot, we shall negotiate the slopes, coming upon our foes unseen. Though we relinquish our mounts, we do not depart from our honour and spirit. We are Ravenwing and the tenets of our company hold true tonight as they would any other time. Speed and surprise are our weapons. Daring and courage are our creed. I expect each of you to fight for glory and distinction, as hard as you would fight at any other time.’

Again the Grand Master stopped for a moment. Telemenus saw his hand tightening on his sword, the other forming a fist at his side. His voice grew more strident, edged with scorn.

‘We have hunted long, pursuing a foe most hated. You know that the rebels are bolstered by the presence of traitor Space Marines. These foes are beneath pity, worthy only of hatred. They have turned from the Emperor’s light and seek to spread their vile darkness upon this world. War they have brought to the Emperor’s domains, but in one night, one glorious battle, their darkness will be obliterated by the vengeful light of the Dark Angels. They have run as far as they can and can run no further. They seek to hide from retribution but it has found them. We are justice given form. The Emperor’s wrath incarnate! For the Lion and the Emperor, show no mercy.’

‘For the Emperor.’ With the rest of the company Annael spoke the words with conviction, not a boisterous shout but a simple uttering of a fundamental truth. ‘For the Lion.’

The squads broke at their leader’s command, the order of the advance already known to the sergeants. With Araton as acting sergeant, Annael and the others fell into line, alongside the Black Knights of Tybalain. The Huntmaster lifted a fist in salute and set off into the night, quickly consumed by the darkness.

The ascent was long but not arduous. Annael’s power armour made light work as he pulled himself over rocks and clambered along narrow ridges. Coming out of the trees, the Ravenwing found themselves on the shoulder of the mountain, the rock gleaming in the light of the twin moons. Looking up to the summit several thousand metres above, Annael could see nothing of the enemy stronghold. This was good, he decided, as it also meant that the foe could not see the warriors approaching from below.

The climb became monotonous, hour after hour, the temperature and air pressure dropping as the Dark Angels ascended the broken slopes and cliffs beneath the Death Guard’s fortress. Ice slicked the rocks, but was no barrier to powered fingers delving into cracks and, on occasion, driving into the rock itself to create hand- and footholds.

There was no conversation, each Space Marine intent upon his path, measuring the distances and gauging the strength of the rocks above. Ice became a coating of snow; snow became deeper and deeper the higher they climbed. The moons dropped below the peak and the cliffs were shrouded in utter darkness. Suit lamps at minimal power glowed into life across the slope, dozens of tiny pinpricks of light. Annael fixed on Araton ahead of him, following the squad leader’s every move precisely, as he in turn was following those in front.

After a particularly steep incline, the mountain shoulder flattened, a few hundred metres below the snow-covered peak. Moving quickly, the Ravenwing made their way across the snowy expanse, spreading out according to the orders of Sammael. With Tybalain’s Black Knights, Annael and his squad headed to the left, cresting a ridge a hundred and fifty metres further on. Attaining the height of the ridge, the two squads crouched, surveying the ground below.

From this vantage point the enemy installation was easy to see. Two narrow ridges formed natural walls to the north-east and north-west, the compound finished with a ten metre-high revetment some five hundred metres away, down the slope. Twin towers guarded the armoured gateway, search lamps lighting a stretch of broken roadway before it turned behind a shoulder of rock and disappeared from view. In the snow-reflected gleam Annael could see the armoured shapes of Death Guard manning mounted lascannons and heavy bolters on the tower roofs. Any approach from that direction would have been met with a devastating crossfire.

‘Not so much a fortress,’ said Tybalain.

He was right. The enemy stronghold consisted of a network of fourteen prefabricated units, each no larger than ten metres square, linked together by covered walkways. Snow was banked up against the ferrocrete blockhouses and strings of lanterns hung along the walkways, spreading light over small patches of ice and snow packed down by the tread of heavy boots. Yellow gleamed from slit windows in the hab-units, now and then eclipsed by a passing figure, but Annael could see no movement in the open. In the shadows the bulky shapes of the Death Guard’s transports sat, the snow around them melted by exhaust and engine heat.

‘That is more problematic,’ said Araton, pointing to the ridge on the opposite side of the site. Caught in the last light of the setting moons, a monstrous walker stood guard, as still as the buildings, clawed arms resting in front of it, multi-jointed legs furled beneath it like a spider lying in wait.

‘Not for long,’ Tybalain replied. ‘Air strikes are incoming.’

‘What do we do now?’ asked Sabrael. He had the Blade of Corswain in his right hand, bolt pistol in his left. Annael unholstered his pistol and knife too, looking along the ridge line to where other Ravenwing squads were waiting for the attack order.

‘After the air strikes, we head straight down,’ said Araton, glancing towards Tybalain who nodded in confirmation.

‘Clear and secure the nearest buildings,’ said the Huntmaster. ‘Remember that we need to take the enemy commander alive.’

‘Why so?’ asked Annael, eliciting surprised noises from his brethren.

‘That is the purpose of the hunt,’ said Araton, his voice tainted by a condescending tone. ‘We secure the renegades so that the Chaplains may learn of other traitors.’

‘Apologies for the question, brothers,’ Annael said quickly, feeling foolish. ‘This is the first conclusion to a hunt I have witnessed.’

‘And you are blessed because of it,’ Tybalain assured him. ‘So soon after your arrival, you will earn the greatest honour our company can know.’

‘Though we can never speak of it to anyone, for shame,’ said Sabrael.

‘For pride,’ countered Araton, ‘not for shame.’

‘You know well my meaning, brother,’ said Sabrael.

‘There is plenty of wide renown in other battles, Sabrael,’ Zarall said softly. ‘In this, our highest duty, we each know the measure of true reward, of service well rendered and honour upheld.’

‘Of course,’ said Sabrael.

They waited for a few more minutes, until the noise of jets to the south could be heard approaching quickly. They were not the only ones to hear the incoming craft, as armoured figures emerged from the blockhouses below.

‘Stand ready,’ said Araton.

Beside them, the Black Knights were already edging down the slope of the ridge towards the encampment. Araton held up his hand to stop Sabrael as he moved to follow.

‘We move after the first strike,’ said the squad leader. ‘Not before.’

Shaking his head, Sabrael settled back on his haunches but did not offer vocal argument.

From the dark skies lascannon beams stabbed into the buildings, followed by the spark of launched missiles. Annael looked across the mountainside in time to see the war machine rising up, its battle cannon turning skywards moments before two missile trails converged on it position. The mechanical beast disappeared down the far slope amidst the detonations, an inhuman roar fading into the distance.

In the compound, the Death Guard were caught amidst missile blasts and lascannon fire as they ran for their transports. Bolter and plasma gun fire erupted from the Ravenwing squads close to the gate towers, hammering into the warriors manning the heavy weapons.

There was no time to take in anything more as Araton gave the order to attack, pushing forward down the ridge towards the Death Guard camp.

Thunderhawks strafed across the stronghold, raking heavy bolter fire and missiles into the prefabricated buildings, punching holes in the roofs and walls. A battle cannon shell caved in the end of the building fifty metres in front of the squad as they hit the floor of the depression, cracking apart the ferrocrete slab.

Annael saw shapes moving in the smoke and dust, and raised his pistol.

‘Hold your fire,’ Araton barked. ‘All of you, mark your targets well. The commander is to be captured and the governor is in one of these buildings.’

Silencing a frustrated remark, Annael pounded across the stronghold with his brothers, wondering if he would know which enemy was their leader. The question became irrelevant as three power-armoured figures emerged from the darkness, opening fire on the Black Knights twenty metres ahead.

‘This way,’ Araton ordered, breaking to the right to move behind Tybalain’s squad as they charged into the Death Guard, their corvus hammers gleaming blue in the night. Araton led the squad towards a ferrocrete blockhouse near the back of the encampment. ‘Remember brothers, speed and surprise.’

Annael ran up to one of the slit windows and glanced inside. A single glow-globe lit the interior, which was bare save for metal crates and wooden boxes. The growl of engines rumbled across the depression and he looked across the camp to see lights blazing forth from the Land Raider.

‘The governor!’ declared Sabrael from the window behind Annael. ‘In here.’

‘Leave him!’ snapped Araton. He pointed to a group of Death Guard breaking out of another building twenty metres ahead. There were five warriors, all in power armour though one stood out amongst the others. By the light of flames and flickering bolts Annael could see that his armour was dark, black even, a white cloak streaming from his backpack as he and his guards dashed towards Tybalain’s Black Knights. The Huntmaster and his warriors were fighting their way into a breached blockhouse, unaware of the foes closing on them.

‘We have to secure the Imperial Commander,’ argued Sabrael, moving towards the door of the building.

‘He is not the objective!’ yelled Araton. The squad leader broke into a run towards Tybalain’s position.

Zarall followed Araton without remark, leaving Annael conflicted between two courses of action. The desire to rescue the Imperial Commander and redress the loss of honour inflicted by his capture won through.

‘Quickly now,’ he told Sabrael, charging past his squad brother, smashing through the flimsy door with his shoulder.

Annael came face-to-face with a traitor, who was moving towards the door from inside. The stench of death swamped Annael’s autosenses as he crashed into the warrior, flakes of rust and spatters of oil from the renegade coating the Dark Angel’s black armour. The enemy Space Marine lashed out with his bolter, smashing it across Annael’s helm, knocking him sideways. Annael moved with the blow, his momentum slamming him into the wall, the ferrocrete cracking under the impact.

Another Death Guard, helm encrusted with barnacle-like growths, greenish vapour wheezing from the distended vent, seized hold of Annael’s arm. A second later, Sabrael was there, the Blade of Corswain shining in the dim light of the cabin.

The power sword lanced through the chest of the Death Guard holding Annael, but the warrior was not moved by the blow. The other traitor kicked Sabrael in the midriff, sending him backwards into the wall, his grip on his sword lost. The spiked knuckles of the impaled Space Marine’s fist crashed into Annael’s mask, shattering the grille and breaking ceramite, and he tasted his own blood, mixed with foul pus from the decaying warrior’s armour. He brought up his pistol, jamming the muzzle under the chin of the Space Marine as he pulled the trigger.

Pieces of helm, skull and brains showered over Annael, overwhelming his autosenses. Fighting the urge to gag, Annael prised himself free from the warrior’s dead grip, but was too slow to defend himself as the remaining Death Guard fired his bolter.

The Dark Angel’s chest plastron gave way under the welter of detonations and Annael felt his ribs and sternum cracking with it. Gasping for breath, he fell back, his hearts thundering in his ears.

Sabrael hit the Death Guard with a flying tackle, the two of them turning a pile of wooden boxes to splinters as they tumbled across the floor. Heaving in painful draughts of foetid air, Annael pushed himself to his feet. In the corner of the room he could see Imperial Commander Drazinoff bundled on the floor, rusted chains binding his arms and legs. He was a middle-aged man, sporting a ragged beard and unkempt grey hair, but it was not this that Annael saw.

The governor’s skin was pockmarked with blisters, his eyes white with cataracts as they roved unseeing in their sockets. Blood trickled from lesions on his lips.

The bark of more bolter fire snapped Annael from the disturbing sight. Wincing with pain, he turned to see Sabrael standing over the remaining Death Guard, the enemy’s bolter in his hand as he fired into the warrior’s face.

‘Pestilence has him,’ gasped Annael as Sabrael tossed away the weapon and turned in his direction.

‘It may not be too late,’ said Sabrael. ‘If we get him to Gideon swiftly.’

‘Who’s there?’ Drazinoff demanded, trying to stand up despite his bonds. His voice was a thin whisper that became a wracking cough.

Sabrael snatched up the governor, easily heaving him over his shoulder, thick chains and all.

‘Allies, Imperial Commander,’ he said, setting off towards the door. He stopped just before the threshold and looked back. ‘Can you move, brother?’

‘Save the commander,’ Annael said. The pain was subsiding as his genetically enhanced body and armour systems suppressed and tended the wound. ‘I will follow.’

He reached the doorway with a few steps and stopped, finding Sabrael standing just beyond, as still as a statue.

‘Lion’s shade,’ cursed Annael as he saw what had stopped Sabrael.

Beyond his squad brother, Annael could see the bodies of Araton and Zarall, lying alongside three Death Guard and several Black Knights. Their armour was rent open as if by some savage claw, steam rising from the grievous wounds. The snow was red with blood and flesh. Now and then sparks of white energy flickered over the corpses, tiny lightning flashes leaping from the ragged edges of their armour.

‘All brothers, converge on the gateway.’ The Grand Master’s command was terse, edged with anger. ‘The target is escaping!’

Annael pulled his gaze from the splayed corpses of his brothers and saw the huge bulk of the Death Guard Land Raider moving past the buildings, its lascannons and heavy bolters cutting a swathe through the Ravenwing around it.

Sabrael let the Imperial Commander fall to the ground as he sank to one knee, head bowed. Annael staggered over to his squad-brother, the strength draining from his legs.

‘Utter shame and dishonour,’ Sabrael muttered, shaking his head.

‘You can still save the governor,’ Annael told his brother, sinking to the ground beside him, the last of his stamina spent. He felt light-headed from blood loss, his sight dimming, everything around him spinning and moving in and out of focus. ‘The Grand Master will catch the prey, you will see.’

Sabrael grunted and stood up. He stooped to pick up Drazinoff, who was murmuring to himself, half-delirious, a fever-sweat soaking his face.

‘Wait!’ said Annael as Sabrael took a step.

With a last effort, gritting his teeth, Annael forced himself to his feet and stumbled back into the storehouse. He fumbled in the gloom for a moment until his fingers fell upon the hilt of the Blade of Corswain. Dragging it free from the Death Guard’s chest, Annael returned to Sabrael, thrusting the sword hilt into his grip.

‘This is yours, brother,’ said Annael. ‘As is the honour.’

‘Yours is greater, brother,’ said Sabrael as he turned away.

CONTINGENCY PLANNING

The drop pod was still shuddering from the impact as the door slammed down in front of Telemenus revealing a starry, cloudless sky and a wide expanse of snow. His descent harness snapped away from his armour with a hiss, releasing him from its embrace.

Needing no order from Saphael, acting-sergeant since the ambushed convoy, Telemenus leapt down to the ground, unslinging his bolter as he hit the snow. Half a kilometre to the west, the sky was lit by more drop pods and the streak of Thunderhawks plunging down from orbit.

‘Sergeant Seraphiel was clear in his orders,’ said Saphael as the squad mustered on their leader.

‘Create a cordon but do not approach the target,’ Zarall said, his disapproval evident. ‘Are we really going to let the Ravenwing steal our glory again?’

‘No,’ said Saphael. ‘Seraphiel lost us honour in his mishandling of the Imperial Commander’s escort and we must restore the name of the company. If we see the enemy, we attack.’

‘About time,’ said Telemenus. ‘Apollon, which direction?’

‘North-west, brother.’ Apollon pointed to the right. ‘If we move fast we will be at the road leading from the enemy base within fifteen minutes.’

‘It would have been easier if we had dropped directly to the site,’ grumbled Nethor as the squad broke into a loping run, leaving billows of snow in their wake.

‘Seraphiel would have noticed,’ said Telemenus. ‘Better this way. No interference.’

There were grunts of assent from the others. Following the debacle at the gorge, the squad, diminished in number and spirit, had returned to the Penitent Warrior to nurse their wounds and their pride. Losses were not easy to bear at any time, but the manner in which Amanael, Achamenon, Cadael and Nemeon had been killed or injured was a particularly sore wound from which to recover. It had been remarked that Sergeant Seraphiel had constantly shown poor judgement in his command of the company and his latest order to hold back from the battle was in a similar vein.

The squad ran on in silence, heading up the mountainside through the snowdrifts, leaving behind their brothers in the Fifth Company. They knew they were disobeying orders, a grave crime for which they were all prepared to be judged. It did not matter to Telemenus. Since Piscina, the company had lost pride and honour at every turn, playing second to the Ravenwing. The fresh laurels upon his armour were meaningless if the company was to return to the Rock in shame, and with the enemy on the loose an opportunity was presented to restore some measure of balance.

They reached the road, lined by low walls banked with snow, and turned north, towards the summit of the mountain. From this distance nothing could be seen of the battle that had raged there save for a pall of smoke that smeared across the stars. Like fireflies, the distant jets of Thunderhawks and fighters passed back and forth across the slope, sending reports of the enemy heard only by the Ravenwing.

Even in the night it was easy to follow the tracks left on the road by the Death Guard’s vehicles. The road wound back and forth like a ribbon, but the Dark Angels were able to cut across the great loops, in places climbing rocky escarpments and ridges to speed their progress. After half an hour the pursuit from above was getting closer, the overflights of aircraft only a few kilometres away as they scoured the wilderness for their fleeing enemy.

‘Let us ease haste, brothers,’ said Saphael as they clambered over the stone wall onto the road once more. ‘Better that we come upon our target prepared.’

Slowing to a swift walk, the squad strode along the road, Apollon with auspex slowly swinging back and forth in one hand, bolter in the other.

‘Faint signal, directly ahead,’ he reported. ‘Heat source. Not strong enough to be a vehicle.’

‘The quarry seeks sanctuary on foot,’ said Telemenus. ‘That makes the task simpler.’

‘I can imagine the curses from the Ravenwing when we deliver their target to them, trussed like a hog ready for roast,’ said Daellon. ‘Nectar after the vinegar we have supped of late.’

Telemenus was less concerned by the reaction of the Ravenwing than he was Grand Master Zadakiel, commander of the Fifth Company. He was not entirely convinced their rogue action would be welcomed by their leader when they returned to the Tower of Angels, as good as the intention was to restore the company’s honour. He kept his misgivings to himself though, his silence a sign of solidarity with his brothers. As a squad they would stand or fall.

The Ravenwing aircraft were close now, Thunderhawks moving slowly down the mountainside less than a kilometre away.

‘We have to be close,’ he said. ‘Keep alert.’

His autosenses on full magnification, Telemenus scoured the darkness ahead, looking for any thermal signal. Apollon checked the auspex once more and gestured to a cleft in the rocks to the left. Silently, he stowed the scanner and took his bolter in both hands, all the signal the squad needed.

They moved into the defile two abreast, Menthius and Saphael in the lead, Telemenus and Nethor next, with Apollon and Daellon taking the last position. The crack in the mountain was about twenty metres wide, the sides swiftly becoming sheer, the floor of the rift littered with snow-covered rocks. Small, leafless bushes clung to crevices in the walls, but there was little cover.

Telemenus saw a faint blotch of orange ahead and whispered a warning to his brothers. The squad halted, spreading out across the defile as the smear of colour resolved into two distinct figures, heading straight towards them, their armour giving off clouds of heat from their backpacks.

‘How should we proceed?’ asked Menthius.

‘A wounded target is easy to subdue,’ replied Saphael. ‘Open fire on my command.’

A few seconds later, the two figures stopped. They were close enough now to see in the starlight, one a Death Guard in filthy armour, the other slightly taller, his suit equally archaic but painted black. The latter wore no helm, his pale face lit by the stars, framed by long black hair. A white cloak draped behind him, tattered at the edges.

Telemenus felt Saphael shift beside him, about to give the order. He raised his bolter, expecting the command, but before the words were spoken the black-clad warrior raised a gauntleted hand towards the squad, crackles of energy playing across his fingertips.

‘Psyker!’ hissed Daellon, a moment before blue lightning streamed down the defile, crashing into Saphael. The squad leader was thrown black by the sorcerous blast, his armour ripping open from within as unearthly energy pulsed through his body.

Telemenus fired on the move as he darted to the right, away from the ripples of psychic energy crackling from the psykers fingers. His bolts flew true but seemed to slam into an invisible wall just in front of his target, detonating uselessly in mid-air.

The unholy energy coursed across the defile, seizing upon Menthius briefly, splitting open his armour, wisps of smoke drifting from the joints as he fell backwards. Telemenus suppressed a shout of grief, leaping to the right as the Death Guard aimed a meltagun in his direction.

Nethor fired as a boulder was turned to glass by the melta blast just behind Telemenus. The missile hit the Death Guard Space Marine in the chest, the shaped warhead breaking open his armoured plastron milliseconds before the charge exploded, cutting the renegade in half.

The psyker drew a long blade, its edges glimmering balefully with a sickening yellow light. Unperturbed by the bolts shrieking around him, he strode towards the squad. Telemenus could see that his skin was pale like a corpse, the bones of his cheeks showing through torn flesh, eyes red with thick veins.

‘Brave but foolish, brothers,’ the traitor declared in a rasping voice. His words were accompanied by a gust of air that carried the stench of disease and rotting meat. ‘Your masters have betrayed you.’

Giving up all thoughts of taking the warrior alive, Telemenus emptied his magazine at the ghastly apparition. As before, the bolts did not hit. Nethor steadied himself again for another missile shot, but was too slow. The psyker thrust his sword in the Space Marine’s direction, a blast of churning warp energy flying from its tip to smash Nethor from his feet. His armour crumbled, turning to dust in moments, exposed flesh wrinkling and decaying beneath.

Apollon fell next, sent spinning to the ground by a fresh wave of psychic lightning that surrounded him with a cloud of energy. Telemenus skirted to his right, glancing at his battle-brother’s twitching body.

‘It is folly to oppose me, brothers,’ the psyker spoke without malice, blood trickling from split lips as he uttered the words. ‘Your sacrifice will go unremembered, your glory unrewarded.’

‘I am no brother of yours,’ snarled Daellon. A swirl of burning promethium engulfed the enemy warrior, setting fire to his cloak and hair. The psyker staggered to the left and raised his empty hand against the inferno. More sickly yellow light spilled from his open palm, pushing back against the gout of flames.

Fingers curling into a fist, the psyker seemed to grab hold of the streaming promethium, lashing it like a whip back at Daellon. The Dark Angel flung the flamer away and dived to the ground as its fuel canister exploded, showering the defile with burning liquid.

‘You are all my brothers,’ the psyker continued. ‘If your blind masters had half the honour you possess, they would tell you the truth. I was once like you.’

‘I know you, traitor,’ said Telemenus. ‘You have shunned the Emperor and have no honour. You have the filthy heart of a heretic even if you were once a Space Marine.’

The psyker grinned, bearing a few rotted, pointed teeth, even as flecks of promethium continued to burn through the flesh of his face and flickered on his armour.

‘Not just a Space Marine, brother. A Dark Angel.’

‘Lies!’ roared Telemenus. There was a fresh magazine in his bolter, his instinct performing the act even as his conscious mind had been occupied. He opened fire, the thunder of his bolter loud in the defile. The hail of rounds swamped the psyker with detonations, but he did not stop in his stride.

The bolter clicked empty in Telemenus’s hands and he looked into that dead face and knew he was doomed. The psyker lifted his sword, the gleaming tip pointed at Telemenus’s heart.

‘May your soul take with it the torment of the newly-learnt truth,’ said the warrior, his grin turning into a sneer.

Telemenus narrowed his eyes. He recoiled more at the realisation that the sinister creature in front of him had once been a son of the Lion than at the thought of impending death.

Nothing happened.

The psyker’s brow creased in a heavy frown as he looked down at the weapon. His eyes widened a moment later and he turned, staring with shock up at the rocks overlooking the defile.

Telemenus followed his gaze. Three figures stood there, their armour as black as the night sky behind them, their outlines just a glimmer in the starlight. An axe head blazed into life, lighting the armour of Epistolary Harahel. The cables of his psychic hood buzzed with sparks of energy. Beside him a golden aquila gleamed; the crozius arcanum of Brother Malcifer. Between the two a long, silver-edged blade slid from a scabbard as Sammael unsheathed the Raven Sword.

‘Back away, brother,’ the Grand Master said, the words calming, cutting through the haze of confusion left by the psyker’s shocking pronouncement.

Telemenus did as he was told, stepping back down the defile, eyes still fixed on the Grand Master. Below Sammael, the psyker looked like an animal trapped in a snare, head twisting left and right as he sought a means of escape.

Sammael jumped from the top of the defile, the Raven Sword held in both hands. As he thudded to the rock, the silvery blade plunged into the renegade’s gut, erupting from his back. Pulling his sword free, Sammael swept the blade low, slicing through the psyker’s left knee, toppling him to the ground.

Harahel and Malcifer followed the Grand Master into the defile. Sammael reversed his grip on his blade and drove it through the shoulder of his prey, pinning him to the rock. Harahel laid the edge of his axe against the chest of the psyker and energy flowed, coursing with white light through the traitor. A scream of agony and despair echoed from the rocks and Telemenus turned away, stumbling back towards the road, mind boiling with the unthinkable truth.

Behind him the shrieking abruptly ceased, but he knew that the psyker was not dead. A worse fate awaited the traitor.

No, he corrected himself.

The Fallen Dark Angel.

EPILOGUE

CONSEQUENCES

The five penitents sat with heads bowed in front of Sammael in the strike cruiser’s reclusiam. They had not looked at him since he had entered. Two he knew well, brothers from his company. The other three were of the Fifth, but the extent of their deeds had been made known to him by Malcifer and Seraphiel.

‘Sabrael, Annael,’ he said, intoning the names slowly. They did not raise their gazes, but stared diligently at the tiled floor. ‘In the midst of battle with the enemy, you shunned the duty of the Ravenwing. Our mission was to subjugate the traitor, yet you chose to act upon your own course to free Imperial Commander Drazinoff. Do you deny this?’

‘No, Grand Master,’ whispered Sabrael.

‘I cannot deny the charge,’ said Annael. His gaze flicked up to Sammael for a brief moment and then returned to the floor. ‘Did we save the governor?’

Unseen, Sammael’s lips twisted in a brief smile.

‘He recovers after a fashion,’ the Grand Master replied. His smile faded. ‘What have you to say in defence of your actions?’

Both Dark Angels said nothing.

‘You offer no justification for your deeds?’

‘We are subject to your will, Grand Master,’ said Sabrael. ‘Your judgement is the truth.’

‘I see.’ Their response pleased Sammael and made his final decision easier. He waited a moment, choosing the right words. ‘Such behaviour cannot pass without consequences. You will each spend ten days in the penitentium.’

‘Ten days?’ Annael looked up in surprise. The movement caused him to wince and his hand moved to the bandaged wounds beneath his robe. ‘Your leniency is unwarranted, Grand Master.’

‘There is a greater punishment in store for the both of you,’ Sammael continued solemnly. ‘You have seen a deeper truth than most. It is not honour or glory to act without thought, simply obeying orders for their own sake. I place a great burden upon you, because you have shown the character and strength of will to bear it in silence, resolute and unyielding. I am short of Black Knights and you will serve me in that role.’

Sabrael’s expression was one of confusion, while Annael showed relief.

‘Some may think this reward for your ill-discipline, but do not take it as such,’ the Grand Master warned. ‘As Black Knights you will be subject to the highest demands of body and soul. It is an onerous duty, but one of which you are both capable. When you have passed the Seventh Rite of the Raven you will understand that truth is the harshest master to serve.’

The two Space Marines nodded and remained silent. Sammael moved his attention to the three others.

‘Menthius.’ The warrior of the Fifth was still swathed in dressings, the flesh beneath burnt across much of his face and chest. He met Sammael’s gaze with a look of deference. Next to him Daellon, his burns only superficial, nodded without looking up as the Grand Master spoke his name.

‘Telemenus,’ Sammael intoned as his gaze moved to the last of the Dark Angels. The Space Marine’s hands were clasped fists in his lap, and his scalp was freshly shaven as a sign of penitence. At the mention of his name, Telemenus raised his face, a haunted look in his eyes.

‘You have been brought before an even darker truth,’ Sammael said, genuine sorrow filling him. The darkness of the Fallen had been cast upon them, despite his best efforts to shield them from the horrifying truth. All three had heard Methelas’s claim. In a way, their squad-brothers who had been slain had suffered the kinder fate. All three had been brought directly aboard the Implacable Justice and segregated from the other battle-brothers lest a careless word spilled from their lips. They had borne their incarceration stoically, but there was no other course of action open to Sammael. ‘You do not serve under the aegis of the Ravenwing and it is not in my power to pardon or punish you. I have spoken with Sergeant Seraphiel on the matter.’ Sammael felt the warriors tense at the mention of their leader’s name. ‘I find myself in agreement with his judgement.’

Sammael stepped away and walked to the altar. He stood behind it and called for the three warriors to look at him.

‘As with the Black Knights, you shall know the burden of knowledge,’ he said slowly. ‘I cannot guide you on that path, but there are others that will. Upon our return to the Tower of Angels you shall be rendered into the care of the Deathwing. May their teachings salve the wounds you feel in your souls. Serve in the First Company with honour, and expunge the guilt and shame that has laid its dark grip upon you.’

Their eyes widened as realisation dawned. There were no smiles, for as with Sabrael and Annael, they realised the expectation and duty being placed upon them. They accepted the news with grim nods.

When he had dismissed all five of the warriors, Sammael left the reclusiam, exiting through a small door behind the altar. He followed a short corridor and came to a metal portal. Opening, he stepped into the room beyond; a cell with bare plasteel walls and floor.

Malcifer stood to one side, his armour discarded for his robe though he still wore the skull mask of his rank. There was blood on his bare hands and on a slab-like table in the middle of the chamber Methelas lay chained. Harahel stood on the far side of the room, arms folded, eyes closed in contemplation. The Fallen turned his head and spat blood as Sammael joined Malcifer.

‘There is no torture you can inflict upon me that will loosen my tongue, brothers,’ he said. ‘My patron guards my flesh and soul against suffering.’

‘Many have claimed as much,’ said Malcifer. ‘They have been wrong.’

Sammael took two steps to stand at the head of the table looking down at Methelas’s ruined face. He placed a hand on the brow of the Fallen, steeling himself against the touch of clammy flesh. Methelas struggled futilely against his bonds as the Grand Master leaned over, lips next to the Fallen’s ravaged ear. When he spoke, Sammael’s voice was a snarled whisper.

‘Where is he?’ the Master of the Ravenwing demanded. ‘Where is Cypher?’

BATTLE-BROTHERS

The attack was going well. Elements of the Second and Fifth Companies of the Dark Angels had created a significant foothold on the rebel space station known as Port Imperial, and with a storm of firepower were pushing towards the central habitation and command spires. Though one might not have considered a star fort the ideal battleground for the bikes and Land Speeders of the Ravenwing, Port Imperial was more akin to a city in space, its halls and tunnelways more like plazas and streets than the confines of a starship’s chambers and passages.

With speed and daring, the Dark Angels had seized several landing zones and now the warriors of the Second Company were racing ahead to fracture the enemy resistance whilst the infantry of the Fifth Company secured what gains had already been made. The foe – pirate scum that presented barely a threat to the power armoured Dark Angels Space Marines – were being driven back, their prepared defences circumvented by the insertion of squads and squadrons by Thunderhawk and boarding torpedo.

Sergeant Cassiel and his bike squadron were amongst those at the forefront of the fighting. Having been thrown into the heart of the enemy star fort, theirs was a simple mission: rove the station sowing death and discord wherever they encountered the enemy.

Cassiel had not been drawn into the ranks of the Ravenwing for blindly following orders, but nor had he reached the rank of sergeant by second-guessing the intent of his superiors. His initiative had been enough to attract the attention of Grand Master Sammael and seen him initiated into the Rites of the Raven, but there his curiosity ended, making him an ideal squadron leader for the Second Company. He did not, therefore, wonder too much what brought the Ravenwing and their comrades in the Fifth Company to Port Imperial, but assumed that the anarchy the Dark Angels had discovered on the world of Piscina IV was somehow connected to the pirates.

Grand Master Sammael had explained that it was likely the pirates were led by a renegade of the Legiones Astartes, a traitor who had turned on the Emperor right at the birth of the galactic Imperium. Cassiel had been in the Ravenwing for seventy years and knew well enough what this meant; the Ravenwing would secure this renegade so that he could be taken back to the Chapter and face punishment for his crimes.

This was privileged information, known only to those in the Ravenwing. It was his task, along with the veteran Black Knights that served as Sammael’s inner cadre, to ensure that the Fifth Company were not unduly exposed to the machinations of the renegade. Sometimes Cassiel envied the warriors of the Fifth Company, and those like them that did not have to suffer the spiritual taint of the Truth. A careful facade was maintained by the Chaplains to ensure that the majority of the Dark Angels remained blissfully unaware of the taint that could touch even the soul of a Space Marine. On occasion, when afforded time for reflection in his squadron’s dormer, Cassiel was wistful for the days before he had been introduced to the Truth.

Today was not such a day. Cassiel was proud to be part of the spearhead that would bring the renegade to justice. He led his squadron secure in the knowledge that they honoured the memory of their primarch, the Lion, and did service to the Emperor through their deeds.

As such, the squadron had penetrated more than a kilometre from their insertion point and were making ground quickly towards the more heavily defended interior of Port Imperial. Auspex readings from his bike, Incitatus, had located a group of pirates trying to assemble for a counter-attack. Cassiel led his warriors directly into the ill-judged ambush, securing a large elevator unit to bring the fighting to the heart of the concentration of enemy signals. Las-fire and bullets criss-crossed the conveyor shaft as the squadron ascended in the open cage, stopping just one floor beneath the mass of enemy.

When there was just enough room between the opening cage door and the wall of the elevator, Sabrael hit the throttle and surged out of the carriage, his bolters blazing into the enemy waiting in the chamber outside, bike slamming through their falling bodies. With just enough room to pass Cassiel and hit the gap Annael accelerated from behind the sergeant, exiting the car a second before the sergeant could follow.

Cassiel paused for a moment longer to assess the battlescape. The elevator had deposited them in a warehouse-like chamber, several hundred metres square, and enemy fire descended like a storm from gantries above and behind. Below the walkways more pirates used bulky cargolifters and metal-cased extractor vents as cover, poking out to snap off shots that were wide of their targets more often than they hit.

Ahead, Annael rode over a pile of fallen pirates, cries of pain cut short indicating that at least two had still been alive. The wheels of his bike throwing up a spume of body parts and crimson, Annael hurtled into the mass of enemies while unleashing a constant hail of bolts into the broad space where the foe had lain in ambush.

Remarkably, a man beside the elevator door had been missed by both Sabrael and Annael and he hurled himself at them with a chainsword, the teeth of the weapon sparking across Annael’s backpack. The biker braked and hauled his steed sideways, using it as a weapon; the pirate disappeared beneath the rear wheel, the man’s remains pulped into the metal decking.

Cassiel whirled his bike around, the bolters at maximum elevation as he cleared a gantry above the elevator door, while Sabrael was racing to the far end of the chamber, his weapons gunning down several foes that were making a break for a stairwell up to a mezzanine floor. Fire from Zarall and Araton announced the opening of the other elevator door behind the sergeant as they broke out into the other part of the chamber.

Cassiel shifted his gaze and accelerated, the bolters mounted in the fairing of his bike adjusting their aim to where he looked. He pressed the firing studs and a hail of fire cut down two pirates lurking in the shadow of a large crate, the bolts puncturing flesh and snapping bone with their detonations. To the sergeant’s right Annael slewed his machine around and fired at a handful of foes skulking beside a bulk-hauler, the flash of bolts sparking from the upraised lifting blades on the front of the vehicle. Las-fire snapped back as he cruised across the warehouse, still firing, the fusillade puncturing balloon tyres and severing hydraulic hoses.

Annael’s next salvo struck a pool of leaking fuel. A blue fireball engulfed the load-hauler and several pirates, who staggered from their hiding places with clothes and hair aflame. Cassiel had no time to finish them off as he turned his bike to the left to confront a trio of foes clambering down one of the mezzanine ladders. Metal splinters filled the air as Incitatus’s guns blazed again, shredding the vulnerable pirates. Their ragged corpses flopped to the deck as Cassiel continued to the ladder, one hand on the handlebars, the other pulling a grenade from his belt. He primed the charge and tossed it up through the ladder opening, accelerating away before the explosion scythed down more enemies trying to seek cover above.

‘Maintenance access, quadrant four, high,’ Annael reported sharply.

Cassiel switched his gaze to the left and saw more enemies issuing from a metre-high crawlspace. One of them was dragging a heavy stubber into view as a companion set up a tripod for the machine gun. Sabrael responded first, cutting back along the storage hold, bolt pistol in hand. He fired up through the mesh of the walkway, tearing the legs from the renegade with the stubber and sending another pitching back into the bulkhead minus his left arm.

Trusting that the threat would be dealt with, Annael was continuing his circuit, picking up speed as he curved across the open ground in the centre of the warehouse, Cassiel turning his bike to a counter-circuit of the space. The pair of them opened fire in brief bursts, driving the pirates further back into the darkness behind the stores.

Annael brought his bike to a stop facing a pallet laden with metal drums and fired on full automatic as Cassiel crossed past him. The sergeant noticed a movement in the shadows and directed his volley into more crates and drums lining the far wall, the bolts punching through the metal containers with ease. Cassiel fired again to ensure nobody survived behind the containers, the thrum of the bolters echoing loudly as the din of battle grew quieter.

Cassiel slowed, sensing the enemy were all but wiped out. As he looked back over his shoulder for a quick sweep, he saw there were only a handful of foes left.

One of them had a final surprise for the Dark Angels. A blue plasma bolt shrieked down from overhead, smashing into the rear of Incitatus. Molten metal, ceramite and hardened rubber sprayed into the air and the sergeant was flung from his mount as it careened past Annael, trailing sparks across the floor.

Pain surged up through Cassiel’s right leg and his helmet display was alight with warning runes, a high pitched alert whining in his ear. The plasma blast had thrown him from his mount, and the sergeant’s first glance was to check the condition of his steed. The whole back fairing armour had been melted through, the rear wheel turned to a slag of silver and black. Half a metre further forward and the plasma bolt would have struck the sergeant full on.

Incitatus was wrecked, and as he checked himself, the sergeant saw that his right leg was missing below the knee. The plasma had cauterised the wound with its own energy; no immediate danger. Pulling free his pistol, Cassiel located the plasma gunner, who was skulking behind a support pillar while his weapon recharged. Increasing the magnification of his autosenses, the sergeant picked out the glow of the plasma gun’s combustion chamber. A single bolt penetrated the shielding and the plasma gun detonated, enveloping the pirate in superheated gas. Skin blistering, flesh sloughing away from the bone, the man toppled over the walkway rail and spun crazily to the floor, his impact punctuated by another small detonation.

‘Brother-sergeant?’ Zarall drew his bike to a stop beside Cassiel, shielding the sergeant from the fire of the few remaining enemies.

‘I will signal Command with my position. My steed is no more, anyway. Araton, you have the lead.’ The sergeant looked down at the remnants of his leg, his augmented blood clotting the injury further, the spurts of dark red slowing to a trickle. ‘It looks like I will not be riding with you for some time. Not until we return to the Rock and I can have a bionic fitted.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sabrael as he and Annael turned their bikes’ bolters on the remaining enemy. ‘You can still ride gunner in an attack bike. I will drive for you.’

‘I am obliged for the offer, brother, but if I am to be at the mercy of another’s riding, I will choose Zarall or Araton. You are too fast for my liking!’ Cassiel made light of the injury, knowing that he was in no immediate danger from the wound. More deeply felt was the damage to his steed, and his pride. Speed was one of the best defences of a Ravenwing biker, and Cassiel knew he had slowed too early, giving the plasma gunner an easier shot.

The last of the opposition died when a burst from Sabrael cut him in half across the chest. The warehouse suddenly fell quiet save for the throb of idling engines, the ping of cooling metal and the clink of settling shell cases.

‘Area clear,’ Annael announced. He joined the others as they gathered around Cassiel. Zarall dismounted and helped the sergeant across to the gantry stair where he was able to sit down, the metal steps sagging slightly under the Space Marine’s weight.

‘Keep pushing hubwards and then come around to sector four to meet up with the Grand Master’s advance,’ Cassiel told them. The ruined stub of his leg was now a black and brown mottled mass of coagulant and Larraman cells, the scab thick and leathery. Reloading his pistol, the sergeant gestured towards the wide warehouse doors. ‘No delays. Get moving.’

‘We will return for you, brother,’ said Sabrael, slapping a fist to the aquila on his chest as he turned his bike away. ‘Unless the Apothecaries reach you first.’

‘Concentrate on the mission, brothers. I am not the first casualty we have ever suffered.’

‘Vengeance shall be ours,’ said Zarall. ‘Every drop of blood shed by our own will be atoned for by a river from our foes.’

Cassiel noticed Annael, the newest recruit to the squadron, and raised a hand in thanks as the other Dark Angel bowed his head in respect as he rode past.

‘You are doing well, Annael,’ Cassiel said as Annael turned away and gunned his steed after the others. ‘A true brother of the Ravenwing.’

‘We will be using fists and pistols before we are done,’ Annael said as the squadron rolled out through the opening doors.

‘We shall smite the enemy, brother,’ replied Zarall. ‘Any way that we can.’

‘This is Sergeant Cassiel, signalling Grand Master Sammael.’ The sergeant watched as the others disappeared from view. ‘I have been rendered combat ineffective. Request Apothecary and Techmarine attendance to my transponder location.’

In an upper loading deck half a kilometre from the Ravenwing’s main insertion, Grand Master Sammael paused to take stock of the strategic situation. Pirate corpses littered the bay around Sammael and his command squad, and amongst the sable-liveried warriors of the Dark Angels one stood out in his white armour: Apothecary Gideon.

Gideon’s comm-net feed buzzed with activity, tuning in to any transmissions containing key words and phrases that required his attention: ‘Apothecary’, ‘medical aid’, ‘casualty’, ‘injured’, ‘trauma’. During the initial attack there had been no need of his attention, the shock of the Ravenwing assault preventing any serious casualties. However, as the fighting became more protracted and the defenders of Port Imperial responded in force to the intruders, several engagements had resulted in more significant injuries to the Space Marines under his charge.

The Apothecary had just finished replying to a call and was about to request permission to respond when his vox tapped into a communication to the Grand Master, replaying the last few seconds of transmission.

‘This is Sergeant Cassiel, signalling Grand Master Sammael. I have been rendered combat ineffective. Request Apothecary and Techmarine attendance to my transponder location.’

A coded identifier tag confirmed the transmission originated from the sergeant, though not all casualties were capable of broadcasting their identity or position.

‘Understood, brother,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘Remain in position. There is a squadron within two kilometres of your location, await their arrival.’ Sammael cut the link with Sergeant Cassiel and turned to Gideon. ‘Join with Sergeant Charael and his Black Knights. They will perform escort for you. Of the casualties, which is your priority?’

‘Brother Gabrael needs my attention swiftly,’ replied the Apothecary, referring to a communication he had received moments before Sergeant Cassiel’s. ‘The others are stable as far as I can judge by the reports.’

‘Very well.’ Sammael paused, checking the data display on his steed. ‘Tell Charael you can cut through a maintenance hangar grid-north-west of here. That should take you to Gabrael and his squadron with least delay.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Gideon. The Apothecary turned his bike around and headed back towards the docking spar where the majority of the Ravenwing had inserted aboard their gunships.

Following the telemetry guidance of his steed, Eclipse, Gideon sped through the empty chambers and tunnels of Port Imperial, occasionally passing piles of bodies and other signs of fighting. His bike’s augur detected the signal of Charael’s Black Knights not far ahead even as the distant ring of detonations and grenade blasts echoed back down the corridors.

Gunning the engine, Gideon caught up with the Black Knights as they exchanged fire with a group of pirates holed up behind makeshift barricades at the end of a transit corridor. Plasma fire had smashed through some of the upturned containers and wrecked transport loaders, but not enough to clear a gap for Charael’s squadron to ride through. Thwarted by the barrier, they had withdrawn and were using the grenade launchers of their steeds to lob explosives beyond the barricade. Despite this, there were still several life signals on Gideon’s display as he joined the squadron.

‘The Grand Master said you would be joining us,’ said Charael. The huntmaster turned his ornate winged helm to look at the Apothecary as sporadic las- and bullet-fire whipped down the long corridor towards the Black Knights. ‘How bad is Brother Gabrael’s condition?’

‘Severe chest injury,’ said Gideon. ‘Last report said he was rapidly deteriorating. We have little time.’

Charael grunted in response and returned his gaze to the two-metre-high barricade.

‘The wall must part before us,’ he told his squadron. ‘Durrigan, load stasis grenade. Squadron, pistol covering fire. Follow me!’

Gideon fell in behind the six-strong squadron as they once more roared down the tunnel towards the enemy. The weight of fire increased to greet them as Charael surged ahead. Fifty metres from the barricade, the Black Knights slewed their bikes to a stop and opened fire with their bolt pistols, the rounds snapping past Charael as he continued to close with the enemy.

‘Durrigan, now!’ ordered the huntmaster.

The Black Knight’s grenade launcher coughed once, sending a glittering orb arcing over the barricade. Just as it fell from view, the stasis charge detonated, throwing up a crackling globe of white. Everything inside the field slowed for a moment. Gideon could see a pirate reloading the charge pack on his lasgun, seemingly frozen in place; another rebel was suspended in the act of ducking behind the plasma-melted engine of a cargo hauler, his face caught in a wide-eyed stare.

Tyres screeching and skidding across the deck, Charael hauled his steed sideways and tossed something onto one of the barricade sections. The charge was caught right on the edge of the stasis field and hung in midair, a red light glinting at its centre. Turning his steed around, the Huntmaster headed back towards the squadron.

Two seconds later the stasis field collapsed. Bullets and las-flares rang out, criss-crossing with bolt-rounds, while the charge thrown by Charael clanged heavily against the barricade.

Another second passed before the melta bomb detonated, shredding the metal carcass of a loading vehicle, spraying white-hot metal and deadly splinters.

The Black Knights needed no further order and formed up in a line behind their huntmaster as he aimed his bike at the gap.

‘No cease in our speed, we will return for justice later,’ commanded Charael as his bike disappeared into the pall of smoke billowing from the ruined barricade.

Gideon trusted to his autosenses and aimed for the gap, on the tail of the last Black Knight. The squadron plunged through the opening, still accelerating as the shocked pirates hurled themselves out of their path.

Not pausing to finish off their foes, the squadron raced on into the depths of Port Imperial, forming up in escort around Gideon. A few last desultory rounds sparked from their armour and the walls as the pirates sent a final flurry of shots after them.

The Apothecary activated his vox-link.

‘Sergeant Tennerus, how is Gabrael?’

‘Barely conscious, brother.’

‘Hold firm, we will be with you shortly.’

Gideon cut the link and concentrated on following Charael as he swerved between heaps of debris, past collapsed walls and through doors at breakneck speed. The Apothecary was determined that no Dark Angel would die today if he could prevent it.

Considering his situation, Cassiel concluded that he had been in more dire circumstances before, but not many. Glancing around the battle-marked warehouse, he considered his options and formulated a plan. His first priority was to reduce the number of entrances into the chamber, so that the enemy would not be able to come at him from too many directions.

Heaving himself from the steps, he used the wall as a brace to hobble towards the main doors. He activated the locking mechanism and keyed in a new override code so that the pirates would not be able to open it again. With this done, he conveyed himself across the chamber in a series of leaps towards the elevator, pausing every few seconds to scan the upper level and hatchways for foes. It was not a dignified way to move, but it was effective, and within a minute he had reached the elevator doors.

Pushing himself upright inside the cage, he smashed a fist into the control panel, ripping out the workings with his gauntleted fingers. To make sure of his handiwork, he pulled a grenade from his belt, set the charge to ten seconds’ delay and forced it into the ragged hole he had made.

Exiting the elevator, Cassiel propelled himself back towards the remains of Incitatus. He had covered about twenty metres when the grenade detonated behind him. Tortured metal screeched for a moment and he turned to see the cage dropping from view, its descent ending with a thunderous crash a few seconds later.

With a combination of jumping and crawling, he dragged himself on to the broken remnants of his steed and checked its condition. There was no way it could be ridden; the back end and wheel were completely destroyed. However, a quick diagnostic scan showed that most of the major systems were still working and he activated Incitatus’s auspex. The scanner blinked into life on the display, showing roughly half a dozen life signals close at hand, on the level above the warehouse.

Pulling free his bolt pistol, the sergeant manoeuvred himself with his back propped up against the bike, facing towards a pair of maintenance ducts about thirty metres away. His autosenses picked up the sounds of heavy breaths and the scrape of boots issuing from the narrow passages.

‘Come on in, little rats,’ he muttered.

The first pirate that crawled out of the duct was a woman, dressed in dirty blue coveralls and a padded helmet. She had a lasgun slung awkwardly across her chest and she struggled to free the weapon as she stood up.

Cassiel’s bolt took her full in the face, blowing her head apart.

Switching his view to thermal scan, he sent three rounds into the other vent access, the white detonations of the bolts creating a spatter of orange against the accessway lining. Turning his attention back to the first duct, he fired again, two bolts greeting another pirate as he tried to push himself free of its confines.

The vague blobs of heat that signified the presence of the other attackers withdrew before he could fire again. Turning slightly, he checked Incitatus’s display. The gunfire had attracted some attention, or perhaps the rebels had communicated his presence in some other way. Whatever the cause, more signals were converging on his position from above.

Pulling himself to his right, Cassiel searched through his bike’s remaining pannier storage compartment and found another four bolt pistol magazines and several frag grenades. He laid them on the decking beside him within easy reach, took another look at the auspex returns, and waited for the next group of attackers to make their move.

Gideon and the Black Knights found Gabrael and his battle-brothers at a crossroads of sorts: a high vaulted chamber where six tunnelways converged. The area was choked with fallen debris from the bombardment of the two strike cruisers and Gabrael lay atop a mound of rubble next to his half-buried steed. Sergeant Tennerus was dismounted beside him while the rest of the squadron had been dispersed to hold three of the intersecting passages; their bike-mounted bolters rang out intermittently as they confronted incoming groups of pirates.

‘Praise the Lion you are here, brother,’ said Tennerus, stepping away from the prone Space Marine.

‘We will aid the defence,’ announced Charael, indicating to his squadron to follow him as he continued past the casualty. ‘Take all the time needed.’

‘I think Sergeant Cassiel might prefer otherwise,’ replied Gideon as he stepped off Eclipse’s saddle.

‘A grenade dislodged a partially collapsed support,’ explained Tennerus. ‘Bad luck, nothing more.’

Gabrael’s helm had been removed and his face was covered with waxy sweat, eyelids flickering between wakefulness and unconsciousness. A trail of blood showed where he had been dragged from the rubble, but it was not the half-tonne of rockrete that had caused the damage. Jutting from the left side of the Space Marine’s chest was a five-centimetre-thick reinforcing spar. Thick, coagulating fluid bubbled across his plastron from the wound, coating his black armour with a slick sheen.

Gideon worked in silence, removing Gabrael’s shoulder guards first, trying not to move the casualty, so that he could decouple the breastplate. With this done, Gideon stood and gestured to Tennerus.

‘I need you to pull out the bar, sergeant.’

Tennerus nodded, grasping the jutting shaft in both hands. He steadied himself, planting his feet apart to brace, and then looked again at the Apothecary.

‘Swiftly and surely, brother,’ Gideon assured the sergeant.

With another nod, Tennerus flexed his grip and then pulled.

Gabrael moaned, blood-flecked saliva bubbling from his mouth as the sergeant wrenched away the spar and chestplate together, exposing the wound. The Space Marine had been forced down onto the jagged metal, which had driven up through his ribcage into the chest cavity, piercing a lung and possibly one of Gabrael’s hearts. Any normal human would have died instantly, and many Space Marines too, but Gabrael was obviously made of sterner stuff and Gideon was impressed he was able to remain semi-aware.

‘Bad, but not fatal,’ Gideon announced, examining the damage.

He activated the narthecium built into the gauntlet and forearm of his left arm, spraying anaesthetic agent into the bloody gash. Bloodied miniature bonesaws and suturing needles worked at the wound under Gideon’s direction, stitching and patching the internal damage as best he could, stemming the worst of the blood loss. The Apothecary finished with an organic foam sealant that quickly hardened, reinforcing the scabbing that was already occurring.

‘He can be moved,’ Gideon said, standing up. ‘Sergeant, detail one of your warriors to take him back to grid alpha. I have orderlies there ready to evacuate casualties back to the strike cruiser. They will be able to stabilise him further.’

‘Our thanks, Brother-Apothecary,’ said Tennerus.

Gideon said nothing and opened up a communication channel.

‘Sergeant Cassiel, your signal is still strong. What is your condition?’

Several seconds passed before Cassiel replied.

‘I am a little busy with these pirate scum, Brother Gideon, but otherwise faring well.’

‘Acknowledged, sergeant. I will be en route to your position shortly.’

‘I’ll be waiting. Nowhere else to go for the moment.’

Gideon smiled at the sergeant’s poor joke and cut the vox-link. He reviewed the last few minutes’ worth of filtered transmissions and assured himself that there had been no further serious injuries requiring more immediate attention than Cassiel.

‘Huntmaster, please fix on Sergeant Cassiel’s position. Let us leave Sergeant Tennerus and his brothers to their mission.’

‘As you wish, Brother-Apothecary,’ came Charael’s reply. ‘Fixing augurs on Cassiel’s location beacon. One and a half kilometres, grid north-east.’

Gideon mounted Eclipse and raised a hand in salute to Gabrael as Tennerus lifted the wounded Space Marine to his feet. There was already more clarity in the Dark Angel’s eyes.

‘Only in death does duty end,’ Gabrael said hoarsely.

‘Aye, brother,’ replied Gideon. ‘Yours will not end this day.’

Slipping another magazine into his bolt pistol – only two left – Cassiel wondered why the rebels seemed so determined to kill him. In his current state and position he posed no operational threat to their plans, yet they had come at him three more times since the squadron had departed. Twenty-two more bodies lay cooling in the dim light of the warehouse as testament to the welcome he had given them.

He had heard over the vox-link talk of the ‘Unworthy’. From the scattered information he gathered that these rebels were more than mere pirates. They had a cult-like mentality, and it seemed that they considered slaying him as some kind of unholy goal. Fortunately, their single-mindedness was not matched by their skill, or their tactical acumen. They seemed willing to die by the dozen in exchange for just his death; a situation that allowed him to continue to aid his brothers’ efforts by continuing to survive.

With an instinctual glance at the auspex, the sergeant confirmed that the Unworthy had given up trying to enter the warehouse through the maintenance ducts and accessways. Now they had gathered outside the main doors.

Casting his gaze towards the large portal he could see the glow of some kind of cutting gear heating up the metal; a las-cutter most likely, unwieldy and slow compared to a melta-charge. Though their entry would not be swift, their numbers were still growing. The life signals merged together on the auspex but numbered at least two dozen.

For a moment, Cassiel considered signalling to command for assistance. He dismissed the notion quickly. The Ravenwing and Fifth Company had a task to complete, to apprehend the mysterious enemy commander who was referred to as the Overlord by the Unworthy. It would be a grossly selfish act by Cassiel to distract them from that objective simply for his own survival.

With that decision made, the sergeant considered how best to confront the growing threat outside the main doors. He evaluated his resources.

Firstly, himself. Mobility impaired, thirty rounds of bolt pistol ammunition remaining. His short-bladed power sword was still sheathed at his waist. Sufficient for the moment, but against a concerted attack from a single direction he would eventually be overwhelmed.

Secondly, Incitatus. Pulling himself over the bike’s remains, Cassiel inspected his fallen steed’s weapon systems. The right-mounted bolter was operational but the ammunition and feed had been destroyed by the plasma blast. The left bolter system was still intact.

His hands moved without thought, centuries of maintenance and experience guiding his fingers better than conscious effort, as he decoupled the bolter from its mounting and dragged free the chain of bolt ammunition. Setting this to one side, he checked on the doors, seeing droplets of metal now running down the inside. He still had a couple of minutes until the Unworthy made their first breach.

He freed the right-hand bolter next, pulling it away from the mangled remnants of the feed mechanism. He gave silent thanks to the ancient tech-priests that had first devised the wargear of the Adeptus Astartes ten thousand years before as he slipped back the bolter’s casing, exposing a slot that matched his pistol magazines. He slammed in the spare and reattached the bolter to Incitatus, dragging the bike through ninety degrees so that the front mounting was aimed towards the door. The fairing canopy would add to the protection afforded by his power armour.

The outline of a roughly man-sized hole was glowing across the door now, the metal flowing into pools to cool on the decking.

Cassiel settled as best he could and rested his arm on the top of the bike’s fairing, pistol in hand, and waited.

With a clang, the cut section of door dropped into the warehouse. Cassiel did not wait to see an enemy, but opened fire immediately, sending a flurry of bolts into the opening, rewarded by shrieks of pain from whoever had been wielding the las-cutter.

The first pirate through was cut in half by Cassiel’s next salvo, as was the next. There seemed to be no fear in the Unworthy as they leapt through the gap, wildly snapping shots from lasguns and autoguns, each met by one or two carefully-placed bolt-rounds.

In the press of bodies, one of the pirates made a move for the door control panel. From the inside, the override code could be circumvented. Cassiel recognised the danger immediately and adjusted his aim, ignoring another Unworthy who was levelling her automatic pistol in his direction. The pirate reaching for the door controls fell with a fist-sized hole in the back of his head as the other let loose with a burst of fire.

Bullets sprayed from Incitatus’s front mounting, flecking chips of ceramite and paint into Cassiel’s face. He didn’t flinch, and calmly fired back, sending two bolts into the Unworthy’s gut and chest. The momentary distraction had allowed two more pirates to enter, and they again split, forcing Cassiel to divide his fire as a las-flash streaked off his left shoulder guard.

Ditching the empty bolt pistol, Cassiel grabbed the manual trigger of the bike bolter and fired on full automatic, emptying the fifteen-bolt magazine in a few seconds, shredding the handful of Unworthy that had gained entry. A glance down at the auspex glowing beside him showed that there were about half a dozen foes left.

Cassiel freed a grenade from his belt and lobbed it through the hole in the door, the flash of its detonation silhouetting two pirates for a moment before the fragmentation shards flung their bodies through the opening.

Silence descended, broken by the patter of feet as the surviving Unworthy retreated. Through the ragged breach in the door he could see them regrouping at the far end of the corridor. With this he realised that as well as he could see them, they could see him. If he remained where he was, and if the Unworthy could find another plasma gun or perhaps a rocket launcher or other heavy weapon, he would be in plain sight for a long-range shot.

He rolled away from the bike to get out of sight, taking the dismounted bolter with him. From this angle he could still see a few metres up the passageway, but no further. Cassiel gathered up the snaking cable of the ammunition feed and coiled it on the floor next to him.

Pressing the firing stud on his bike’s handlebars, Gideon unleashed a ripple of bolt detonations into the packed enemies ahead. Around him, more fire spewed down the passageway from his escort. The green-skinned brutes parted like a wave before the charge of the Black Knights; the presence of orks aboard Port Imperial had come as a surprise to the Dark Angels. Somehow, the xenos fiends had found common cause with the Unworthy and were proving a tougher foe to eliminate.

Gideon and the squadron were responding to a call for aid from a squad from the Fifth Company, who had been set upon by the orks whilst clearing out a maze of chambers beneath one of the major power and coolant interchanges. One of the Space Marines was already dead and another critically wounded, forcing the Apothecary to adjust his priorities.

As more orks tumbled lifelessly to the floor, Gideon caught a glimpse of his green-armoured brethren defending a stairwell and intersection. The orks came at them from above and below and the squad was engulfed in a storm of bullets, las-fire and grenade blasts.

Like a thunderbolt, the Black Knights swept into the press of foes, swinging their glowing corvus hammers, Charael leading the charge with glittering power sword chopping to the left and right. Gideon tracked his fire to one side, sending another hail of bullets into one of the adjoining corridors as he slowed at the junction, cutting down more foes.

Stirred by the arrival of reinforcements, the warriors of the Fifth Company sallied out from their defensive position, bolters blazing, their sergeant wading into the orks with wide sweeps of his chainsword. Gideon slowed only enough to avoid a pile of the dead, cannoning through the orks directly, sending them sprawling to either side; the Black Knights were around him to guard against counter-attack.

Tyres screeching, Gideon brought Eclipse to a stop at the foot of the stairwell and leapt onto the steps, his narthecium activated. Halfway to the next landing, two brothers of the squad stood guard over their wounded companion, their bolters holding back a mob of human pirates trying to descend.

Gideon ignored the fighting and stooped over the injured Space Marine. His helmet had been cleaved almost in two, skull and face opened up by the jagged teeth of some viciously toothed chain-weapon. His right ear was missing and his jaw hanging limply, breaths coming fast and ragged. Now and then a spray of bullets or spatter of las-fire sparked from the bulkhead beside the Apothecary but he focused on the task at hand.

He inserted one of the narthecium’s injectors into the neck of the wounded battle-brother, sending a stream of stimulants into the Dark Angel. Almost immediately his eyes flickered open, confused and roving. The Larraman cells coursing through the Space Marine’s bloodstream had created a thick clot over the worst of the wound, but prevented Gideon from seeing the damage within. He applied an anti-coagulant and deftly scraped away the scab, exposing torn artery and shattered skull.

‘Not much I can do about the bone damage here,’ he told the warrior, who had now fixed the Apothecary with an intent, almost mindless stare. ‘The blood loss is another matter.’

Reaching into a pouch at his belt, Gideon brought forth a length of resinous, flexible piping. It was a crude substitute for cartilage and flesh but would suffice for the moment.

‘Be still, brother,’ he said, laying a hand on the Space Marine’s chest as he attempted to sit up.

Skilfully and swiftly, Gideon removed two centimetres of damaged artery from the neck of the Space Marine, quickly replacing it with the surgical tubing. Bio-gel and organic weld secured the bypass in place, but before the Apothecary could apply a layer of protective foam sheath a shouted warning from above drew his attention.

The Unworthy had rushed the two Space Marines at the top of the stair, and though a handful lay dead, one had managed to slip past in the fray and came at Gideon with an upraised axe.

The Apothecary reacted in a moment, punching the blades and syringes of his narthecium into the pirate’s chest, hurling him backwards. Blood frothed from the gaping wound and the man spasmed and thrashed as a lethal cocktail of elixirs created for the augmented physiology of Space Marines coursed through his all-too-human system. Blood poured from his ears and mouth and his eyes burst from the internal pressure.

Two seconds later the man fell still, organs and nervous system totally overloaded by the stimms and vital fluids that had ravaged his body.

Back at the top of the stairwell, the Space Marines had thrown back the fresh attack and were finishing off the wounded with single bolt-rounds.

‘Apologies, Brother-Apothecary,’ one of them said, turning to look at Gideon. ‘Such disturbance will not happen again.’

Gideon nodded and returned to his charge, cauterising and sealing the wound. When he was done, he glanced back down to the intersection to see that Charael and his warriors, with the help of the Fifth Company battle-brothers, had slain the orks.

‘My work here is almost complete,’ said Gideon.

‘The presence of the orks has changed the strategic situation,’ replied Charael. ‘Master Sammael requests that we rejoin the main assault.’

‘Then do so,’ said the Apothecary. He switched his comm-feed and hailed Sergeant Cassiel.

‘This is Cassiel,’ came the reply.

‘What is your current situation, brother-sergeant?’

‘Combat outcome is deteriorating, Brother-Apothecary, although physically I have suffered no further injury.’

‘I am only a few hundred metres from your position, but we have a substantial enemy presence between us. Can you relocate?’

There was a pause and some grunting.

‘I shall attempt to move position, brother, though I must confess I am not wholly sure where I might find sufficient surcease from attack.’

‘If possible head to rimwards, brother, the fighting is strongest towards the central spires.’

‘Understood. Location transponder still operational.’

‘Keep strong, sergeant, I am coming.’

‘We cannot ride escort, brother,’ said Charael as Gideon cut the link. ‘Did you not hear?’

‘I understand, huntmaster,’ Gideon replied. He strode back to Eclipse and mounted. ‘Thank you for your assistance but I will proceed alone from here.’

Charael lifted his blade in salute to the Apothecary’s decision and Gideon raised a fist in reply.

‘Speed well and bring salvation, brother,’ said the huntmaster, before leading his squadron away.

Cassiel had not been entirely truthful in his report to the Apothecary. His entire leg was now numb and his right side and arm were also starting to lose sensation. Knowing that his strength would not last forever, he worked quickly, knowing from the auspex scan that his foes were once again gathering their strength before their next attack. He had accounted for another forty enemies, give or take a couple, but each Unworthy that fell seemed to only add to their determination to see him dead; perhaps they desired to settle the score regardless of cost.

Looping the bolter feed around his arm, the sergeant set about uncoupling the main unit from Incitatus, the bulky cogitator and display that retained the spirit of his steed. Detaching the device from the bike, he set it to one side and primed the anti-tamper mechanism of his fallen mount. With a grunt, he grabbed the machine-spirit casing under one arm, took up the bolter and crawled back across the warehouse towards the open elevator shaft.

Detached from the bike’s scanning systems, the auspex had been reduced to short range, intermittently beeping out the welter of contacts behind Cassiel as he dragged himself metre-by-metre towards his escape route. The sound became a more insistent shrilling as the enemy signals started to close once more, and with a last effort, the sergeant hauled himself to the edge of the shaft. A glance at the display showed that the Unworthy, dozens of them, were only a few metres beyond the broken doors.

Taking a deep breath, Cassiel looked down the shaft. The remnants of the elevator cage were about twenty metres below, three levels down. Pieces of snapped metal jutted dangerously up towards him, but a look up confirmed there were no good handholds to effect a climb. At least not with the bolter and machine-spirit console to carry.

The sound of running footsteps spurred the sergeant into action.

He pushed himself over the lip of the drop, angling his fall so that his backpack would take the brunt of the damage.

Cassiel’s landing smashed his head into something hard and through the ringing in his ears he dimly heard the thunderous reverberation of his fall echoing back up the shaft. He lay dazed for a moment, vision swimming. A damage warning indicator flashed at the edge of his vision and a whining tone alerted him to several systems failures in his armour, but he did not care.

‘The Machine-God blessed you well,’ he muttered in thanks to the spirit of his powered suit. ‘I shall see that proper honour is paid when opportunity presents.’

The open access door above glowed brighter for an instant, followed by the sharp noise from the explosion of his bike’s self-termination – one of the Unworthy had not been able to fight curiosity, apparently. Shrieks of the wounded and cries of surprise sounded out moments later.

Smiling grimly to himself, faculties returning, Cassiel pulled himself free from the tangle of the cage around him; the metal struts had been flattened by the impact of his fall. Rolling to one side, he managed to pull himself upright, powered fingers tearing at the mesh of the cage door. Shots started to ring out from above, shells and las-blasts lighting the interior of the elevator shaft.

Cassiel considered firing back but decided to conserve energy and ammunition. With a snarl, he pulled apart the last segment of the cage door and flopped out into the hallway beyond.

He checked his surroundings, finding himself at the end of a short corridor, which split into a T-junction ten metres away. There were no other routes of entry or exit.

Would the Unworthy attempt the climb down? Unlikely, he concluded, but not impossible. Also, a grenade thrown down the shaft might gift his foes a lucky bounce into the hall. And, when he thought about it, he was Ravenwing and mobility, however much impaired, was still a weapon to be used.

The throbbing pain from his leg was becoming harder to ignore as his armour’s suppressant systems started to run out of stimulants. Steeling himself, Cassiel forced himself upright, slumping against the bulkhead wall. He looked back at the remains of the elevator cage but saw nothing that would be strong enough to fashion into a crutch, so he turned away and started hop-shuffling his way along the corridor, bolter in one hand, Incitatus’s spirit in the other.

The Dark Angels’ drive towards the central command and habitation spires had punched through the defenders of Port Imperial, leaving scattered bands of pirates and orks in their wake. As Gideon rode through the dilapidated tunnels the roar of Eclipse’s engine heralded his approach, sending stray auspex returns and half-seen figures running from his path.

Here and there he encountered signs of fighting – bullet-pocked walls, bloody corpses and discarded weapons. Occasionally shots sounded in the distance, echoing oddly through the maze of chambers and passages, their sources unknown.

Gideon opened a vox-channel, concerned that his efforts might yet turn out to be in vain.

‘Sergeant Cassiel, respond. What is your situation?’

Several seconds passed without reply. The Apothecary turned his bike onto a main thoroughfare, noting as he did so the orkish graffiti and the drifts of garbage against the walls. A check of the bike display confirmed that he was only four hundred metres from Cassiel’s transponder position, but also that there were quite a number of unknown energy signatures converging in front of him. An off-ramp less than a hundred metres ahead would take him into the sub-decks where Cassiel would be found.

Taking the curving ramp, Gideon had to brake sharply as he almost rode into an improvised barricade across the roadway. Storage vats, plates of corrugated metal and other detritus were heaped across his path, metal spars jutting out like the stakes of a revetment.

As he wrenched Eclipse to the side, tyres juddering over the uneven floor, Gideon saw something else: metal discs half-hidden amongst the trash strewn over the ferrocrete surface. Explosive mines. He braked harder, shedding beads of rubber from the reinforced tyres of his steed, avoiding a mine by less than a metre.

He stopped, staring at the obstacle, calculating a path through the mess of explosives and debris, but as he did so he also saw a number of enemy signals congregating on his position from stairs and ducts along the rampway.

A pair of Unworthy burst out of a floor-level maintenance hatch to his right, pistols spitting bullets. A glance directed Eclipse’s bolters in their direction and the Apothecary opened fire, cutting them down as shells sparked from his armour and the canopy of his steed. Others were taking position behind the cover of the barricades; pirates and orks together.

‘Shade of the Lion,’ Gideon cursed, returning fire with his bolt pistol as enemy shots zipped and buzzed around him.

Immobile, he would make too easy a target for his foes, but the mines and obstacles gave him no room to manoeuvre. With a frustrated snarl, Gideon wrenched his mount around, turning back to the main tunnel. As much as he wished to fight, he had a greater priority. Just as the Grand Master was intent upon reaching his objective and would deal with the survivors later, so he too had to withdraw from battle to achieve a higher goal, though it pained him to do so. He might be an Apothecary by rank and expertise, but he was still a Space Marine of the Dark Angels and it wounded his honour to leave the enemy without retort.

Hitting the main transit route again, he opened the throttle full, knowing that every delay and backtrack cost him time and might cost Cassiel his life.

Firing again as another Unworthy came around the corner of the corridor, Cassiel put a bolt into the man’s leg, sending him toppling sideways. Another shot ripped open the pirate’s chest as he struggled to stand. The sergeant continued to unleash a hail of bolts as more foes tried to dash across the passage to the sanctuary of a doorway to his right. None reached their goal, their bodies and limbs ripped and torn by the flurry of detonations.

In the brief pause that followed, Cassiel turned and hopped further along the concourse, heading towards a stairwell twenty metres away. A las-blast skimmed from the wall next to him and Cassiel turned back again after only a few metres, firing once more at a pirate poking his weapon around the corner. The bolt hit the man’s lasgun, shattering the weapon, sending slivers of plastek into his old, wrinkled face. He fell back out of sight with a cry.

More Unworthy burst into view, firing their weapons wildly in Cassiel’s direction as they raced towards the door, trying to outflank him. Bullets cracked against the sergeant’s armour and one struck the elbow joint of his left arm. His hand spasmed with pain and Incitatus’s mind core fell to the deck with a clang.

Thoughts muddled with pain, Cassiel returned fire, cutting down two foes, but two more reached the haven of the doorway and disappeared into the hall beyond. The sergeant gazed numbly at the bike console lying at his feet and for a moment considered leaving it there; a free hand would be invaluable.

He could not forsake the spirit of his mount, though. He had sworn on his honour as a warrior of the Ravenwing to serve and protect his steed as it served and protected him, and he was not about to abandon Incitatus’s machine-spirit to an uncertain fate.

Summoning up what focus he could, Cassiel directed a deadly torrent of fire at the next band of reckless pirates to dash into the corridor. The first was flung back by two hits to the chest; the second fell with half her head missing; the third was sent spinning to the deck with a bolt in the shoulder, his arm hanging by threads of bone and sinew. As he fired, Cassiel dimly noted that there were about thirty rounds remaining in the feed belt of his weapon.

With a last salvo of fire to drive back any more pursuers, Cassiel stooped to snatch up Incitatus’s cogitator. Gripping the boxy device to his chest he laboured towards the stairwell, aware that another door ahead passed into the same room into which some of the Unworthy had run.

The pirates emerged just ahead of him, autoguns held at their waists, firing madly. Cassiel snarled as he was caught in the hail of bullets, his shoulder guards and plastron sparking with impacts, chips of ceramite and slivers of paint forming a dust cloud around him. Raising his bolter he returned fire, still slumping against the wall, hopping forward as best he could.

The two men were cut down in a single fusillade, bodies raked with bolts, their blood splashing against the walls and decking. More fire rattled against the sergeant from behind, but this time he did not pause but with a herculean effort propelled himself towards the welcoming sanctuary of the now-empty doorway.

He almost fell into the room – some kind of storage bay lined with empty shelves and broken crates – and only saved himself from toppling by slamming against the frame of the door. Cassiel pivoted and fired back up the corridor before launching himself across the corridor towards the steps.

Even the sergeant’s enhanced muscles and power armour-boosted leap could not make the gap and he fell short, falling with a loud clatter a metre short of the stairwell. Rolling to his side, he fired blindly along the passageway, his good leg trying to find purchase to heave himself the last metre to the next moment of safety.

A rocket sped past his head, exploding behind him.

Cassiel had thought he had no strength left but the appearance of a heavy weapon amongst the enemy spurred him into another impossible effort, flinging himself bodily down the stairs. He rolled and bounced down the steps, cracking armour and ferrocrete, coming to an ungainly stop at a landing. Out of instinct he turned and pushed himself away from the wall, once more tossed and spun by his descent down the next flight.

The chamber below was lit only by dim red emergency lighting. In the gloom Cassiel could see only one exit, a sealed door just to his right. Hooking the bolter on his belt, the sergeant tried the wheel-lock but it would not move, rusted shut by decades of neglect.

The sound of boots on the steps caused him to turn, snatching up the bolter again. He did not need to check the auspex to know that dozens of foes were close on his heels, intent on his death. The sergeant fired as the first of them rounded the landing above, and kept firing as more and more Unworthy descended.

Still shooting, Cassiel allowed himself to slump to the deck, propped up against the door.

The bolter clicked empty but it took a moment for his pain-addled senses to register that he was out of ammunition. He tossed the weapon aside, but the hesitation allowed the Unworthy to set upon him with blades and rifle butts before he could draw his sword.

Still Cassiel fought back, snatching a man by the throat to slam him into his companions. The sergeant swung the cogitator as a weapon, cracking open the skull of a pirate even as his fingers drove into the chest of a third.

There was a heartbeat’s pause as the dead men fell away, the others behind blocked by their deceased comrades. Cassiel snatched his sword from its sheath, its glowing blade swinging up to sever the arm from a woman looking to drive a knife into the sergeant’s face.

Cassiel’s rage at being cornered like an animal boiled up inside him. A maul clanged against his helm and an axe head skittered from his right pauldron as he surged up, power sword carving a bloody ruin through the foes that surrounded him.

‘For the Emperor! For the Lion!’

The sounds of fighting from ahead had fallen silent, raising grim suspicion in Gideon. Like a white-and-black thunderbolt he had fallen upon the Unworthy as they had surged towards Cassiel’s last position, Eclipse’s bolters roaring as the Apothecary drove headlong through them.

Confronted by the vengeful apparition of the Apothecary, unharmed and bellowing for vengeance, the Unworthy scattered, fleeing back into the ducts and holes rather than face his wrath. Coming to a turning, Gideon slowed, heaving his bike around the corner, the heavy machine pulping through the remains of a score of dead pirates. Cassiel had certainly taken a heavy toll before succumbing.

Following the blinking light of the sergeant’s transponder on the display, Gideon came to a halt next to a stairwell. More bodies littered the steps, a mess of flesh and blood. The Apothecary saw from the auspex return that the Unworthy had withdrawn several dozen metres, scampering away through the narrow hatches and under-levels where he could not follow.

With pistol in hand, Gideon descended the steps, treading carefully over the dead Unworthy. At the bottom of the stairs was a scene of total carnage: bodies lay upon each other, gouged, limbless or decapitated, at least another dozen.

Of Cassiel there was no sign.

It was only as the Apothecary shifted one of the bodies that he spied black armour. Dragging aside the dead pirates, he unearthed Sergeant Cassiel from the mound. He still held his power blade in one hand and the cogitator console of a bike in the other.

‘Brother? Brother Cassiel?’

The sergeant’s armour was a bloody mess, but how much was his and how much had belonged to his foes was impossible to tell. His helm was scratched and battered, but otherwise seemed intact. Lowering to one knee, Gideon rapped on the sergeant’s breastplate.

‘Sergeant! Sergeant Cassiel!’

The Space Marine’s arm twitched and Gideon had to react quickly, grabbing Cassiel’s wrist as he swung his power sword towards the Apothecary.

‘It is Gideon, brother!’

Cassiel’s arm relaxed and he slowly turned his head to look at the Apothecary.

‘A welcome sight, Brother Gideon,’ croaked the sergeant.

‘For me, also. I am glad my efforts have not proved fruitless.’

Gideon helped up Cassiel, supporting the sergeant with his free arm.

‘An effort that is appreciated, brother, but I do not understand something. There must be others requiring your assistance, why expend so much energy for me when my brothers still fight?’

‘I will attend to them soon enough, brother-sergeant,’ Gideon said, guiding Cassiel to the steps. ‘None have been fighting harder than you. They know, as you did, that no matter where they fall, the Chapter shall not forget them, and nor shall I.’

Cassiel looked down at the blood-slicked, battered casing of his bike’s cogitation engine.

‘Aye, I understand, Gideon. We stand together and fall together.’ He clasped the cogitator to his chest. ‘The Master of the Forge will find a new body for my steed, even as mine is repaired. We fight for the Emperor, for the Lion and, perhaps above all, for each other. That is what it is to be battle-brothers.’

MASTER OF SANCTITY

PART ONE

PISCINA

RETRIBUTION

An angel lay fallen and broken.

Sapphon, High Interrogator of the Dark Angels, Finder of Secrets, Master of Sanctity, looked at the chipped, weathered faced of the statue and grimaced. It was not a good omen.

Clad in the black power armour associated with his calling, Sapphon was a darker figure amongst the shadows of the desecrated shrine building. His helm was masked with the visage of a skull, his chestplate adorned with the Imperial aquila, against which rested a large pendant formed as a winged skull; a conversion field generator known as a rosarius gifted to him by the arch-cardinal of Canoptary Prime as a symbol of unity with the Ecclesiarchy. Auspex scans had indicated no threat within the crumbling temple but the Chaplain carried his weapons ready, bolt pistol in his right hand, his eagle-headed mace – a crozius arcanum – in the left.

The continuous smoke of fighting and wildfires blotted the night sky outside the broken walls and the depths of the nave were pitch-black. Despite this, Sapphon was able to easily navigate around the toppled statue with the assistance of his suit’s auto-senses, his already superior vision and hearing boosted to a preternatural level. Audio pick-ups conveyed the crunch of rubble pulverised under armoured boots, echoing through the ruined nave of the basilica as five warriors of the Deathwing spread out around their leader.

The elite of the Chapter wore Tactical Dreadnought armour, known amongst the brethren as Terminators, painted in the ivory of the First Company. Each Terminator suit was an artificer-created technical marvel larger even than standard Adeptus Astartes power armour, combining the mobility of an infantryman with the protection and firepower of a vehicle. Millennia of upkeep and adaption made each suit unique, whether it was the added armour banding around the greaves of Brother Decemius’s armour, or the reinforcing studs that strengthened the left pauldron of Brother Fidellus‘s battleplate. On the left shoulder each of them bore the Crux Terminatus, an honour held by only a tenth of all the Space Marines across the Imperium; a symbol of devotion and courage so lauded it was worn where normally the Chapter symbol would take pride of place. This insignia, the winged sword of the Dark Angels – the blade enigmatically broken in the case of the Deathwing for reasons lost to antiquity – was worn on the right shoulder instead, bright red against the pale bone colour.

Two, brothers Namnos and Decemius, were armed with immense power fists, capable of punching through solid ferrocrete, ripping apart tank armour and pulping flesh and bone, paired with twin-barrelled storm bolters that could lay down a hail of explosive bolts in devastating bursts. Their leader, Sergeant Caulderain, bore a power sword as a mark of his rank as well as his storm bolter. Brother Fidellus was designated squad guardian, his thunder hammer and storm shield dedicated to close combat, while Brother Satrael carried the heavy weapon; for this mission a six-barrelled assault cannon that could lay down a curtain of fire so intense it would obliterate anything caught in the fusillade.

They were the elite by training too, each of them a veteran of many battles. To them had been given the honour of pushing into the ork-held city blocks that surrounded the old Chapter buildings at the heart of the capital of Piscina IV, Kadillus Harbour.

The basilica had once been the pinnacle of the Dark Angels presence in the city. Now it was a near-empty shell, stained glass windows shattered, tapestries and statues exposed to the elements. Everything was marked with soot from flamer sweeps used to incinerate ork spores. Other than this routine cleansing everything else had been left as it had been at the end of the last war for Piscina; a memorial to those that had fought and died to protect the worlds from the brutal horde of the beast Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka and the equally terrible ork warlord Nazdreg.

The noise of rubble shifting on the storey above drew the Chaplain’s attention. His bodyguard responded too, beams from armour lamps shining up through the ravaged floor. There was a flash of movement to Sapphon’s right – something pale. Definitely not an ork. Another flicker to the left betrayed someone ducking behind the pedestal of an ancient bust depicting Chapter Master Ezerius. Sapphon glimpsed a woman’s face, middle-aged, camouflaged with haphazardly applied grime. There was a glint of silver; possibly an old goblet or salver half-tucked under her cloak.

‘Looters,’ snarled Sergeant Caulderain. ‘No mercy!’

‘Do not fire!’ snapped Sapphon as four storm bolters and an assault cannon were lifted towards their targets.

‘Brother-Chaplain, our orders were exact,’ said Caulderain. His storm bolter continued to track along the upper storey as the rag-clad woman pushed herself further along into the shadows of the alcove. ‘Supreme Grand Master Azrael has assumed martial command of the Piscina system. Curfew is to be enforced with ultimate sanction.’

‘And I am here, at your side, and I tell you not to fire, brother-sergeant,’ Sapphon said calmly. ‘Look at them. They are starving. If they can exchange detritus of the past for a few loaves, we should not punish them for trying.’

‘They despoil a mausoleum of the Chapter, Brother Sapphon.’

‘The ghosts of our dead do not need silver and gold to feast any longer, sergeant,’ Sapphon replied, still keeping his temper in check. ‘If you are eager to fire your weapon, let us push into the east quadrant where there will be sufficient orks upon which you can unleash your wrath to duty’s contentment. Move on, there is nothing for us here.’

‘As you command, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Caulderain. He lowered his weapon and the Deathwing squad followed suit.

They crossed the nave and exited through the remains of the east transept, passing through smashed doors to descend a flight of time-worn, bullet-pitted steps to the cratered street outside. Five more Deathwing – Squad Daeron – waited fifty metres to the north at a junction with the east-west arterial route leading into the ork-held sections of the city. Behind them loomed the massive bulk of a Crusader-pattern Land Raider painted in the livery of the First Company, its sponsons laden with the multiple barrels of hurricane bolters, twin assault cannons jutting above the assault ramp at the front.

The surrounding buildings showed obvious signs of ork infestation. Windows and rooftops were augmented with jagged metal plate barricades, firing holes had been smashed through the walls and every flat surface was daubed with pictograph graffiti. Mouldering piles of effluent, oil slicks, scraps of bone and other detritus stained the rubble strewn across the road. Smoke residue marked doorways and window frames, charred remnants of bonfires heaped amongst scattered rubbish. Fungal lobes and fronds of various bright colours splayed from cracked walls and crevices in the ferrocrete roadway, some taller than Sapphon, others diaphanous webs that trailed in the wind.

Trenches and turrets, slant-walled towers and pillbox fortifications cut off many of the side streets and alleys leading from the main thoroughfare, while gantries and ladders criss-crossed the roofs far above, allowing the orks to swiftly redeploy from one area to the next. No doubt they had similar rat runs in the sewers beneath the city; Grand Master Belial was leading the rest of his First Company on a subterranean cleansing sweep.

Yet for all their barbarous conversion, these city blocks were empty, abandoned overnight it seemed. The orks had thwarted yesterday’s assault by elements of the Fourth, Seventh and Tenth Companies and Sapphon concluded that the aliens had drawn back in anticipation of a more devastating attack to follow. They were cunning, in a feral kind of way. He had never believed orks to be the unthinking brutes portrayed in a lot of Imperial propaganda and reports of their activities across Kadillus Island had reinforced the Interrogator-Chaplain’s opinions. He remembered the last time the Chapter had come to this world in force; long days and nights in the wilderness and abandoned mines outside the city conducting search-and-destroy operations for ork lairs and fortresses. Now, after years of believing Kadillus purged, the Dark Angels had been called back to find the world aflame once more. Most of the Chapter was out in the East Barrens and scouring Koth Ridge again; due to political weakness and instability cleansing patrols by the local defence militia had faltered and allowed the orks to grow in size and numbers in the absence of the Space Marines.

The East Quadrant of Kadillus Harbour was the last hiding place of the greenskins within the city walls but it was proving a tough proposition for the sons of the Lion. Orbital bombardment was impossible without risking the docks, and more importantly the geothermal energy station situated there. Kadillus was nothing more than a huge volcanic mound and a missed lance strike or plasma warhead could set off a chain reaction that would destroy the entire island in one cataclysmic eruption. Only a few square kilometres, the former residential district was a warren of close-built edifices ideal for defence and ambush. Coupled with the canny and spiteful attitude of Piscina’s orks, it was a death trap.

For ordinary Space Marines, at least. For the Deathwing, whose entire purpose on the battlefield was to venture into battle zones too deadly for their brethren, it was simply another mission.

The Crusader led the advance, crunching across the rubble on broad tracks, turning the shattered masonry to gravel and dust. The two squads of Deathwing followed with determined strides, forming a protective semicircle ahead of Sapphon. The Interrogator-Chaplain’s command relays were coded into the sensoriums of the Terminators, giving him a real-time, three-dimensional overlay of the area across his vision. However, there was so much decaying material – the dead of both sides from yesterday’s fighting and many months of previous battles – it was impossible to get any definitive organic trace. Tattered ork banners, vermin and deliberately-erected scarecrow effigies buffeted by the wind confounded motion detectors. Smoke trails from dozens of fires betrayed the orks’ crude but effective counter-measures for thermal scanning.

‘Eyes and ears and instincts,’ Sapphon told the Deathwing warriors. ‘All targets are hostile. Three gunships are standing by on fire missions. Previous attacks have not neutralised air defences so they are to be a last resort only. We will establish ingress to the one kilometre mark and resupply by Thunderhawk armoury insertion. Squads from Third Company are waiting at the advance mark to secure the axis of attack at my signal.’

‘It would be better if we had the Ravenwing to scout for us,’ said Sergeant Daeron. He spoke with a guttural Anolian accent, further distorted by poor vox-quality – a side-effect of his truly ancient Cataphractii-mark helmet. ‘We are all but blind here.’

‘Trust Sammael to send word of uprising on Piscina but not remain to deal with it,’ said Brother Trateon, Squad Daeron’s heavy flamer operator. He chuckled. ‘Just a quick, “Better look at this!” and then they’re off again chasing Emperor-knows-what.’

‘I trust Sammael enough to know that he would not quit battle on Piscina had there not been more pressing matters,’ Sapphon said, choosing his words carefully. There had been much debate concerning the Second Company’s recent activities but Sapphon had chosen to keep his theories to himself; even amongst the Deathwing it was wise to keep mention of the Fallen to a minimum.

‘Is that so?’ said Sergeant Daeron. His voice dropped a fraction. ‘Perhaps they found evidence of our “eternal friends”?’

In a Chapter that was built on concentric levels of ignorance and secrecy, euphemism and innuendo were to be expected, but Sapphon disliked some of the more flippant terms used to describe the traitors he and the Deathwing were tasked to capture. He let this incident pass but resolved to speak to Daeron in private later.

‘Orks, brothers,’ the Chaplain said evenly. ‘We are here to slay orks. Further speculation is simply wasted breath and wagging tongues.’

‘As you say, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Caulderain, his tone conveying his displeasure at the casual talk. ‘Keep eyes keen and weapons ready, these green bastards killed three battle-brothers yesterday and sent another eleven to the Apothecaries.’

Reminded of the Chapter’s recent losses, the warriors muttered invocations and commendations to the souls of the dead and fell silent. The crunch of the Crusader’s tracks echoed back from the desolate buildings.

A little more than one hundred metres ahead the smoke from many fires was thickening, gathering above the broken-backed tenements in an ork-made thunderhead, the glow of flames visible on its underbelly. Jury-rigged power lines criss-crossed some of the roofs, sparking and flaring – another crude attempt to outsmart the auspexes of the Space Marines. It was working, in a fashion; the sensorium display was a mess of signals.

‘Nothing says “find us here” as nicely as an obvious attempt to hide one’s presence,’ said Sapphon. He signalled the Land Raider. ‘Lion’s Fury, move ahead fifty metres. Draw their fire.’

‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied the tank’s commander.

The ten Deathwing Terminators stopped, the two squads splitting, weapons covering the windows and roofs ahead. Sapphon followed Caulderain and his warriors to the left. Vision magnified, he scanned the piles of rubble and detritus for signs of ambush. Some orks were capable of uncharacteristic patience on occasion, hiding for hours and days at a time in order to spring their attacks. Nothing indicated any waiting enemies beneath the debris.

‘The eyes of the Chapter are upon us, brothers,’ he reminded his companions. ‘It is to us that they look to lead the way. We shall blaze the path for them to follow, in deeds and in thought.’

‘Yes, let’s show them how to kill orks,’ said Daeron. ‘It seems some of our brothers have forgotten.’

It was a second flippant remark from the sergeant and Sapphon expected better from one of the Chapter’s senior warriors. There was almost a hint of a challenge in Daeron’s attitude, subconscious defiance perhaps.

The chime of a private vox-channel being opened rang in Sapphon’s ear.

‘Brother-Chaplain, why do you remain silent?’ asked Sergeant Caulderain. ‘His attitude is unbecoming of the Deathwing.’

‘I will remind the brother-sergeant when the time is appropriate,’ replied Sapphon. ‘A vox-channel on the cusp of battle is not the place or time for such remonstration.’

‘I do not know what poor spirit ails my brother, but he seems to be testing you, and he is certainly testing my patience, Brother-Chaplain.’

‘Daeron has served the Dark Angels for three hundred years and more, and is one of the bravest and most dedicated Space Marines I have ever known.’ A flicker of movement to the Chaplain’s right made him pause. A moment later it resolved in his auto-senses into a rag caught on a coil of razor wire.

‘My point exactly,’ the sergeant continued. Sapphon suppressed an exasperated sigh. ‘It is out of character for Daeron to speak so lightly of his duties. I fear it is a sign of a greater malaise within the company. It is a sign of disrespect that should be dealt with immediately and firmly.’

‘Do not think me a Scout of the Tenth Company, to submit willingly to such instruction, brother-sergeant,’ Sapphon said sternly, his annoyance growing.

‘No insult was intended, Brother-Chaplain. I merely reflect that Brother Asmodai is far stricter in h–’

‘I am not Brother Asmodai!’ The response was uttered a little more hastily, with more vehemence than Sapphon had intended and he winced in reaction. It was simply paranoia speaking; the silent fear that Sapphon kept hidden from his brothers. Caulderain said nothing but Sapphon could imagine the reply that remained unspoken: if only you were.

‘Movement, balcony, sixth storey, forty metres on the right!’ snapped Brother Decemius. Sapphon felt a surge of relief, swiftly replaced with focus and purpose.

Sapphon looked up to see three orks peering over a bullet-pitted balustrade, each carrying a basic-looking rocket tube or launcher. Their grimacing faces were highlighted a moment later by converging flares of storm bolter-rounds. The ferrocrete balcony exploded into shrapnel and dust, tumbling the wound-riddled corpses of the orks to the street.

‘More on the lower floors on the other side of the street,’ Sapphon said, firing his pistol at lean shapes lurking just inside shattered windows and broken doorways. ‘Lion’s Fury, engage. Make the xenos fear our retribution.’

‘Affirmative, firing all weapon systems.’

While the Deathwing continued to pour fire into the building to their right, the Crusader’s tracks spun as it turned to the left, assault cannon and hurricane bolters elevating as it did so. An ear-piercing whine cut across the roar of storm bolters as the multi-barrelled main weapon spun into action, followed by the rippling crack of hundreds of rounds being spat forth. The hurricane bolters added their fury, filling the sky with the gleaming trace of bolt propellant as the Crusader’s fire stitched along the second and third storeys of the building, tearing ragged holes in the ferrocrete and laying waste to the aliens within.

Incoming fire whined down onto the Space Marines from further along the street; bullets and energy pulses from small arms, little to worry the Terminators. The cracked rockcrete of the road splintered and sparked from impacts as Sapphon ordered the tank and two squads to advance another fifty metres.

Something dark blurring against the clouds beyond the smoke caught Sapphon’s eye.

‘Incoming mortars and artillery. Continue the attack.’

Two seconds later the mortar bombs exploded short of their target, throwing grit and fresh rubble against the hull of the Crusader. Haphazard artillery strikes erupted around the battle group, smashing into buildings and leaving smoking craters in the road ahead and behind the Deathwing. Still firing, ork bodies slumping against windowsills and toppling into the street, the First Company veterans continued with their steady, purposeful strides.

They came to a crossroads, the two squads now flanking the Land Raider as it concentrated its fire ahead and they dealt with the survivors to each flank. Airburst shells flung fragments of shrapnel that clattered harmlessly from the thick ceramite of the Tactical Dreadnought suits. Bullets pinged and las-bolts shrieked equally ineffectually. A mortar bomb exploded right next to Sapphon. The conversion field in his rosarius activated in a millisecond, transforming the incoming mass and shockwave of the explosion into pure energy. Half a second later a blazing white halo of power enveloped the Chaplain for a moment as the energy-build up in the rosarius flared into luminescent existence.

He fired almost without thinking, picking out available targets on instinct, every bolt sent from the Chaplain’s pistol finding its mark in green alien flesh. Rockets screamed and corkscrewed down onto the advancing warriors, sputtering with smoke, warheads throwing flame and shrapnel in all directions but unable to pierce the layers of ceramite, plasteel and adamantium that protected the Dark Angels finest.

Sapphon stopped and checked behind the squad. Power armoured Space Marines were following-up the Terminator advance three hundred metres behind, clearing the buildings of any greenskins that had been missed by the devastation unleashed by the Terminators. The blossom of fire and smoke from frag grenades announced their progress into the upper storeys, while an occasional survivor was discovered and dealt with by bursts of bolter fire, almost inaudible amongst the din of the Deathwing’s and Crusader’s fusillade.

‘Resupply drop in seventy metres,’ Sapphon announced. The reticule and distance imposed over his right eye highlighted the dropsite selected by the Techmarines. The Chaplain was down to a third of his ammunition, and he knew that the Deathwing had been burning through their supplies with equal ferocity. Still, there were bolts enough to see them safely to the rendezvous.

Recalling Daeron’s earlier words, the Chaplain had to concede that the absence of the Ravenwing had caused problems for the rest of the Chapter. The Darkshrouds and Land Speeders of the Second Company would have made short, bloody work of the greenskin horde that was now boiling up onto the rooftops to fire at the advancing Dark Angels.

‘This is Chaplain Sapphon – commence supply insertion at grid point beta.’

The Chaplain barely heard the acknowledgement from the Thunderhawk pilot who had been circling overhead at a safe distance from any ork anti-air guns. Now Sapphon’s audio pick-ups detected the roar of plasma engines growing louder as the gunship came in on its subsonic run.

They were barely fifteen metres from the drop point when the Thunderhawk swooped in. Battle cannon and lascannons blazing it circled once, weapons chewing rents and craters into the sides of the buildings surrounding the drop point. Sapphon watched the hatches and assault ramp opening, but instead of hovering for the drop, the Thunderhawk landed in a billow of heat and dust.

‘What are you doing?’ Sapphon demanded as he and the Deathwing broke forward, weapons firing to cover the approaches to the settling gunship. ‘This is a combat drop!’

A Space Marine in the markings of the Third Company appeared at the top of the ramp and raised a fist to Sapphon as armourium servitors started to plod towards the street, ammunition hoppers slung over their shoulders, power packs hung on crane-like arms.

‘Sorry, Brother-Chaplain, but we have an urgent request from Master Issachar. He is having difficulties at the Imperial commander’s palace. He’s asked that we take you to him immediately.’

‘Difficulties? There is not an ork within a kilometre of the palace. Trouble with the Piscina Free Militia?’ The planetary defence force was under curfew and subject to the disarm commandment as much as any other citizens of Kadillus Harbour, but some groups had opted to resist the Dark Angels efforts to restore order.

‘Not exactly, brother.’ The Space Marine shook his head. ‘It is Brother-Chaplain Asmodai.’

THE ENEMY WITHIN

‘You are making a mistake of monumental proportions.’ The words were forced through gritted teeth, laden with threat but tempered with an attempt at calm.

Asmodai looked down at the man who had spoken: Colonel Brade of the Piscinan Free Militia. His face was flushed, wrinkled features contorting between fear and anger as he struggled to contain the duelling emotions. His uniform, which was frayed on the collar and cuffs, stained with much old blood both human and ork, was soaked with sweat. A bead of perspiration ran down the tip of the man’s bulbous nose and dripped to the floor.

Asmodai could actually hear the man’s heart hammering in his chest, the quick double-thud as clear to the Chaplain as the hiss and whine of servos as he shifted his weight and his armour responded. Through olfactory filters he could smell the man’s fear, new sweat with the old, clouded by a fragrant pomade slicking the planetary defence officer’s thinning hair.

The Dark Angel’s gaze flickered for a moment to Brade’s fists, which were gripping his belt as if it were a lifesaver thrown to a drowning man. On the colonel’s right hip hung a holster in which sat a heavy pistol. Now and then Brade’s hand twitched as though subconsciously he wished to draw the weapon. Fortunately for Brade his conscious mind was winning that particular battle.

Brade’s blue eyes were mad, staring, locked to Asmodai’s, at least locked on the red lenses of the Chaplain’s skull-faced helm.

‘Your opinion is irrelevant, you have received instruction and you will obey,’ said Asmodai. He pointed an armoured finger at the colonel’s side arm. ‘You will begin by disarming. You will then surrender to my custody to await investigation into your conduct.’

‘You have no authority here.’ Brade’s voice wavered, betraying his insincerity.

‘Authority is not granted by legal writs and contracts,’ said Asmodai. ‘My authority derives from the Emperor, for I am a battle-brother of the Dark Angels, descendants of the First Legion. We are the Adeptus Astartes, his chosen warriors.’

Brade opened his mouth to argue but Asmodai cut him off, stepping forward, the closeness of his immense bulk silencing any protest. The Chaplain waved a hand to encompass the hall in which they stood. The high arched ceiling was stained in places by soot from the grand fireplace that dominated one wall. The hall had once been a banqueting suite, now turned into a command station by Brade and his subordinates. Supply crates had been turned into tables and desks, littered with maps, rations packs, heavy duty vox-casters, weapons, spare energy cells and all manner of other materiel required by a command staff. The frescoed walls were covered with more charts, communiqués, casualty lists, cracked or static-filled comms-screens, recon reports and assorted paraphernalia.

There were sixteen other men in the room; fifteen of them Brade’s support officers and the other Master Issachar of the Third Company. All were watching the confrontation.

‘Do not speak to me of authority. This building was once the demesne of Imperial Commander Sousan, was it not? Where is she now? Slain, by a mob of her own people. You, and you alone, Colonel Brade, took it upon yourself to install her successor, involving yourself in the political struggle that has seen this world fall to alien invaders and heretics. You are a traitor and will be dealt with accordingly.’

Brade’s anger burst through the dam of his terror.

‘Traitor?’ The commander screamed the word. ‘You call me traitor? It was your warriors that came here and attacked us! It was your glorious Chapter that capitalised on the ork resurgence to murder lawful, faithful citizens of Piscina. It was not I that instigated rebellion, Chaplain Asmodai, it was you. And you dare call me traitor?’

The colonel’s claims that a force of Dark Angels had killed a large number of civilians, though as yet uncorroborated, were known to Asmodai. Brade’s incarceration would facilitate a more thorough inquiry into the events that had plunged Piscina into madness, and would also serve to stifle the rumours still running rampant across Kadillus Harbour – rumours that Asmodai and the other members of the Inner Circle were working hard to keep from the ears of the battle-brethren.

‘From your own lips you are condemned,’ said Asmodai. He wagged an armoured finger at Brade. The colonel retreated but Asmodai gave him no space, following up with long strides. ‘It is only in deference to your efforts against the orks that you are still alive. Treachery such as yours, the wanton defiance of your Imperial commander appointed from Holy Terra, makes you an enemy of the Imperium. Few such foes have opportunity to speak in their defence when confronted by the Dark Angels.’

Brade turned to Issachar, opening his arms as he implored the Dark Angels captain.

‘You must see that this is madness? The orks are still active within the city and there are many of our people too afraid of the Adeptus Astartes to ever surrender to the Dark Angels. If you depose me they will only see further injustice and fight all the harder.’

‘His opinion is also irrelevant,’ Asmodai snapped before Issachar could offer a reply. ‘The rebels will be killed if they continue to resist, and the orks will be cleansed. These are not matters for debate. I would no more allow a potential traitor to continue to command military forces in this city than I would invite the orks to a parley aboard the Rock. Hand over your weapon and relinquish command before I take sterner action.’

‘My opinion is irrelevant?’ Issachar said the words slowly, as though he was only just catching up with events. ‘I am commander of the Third Company, tasked with securing these palaces. Brother, you overstep your remit if you think you can remove one of my allies from his duties.’

‘Do not take false umbrage at my curt manner, Master Issachar,’ answered Asmodai, irritated by the captain’s defiant tone. ‘Our orders are direct from the Supreme Grand Master. I am well within my authority to have Colonel Brade removed from power and to subject him to questioning. The palace grounds have been secured for several days. I do not understand your tardiness in prosecuting further attacks against the rebels and greenskins.’

There was a buzz as the command channel activated. Issachar strode across the hall to confront Asmodai, his manner making his intent clear even though his words were for the Chaplain alone.

‘Do not seek to teach me my duty, Asmodai.’ Issachar growled, amplified by the vox-net to sound like an attacking cudbear.

‘This is no matter for a simple Company Master,’ said Asmodai, seeking to make sense of Issachar’s objections. ‘While I bow to your judgement on purely military decisions, the acts of Colonel Brade and his men are treasonous, and that is a poison that can infect the minds of others, making it my responsibility. The Piscinan Free Militia are a tarnished, spent force of no strategic value. I do not understand your concerns.’

‘And that is your problem, Asmodai.’ Issachar shook his head and his tone was sad. ‘We have enough enemies to fight without you creating more. Brade is correct – he is best placed to negotiate surrender from the remaining Free Militia still fighting against us.’

‘There will be no negotiations. Those who oppose us will be crushed. You allow clear judgement to be clouded by indecent camaraderie with these defence forces. You are mistaken to place any trust in their loyalty or ability, brother-captain.’

‘But this is my decision, not yours, Asmodai, and I will not have you undermine my command.’

Asmodai was stunned by Issachar’s hypocrisy, actually lost for words by the arrogance of his battle-brother. His silence lasted only moments though, as outrage at the Company Master’s accusation brought forth fresh words.

‘Do you think it is acceptable to defy me in front of outsiders?’ Asmodai’s anger bubbled up like blood from a wound, giving his words even greater vehemence. ‘I am the Master of Repentance! None is more loyal to the Chapter and the ideals of the Lion than I. It is not you that stands judgement over others, it is I! I was willing to forgive your disrespect as a momentary lapse, but this insubordination will be punished. I have made my will known – it is your duty to enact it.’

A loud bang had both Space Marines spinning towards the near end of the hall, their weapons ready. The great double doors swung in, revealing Chaplain Sapphon, his robes and armour dirtied by blood and grime from recent battle. The Master of Sanctity strode into the room and headed directly for Asmodai. For a split-second the Master of Repentance thought his superior would strike him, but instead Sapphon laid a hand on Asmodai’s arm, gesturing for him to lower his crozius.

‘Master Issachar, forgive this intrusion,’ said Sapphon over the command link, glancing at the captain before fixing his look on Asmodai. ‘If you would excuse my brother and I, there is urgent news to discuss. Brother Asmodai, accompany me to the antechamber.’

Asmodai took in a long, deep breath, agitated by the interruption.

‘This matter will be raised with the Supreme Grand Master, Issachar,’ Asmodai warned.

Issachar said nothing. The captain stalked away, waving for Brade to join him at a crackling hololith vid unit showing the western half of the city.

‘Brother Sapphon, why are you here?’ Asmodai asked, genuinely confused. ‘I heard no report that the Deathwing assault had been concluded. Have we secured victory?’

Sapphon said nothing in reply, but simply pointed back through the doors. Bemused, Asmodai followed his superior out of the hall.

MISPLACED ZEAL

‘Walk with me, brother,’ said Sapphon. He released his helm with a hiss of escaping air and turned his head to look at Asmodai beside him. Warriors from the Third Company kept watch at the corridors and archways leading from the passage ahead, while messenger boys of the Free Militia scurried back and forth bringing reports for Brade and carrying orders to the defence forces still operating across Kadillus Harbour.

Sapphon spied a disused room ahead, its shattered window poorly boarded, the remnants of table and chairs piled to one side. There was no door but the chamber was secluded enough for Sapphon’s purpose.

‘Remove your helmet, brother, and let me look at your face while we speak.’

Asmodai did has he was bade, revealing features almost as skeletal as those on the mask he removed – sharp cheek bones, sunken eyes and a shaven head. His skin was much darker than bone, save for scar tissue that carved pale streaks on his forehead and left cheek. Dark eyes stared at Sapphon without hint of shame or circumspection.

‘Why did you come to the Imperial commander’s palace, brother?’ Sapphon asked, placing his helm on the cracked mantel above an ash-choked fireplace. ‘Specifically, why are you not with the Ninth Company as I ordered?’

‘My greater duty was here, when I heard that Brade had returned to the scene of his treachery,’ said Asmodai.

‘Your greater duty was to lead the Ninth in battle against the orks at Koth Ridge and the East Barrens. Perhaps you felt that task beneath one of your station?’

A snarl curled Asmodai’s lip.

‘Do not suspect me of arrogance, brother. And do not confuse humility with meekness.’

Sapphon ignored the rebuke.

‘I know you, Asmodai, so show me the respect due to my position by not trying to coerce me. You use anger to get at the truth. You rile your subjects until they speak in haste or betray themselves with unconscious twitch or tic.’ Sapphon dropped his voice, so low that even a Space Marine like Asmodai would be forced to concentrate to hear it, demanding attention. ‘I am not in the wrong here.’

‘If you have accusation, brother, make it plainly.’

‘For the remainder of this conversation you will refer to me by my rank, not as brother,’ Sapphon said sternly. Asmodai’s brow furrowed, but Sapphon gave him no opportunity to voice dissent – another favoured tactic of the Chaplain was to browbeat his victims with a continuous tirade. Seventeen hours without pause was, according to Chapter rumour and illicit wagers, Asmodai’s longest rant to date. Sapphon continued effortlessly, his words slow and measured. ‘You will address me as “master”, and you will restrict your answers to a simple affirmative or negative. You will remain silent on all other concerns until I give you permission to speak of other matters. Am I clear?’

‘Yes, Master Sapphon,’ replied Asmodai, lips and jaw barely moving to form the words.

‘Colonel Brade’s actions will be scrutinised in due course. It is not the place of the Adeptus Astartes to form trial and jury of members of planetary defence forces.’

‘I spoke of no trial, master. Only tha–’

‘Must I make you swear an oath of silence?’ Sapphon asked quietly. He had caught the rebuke and lowered his tone before it left his lips, refusing to rise to Asmodai’s bait. Any amount of shouting and remonstration would have no effect on the thick-skinned Chaplain. Sapphon was determined that, just for once, Asmodai would think about his actions from some other perspective than through the warped prism of his zealotry.

‘No, master.’ Asmodai stood stock still, hands clasped at his chest, eyes following Sapphon like a hawk watching its prey as the Master of Sanctity started to pace in front of the fireplace. The Chaplain’s immobility was in direct opposition to Sapphon’s need for movement.

‘Your uncompromising nature is lauded by the Supreme Grand Master, and in battle there are none that would not fight beside you. Your efforts against the oldest foe are remarkable and your dedication exemplary. However, why must you seek confrontation so readily? Are there not foes enough in the galaxy for us to fight?’

Sapphon could see Asmodai was straining to speak, to defend himself, not realising the questions were rhetorical. The Master of Sanctity did not care; it made a change that Asmodai was the one feeling discomfort. He continued, head bowed, not looking at his subordinate.

‘For all your accomplishments, and your seniority, the Inner Circle chose me to succeed as Master of Sanctity.’ Sapphon looked at the other Chaplain. ‘You are unstable, Asmodai. Worse, you are destabilising. You are a catalyst for dissent, and the harder you react against the infractions of others the more they will resent you for your lack of fraternal understanding.’

The other Chaplain looked as though he was going to explode, the blood vessels in his neck pulsing with the twin beats of his hearts, a particular scar above his right eye almost pure white against reddening flesh. Still Sapphon would not allow Asmodai to speak.

‘There are two places where you are of use, Asmodai. The first is in the interrogation cell. The second is on the battlefield.’ Sapphon strode to the door and looked left and right theatrically before turning back to Asmodai. The Chaplain’s eyes were narrowed, jaw twitching with indignity. There was no verbal or physical abuse that Sapphon could employ that would make his companion repent of his actions, so only the threat of further humiliation remained. ‘I see neither, and yet here you are. I ask again, why are you not with the Ninth?’

With no specific charge to defend himself against, Asmodai was confronted by the truth behind the question. He answered as if the words were being dragged out of him under pain of death. His fingers flexed into fists and splayed out again in a slow rhythm.

‘Because I disobeyed your orders, master.’

‘Yes, brother,’ said Sapphon. It pleased the Master of Sanctity to see Asmodai flinch at the use of the more familiar term. ‘When confronted with this fact, does it matter the reason for disobedience? How would you deal with such insubordination? The same insubordination of which you have just accused Master Issachar, I might add.’

Asmodai swallowed hard and finally – finally! – looked away, casting his gaze at the ground for a moment, the first sign of shame he had shown since Sapphon’s arrival. He did not speak, and Sapphon took this as a good sign.

‘You make me appear weak, brother,’ Sapphon admitted. Asmodai looked shocked at the revelation. ‘And, compared to you, in some ways I am. The brethren take liberties in front of me that would not enter their minds in your presence. They speak out of turn. They are flippant. But, they never disobey orders. Only you dare to go that far. Do you think I am weak, Brother Asmodai?’

‘Yes,’ said the Chaplain. ‘Punishment cleanses the soul and restores discipline. You are too tolerant. Your indulgences spoil the battle-brothers and engender further disobedience. It is also this attitude that sees you fail in the interrogation cells.’

Sapphon smiled grimly. Whatever personality defects affected Asmodai, dishonesty was not amongst them.

‘And you consider my elevation to my role as a mistake by the Inner Circle?’

‘I made my opposition clear at the time. The Grand Masters chose to promote you against my objections.’

‘And did you swear to abide by their decision?’

Again Asmodai looked uncomfortable for a moment, realising he had been manoeuvred into a difficult admission.

‘Yes, master,’ is all he said, offering no defence.

‘And so will you now carry out the orders as I lay them out?’

‘Yes, master,’ said Asmodai. ‘I will join the Ninth as soon as transport is available.’

‘Leave me. Penance will be evaluated after the planet is secure.’

Asmodai fitted his helmet, the white skull with its shining red eyes a relief to Sapphon after the intensity of the Chaplain’s unmasked appearance.

‘For the Lion!’ barked Asmodai,

‘For the Emperor!’ replied Sapphon.

The Master of Sanctity watched his companion leave. He shook his head in disbelief and took up his helmet. He was about to depart when Master Issachar appeared at the doorway.

‘Why does the Supreme Grand Master tolerate him?’ asked the company captain, looking back into the corridor though Asmodai was no longer in sight. ‘He is disruptive, antagonistic and volatile. On the one hand Brother Asmodai will seek penance for any misdemeanour whilst on the other blatantly flaunting the demands of his superiors. He is blind to his own arrogance and hypocrisy.’

‘He has his uses. Sometimes we must be reminded that moderation and mercy are choices, not necessities. Brother Asmodai answers to a far higher authority and sterner code than the rest of us.’

‘Really? You think he fears the Emperor’s judgement?’

Sapphon laughed. ‘The Emperor’s… Of course not. The Emperor loves His sons, and it was this love that the traitors exploited. No, there is a far harsher judge that Asmodai fears. One that holds no love for any creature. Himself.’

As they headed back towards the temporary headquarters in the hall, Sapphon considered Asmodai’s peculiar brand of paranoia. His methods were as subtle as a bolt-round to the face, but often his motives were not wrong. Colonel Brade had indeed witnessed first-hand a possible incident involving the Fallen. It was not wise that he be allowed to remain at large. And following the overthrow of Imperial Commander Sousan it would not be long before the Inquisition started taking an interest in what had transpired in the Piscina system. It would be up to the Supreme Grand Master to decide what to do with the Piscinans that had come into contact with the traitors, but the time had come to start limiting any possible damage.

‘Have Colonel Brade join me in the Imperial commander’s chambers, please,’ he told Issachar. Even though ranked a Company Master, Issachar was not a member of the Inner Circle. There was no need to have him involved in anything more than he already was. ‘I should make peace.’

Some things were better done without noise and fuss. That was why the Inner Circle had chosen Sapphon over Asmodai.

PENITENT WARRIORS

High above Piscina the bulk of the Dark Angels fleet lay in orbit. Amongst rapid strike vessels, strike cruisers, battle-barges, scout ships and resupply tenders sat the Rock, fortress-monastery of the Chapter. Protected by vast banks of void shields, surrounded by a constellation of smaller asteroids and defence platforms, the Rock dwarfed everything around it. Launch bays and weapon batteries were dug into the kilometres-thick base, which had once been bedrock from honoured, destroyed Caliban. Upon this immense fragment sat the edifice known as the Tower of Angels, spire after spire, hall and gallery heaped upon each other, piercing the firmament. Thousands of lights twinkled from arched windows. Stained glass dappled pitted stone and ferrocrete with many colours. Once renowned as Aldurukh, citadel of the Order that raised the Dark Angels primarch, it was now home to the warriors who carried the gene-seed of the Lion.

Another vessel, a strike cruiser two kilometres long, moved into the shadow cast by the Rock. A Thunderhawk gunship emerged from one of the flight bays of the Penitent Warrior, a tiny spark soon swallowed by the bulk of the fortress-monastery.

On board sat brothers Telemenus, Menthius and Daellon. Telemenus and Daellon were in full armour, while Menthius was still clad in robes, his hideous burns not quite healed. The latter’s face and bared arms were a mess of scar tissue, exposed flesh contorted with strange whorls left by the traitor’s psychic attack on Thyestes. His nose was nothing more than shaped metal plate installed by the Apothecaries, while breathing tubes jutted from his throat and down past the collar of his robe. His wheezing was accompanied by a dull ticking of some machine hidden inside the remains of his lungs.

With them was Veteran Sergeant Seraphiel, who regarded them sternly, his helm cradled in his lap.

‘It will take time for you to adjust,’ said Seraphiel, stroking an armoured finger across the fleur-de-lys painted on the side of his helm in dark red. Telemenus was not sure what the badge signified, but assumed it was some honour the veteran sergeant had earned whilst he had fought in the First Company. ‘To be a warrior in the Deathwing is different to everything else you have experienced. Even these last two months of confinement, segregated from your brothers to protect their innocence, will seem as nothing compared to the strain of being one of the Chapter’s elite.’

Telemenus allowed his gaze to wander, looking out of the armoured port beside the veteran sergeant. A row of hooded warriors carved a hundred metres high in dark marble sped past as the Thunderhawk banked alongside the Rock, their grim faces lit by red navigational lamps. They moved out of view when the gunship levelled and started its descent towards one of the lower flight bays.

‘Telemenus!’ Seraphiel’s sharp tone tore back the Space Marine’s attention. ‘Do not think for one moment that your elevation to the First Company signifies an end to your drills and regular duties. What you will learn next will change your whole view of the universe.’

The sergeant’s voice drifted away momentarily, caught up in some memory or other. His tone was soft, sad when he spoke next.

‘Everything you believe to be of value will be questioned. Every truth to which you cling will be tested. What you are about to face is a sterner challenge than any you have yet overcome.’ Seraphiel leaned forward, straining the harness that held him to the bench. ‘You think that you gave up everything when you became a Dark Angel? Your childhood? Your name? Your family and past? Perhaps you believe that there is nothing more you can sacrifice for the Lion and the Emperor. You are wrong. Nothing will prepare you for what you are about to learn.’

Telemenus was not so sure of this truth. He did not know by what circumstance Seraphiel had been elevated to the Deathwing, would probably never know, but the change it had wrought on his psyche was writ clear across his tormented expression. The former Fifth Company marksman, on the other hand, had some suspicion of what was to come. He remembered clearly the last events of Thyestes.

The psyker drew a long blade, its edges glimmering balefully with a sickening yellow light. Unperturbed by the bolts shrieking around him, he strode towards the squad. Telemenus could see that his skin was pale like a corpse, the bones of his cheeks showing through torn flesh, eyes red with thick veins.

‘Brave but foolish, brothers,’ the traitor declared in a rasping voice. His words were accompanied by a gust of air that carried the stench of effluent and rotting meat. ‘Your masters have betrayed you.’

Giving up all thoughts of taking the warrior alive, Telemenus emptied his magazine at the ghastly apparition. As before, the bolts did not hit. Nemeon steadied himself again for another missile shot, but was too slow. The psyker thrust his sword in the Space Marine’s direction, a blast of churning warp energy flying from its tip to smash Nemeon from his feet. His armour crumbled, turning to dust in moments, exposed flesh wrinkling and decaying beneath.

Apollon fell next, sent spinning to the ground by a fresh wave of psychic lightning that surrounded him with a cloud of energy. Telemenus skirted to his right, glancing at his battle-brother’s twitching body.

‘It is folly to oppose me, brothers,’ the psyker spoke without malice, blood trickling from split lips as he uttered the words. ‘Your sacrifice will go unremembered, your glory unrewarded.’

‘I am no brother of yours,’ snarled Daellon. A swirl of burning promethium engulfed the enemy warrior, setting fire to his cloak and hair. The psyker staggered to the left and raised his empty hand against the inferno. More sickly yellow light spilled from his open palm, pushing back against the gout of flames.

Fingers curling into a fist, the psyker seemed to grab hold of the streaming promethium, lashing it like a whip back at Daellon. The Dark Angel flung the flamer away and dived to the ground as its fuel canister exploded, showering the defile with burning liquid.

‘You are all my brothers,’ the psyker continued. ‘If your blind masters had half the honour you possess, they would tell you the truth. I was once like you.’

‘I know you, traitor,’ said Telemenus. ‘You have shunned the Emperor and have no honour. You have the filthy heart of a traitor even if you were once a Space Marine.’

The psyker grinned, bearing a few rotted, pointed teeth, even as flecks of promethium continued to burn through the flesh of his face and flickered on his armour.

‘Not just a Space Marine, brother. A Dark Angel.’

Menthius and Daellon had heard the declaration too, but they had both been barely conscious. Telemenus had looked the traitor in the face, seen the vile truth for what it was; a Dark Angel corrupted by the evil forces that had turned Legion against Legion at the dawn of the Imperium. Through sixty-three days of travel from Thyestes, separated from their battle-brothers, the three of them had not raised a word concerning what they had seen. Only in momentary glances, in occasional silences or an intake of breath did they share the experience.

He wondered why it had never occurred to him before. Why had he never considered the possibility that evil intent had touched the Dark Angels as it had laid its grip upon World Eaters and Word Bearers, Death Guard and other traitors? Seraphiel was correct in one regard; it made Telemenus reconsider everything he believed to be true. If the Dark Angels had been touched, what of the Ultramarines? There were many rumours concerning the Blood Angels, and the Space Wolves still verged on heresy to this day. What of the Iron Hands, White Scars and the Salamanders, had they too felt the dagger of treachery from within?

‘I see that my words stir something in you,’ said Seraphiel. ‘Questions without answers? Doubts?’

This last word hung in the air like a toxic fog. Doubt. It was doubt that the Chaplains crushed with their words. Doubt was the harbinger of fear, of ambition, of wilfulness. Now Telemenus realised that doubt was also the herald of something even more deadly. Doubt fed itself. Even now he wondered why he and his brothers had not been told the truth. There were secrets in the hearts of the Dark Angels officers, kept from the battle-brothers with cynical intent.

The thought vexed him, made him angry and something of his mind must have showed on his face.

‘Yes, doubt is the worst foe, is it not, Telemenus? You cannot hide from it. You cannot slay it with a bolter-round. You cannot flee from it. Only force of will, true strength of character can eliminate doubt.’ Seraphiel turned his attention to Menthius. The sergeant seemed to be taking some perverse satisfaction from the discomfort of his fellow Space Marines, though it may have been relief at being able to share a burden long carried without comment. ‘Your scars are a badge of honour, testament to a duty fulfilled. They will help you. Whenever doubt creeps in, the doubt of our righteous cause, the doubt that comes with knowing the true purpose of the Deathwing, you can look at those scars and remember the face of the creature that inflicted them upon you. You will know the nature of the evil we seek to vanquish. Against the armour of those scars doubt will be blunted, unable to harm you.’

A chime indicated that they were sixty seconds from docking. The ports went dark for a moment and then bright light flooded in from the flight bay. The four Space Marines released their restraints and stood up, helms held in their hands. There was a clang and a shudder as the Thunderhawk touched down. The assault ramp at the nose of the gunship whined open, revealing a solitary figure in a sleeveless robe of off-white.

‘Grand Master Belial awaits,’ said Seraphiel. As the others filed past him he stood for a moment, gripping wrist-to-wrist with each in a warrior’s bond. He stopped Telemenus for a moment with a hand on his arm. ‘You are a fine warrior, just remember to keep your pride in check. You were one of the best of the Fifth, but now you are the lowliest of the First. You shall stride amongst the greatest of the Chapter, and do so with honour, but never forget that service is its own reward.’

‘Only in death does duty end,’ Telemenus replied with a nod. ‘Your concern is unwarranted, have no worries on account of my accomplishments. The glory I will earn in the Deathwing will make First Marksman a pale achievement in comparison.’

Seraphiel sighed and shook his head. The sergeant waved for Telemenus to follow his brothers and when the Space Marine reached the ramp he glanced back to see Seraphiel sat down, head bowed in thought.

Joining his two companions, Telemenus had opportunity to see Grand Master Belial properly for the first time. The commander of the First Company, Bearer of the Sword of Silence, had until that moment been a distant, rarely-glimpsed figure for warriors outside the Deathwing.

Dressed in ceremonial robes, Belial seemed no taller or bigger than any other Space Marine. His hair was cropped almost to the scalp, chin and cheeks darkened with stubble that indicated he had been in combat and unable to perform the ritual hygienic cleansing expected of every Dark Angel. His face was expressionless as he watched Telemenus come to attention at the end of the short line. On the right breast of his robe was embroidered the scarlet wings-and-broken-blade sigil of the Deathwing, and on the left a shield bearing a cloaked and hooded figure as heraldry. From his belt were hung three large keys, and in its scabbard the famed Sword of Silence; one of the three Heavenfall blades forged from meteoric stone in the Chapter’s ancient past.

‘You are tardy,’ said Belial, staring a hole through Telemenus.

‘Brother Seraphiel had parting words for me, Grand Master,’ replied the Space Marine.

‘Did I ask for explanation?’

Taken aback by the question, Telemenus shook his head in reply. Belial’s brow furrowed deeply.

‘Speak when spoken to.’

‘No, Grand Master, you did not ask for explanation.’

Belial considered this. Behind the newest members of the Deathwing the Thunderhawk’s engines built to a roar and Telemenus felt the warm wash of its departure on the back of his neck. He kept his eyes on Belial as the Grand Master examined Daellon and Menthius. The commander of the First scrutinised the latter at length, looking him up and down with a calculating eye.

‘Have the Apothecaries cleared you for combat?’ asked Belial.

‘No, Grand Master.’ Menthius cast his gaze groundwards, as if this fact were somehow his fault. Telemenus could feel Menthius trembling with shame beside him.

‘If you cannot fight you cannot train.’ Belial crossed his arms, and it was then that Telemenus noticed the tattoos that lined the Grand Master’s flesh, from shoulder to elbow, lines of miniscule text on the melanchromatically-darkened skin. Belial noticed Telemenus’s interest and stepped in front of him, raising and flexing his massive bicep so that the Space Marine could see more clearly what was written there.

They were lines from the Liturgies of Battle, scribed with a neat, rounded script. Some were repeated over and over, others written only once. Telemenus wanted to ask what they were for but knew that to speak would invite further recrimination from the merciless Grand Master. However, Belial read the question in Telemenus’s expression.

‘Lessons not to be forgotten,’ the commander said by way of explanation. He turned away and started towards the door. ‘Brother Daellon, you will report to quarters and await further instruction. Brother Menthius, you will report to the apothecarion for further treatment. Brother Telemenus…’

Belial turned back, his gaze as hard as flint as he looked at his newest warrior.

‘Brother Telemenus, you will report to the Chaplains for two days penance and contemplation for the disrespect you have shown me. Use the time to reflect on the necessity of making apology when you keep a superior waiting. You may also like to think on the importance of first impressions. I will be watching you closely.’

‘Yes, Grand Master,’ the three Space Marines said in unison.

When Belial had exited the flight bay, all three let out long, relieved exhalations. Menthius slapped Telemenus on the shoulder and grinned.

‘You always want to stand out, brother. I think it is safe to say that by the end of the day everyone in the Deathwing will have heard of you.’

‘Really, brother?’ Telemenus smiled at the thought. ‘You think they will be pleased to welcome a former First Marksman into their ranks?’

‘You misunderstand me, brother,’ laughed Menthius. ‘I think you will be known as First Penitent, who earned the ire of the Grand Master before you had even met!’

THE SEVENTH RITE

The door behind Annael closed, plunging him into utter darkness. There was not a single mote of light in the Reclusiam, and turning his head Annael could not even see Sabrael though his battle-brother stood within arm’s reach to his right.

‘Perhaps Chaplain Malcifer requires new light globes for his chambers,’ said Sabrael.

‘Shut up,’ said Annael, feeling tainted by his companion’s poor humour.

This was a grave occasion; the Seventh Rite of the Raven. On completion of the ceremony the two of them would formally ascend to the rank of Black Knights. Sabrael had been glib about the import of this event since they had received the summons ten hours ago. Over that time the two of them had fasted, as instructed, and spent their time in their dormitory, meditating on their duties and the history of the Ravenwing.

It was the culmination of what had seemed to Annael like exile. They had left behind Squadron Cassiel, but had not truly become Black Knights. This limbo had existed for over fifty days, during which the only other warriors they had seen had been Malcifer and Grand Master Sammael.

Straining every sense, Annael was sure they were alone. He heard neither a whisper of cloth, nor a breath. He licked his lips, telling himself that it was the hot, dry air and not apprehension that was sucking all of the moisture from his mouth.

The darkness seemed to expand, growing deeper and wider, though that was impossible. The longer Annael stared, the more uncertain he became. Perhaps he was not really in the reclusiam aboard the Ravenwing’s specialist cruiser, the Implacable Justice. It was more likely that he was dreaming, asleep on his cot in their sparsely furnished dorm. Utter blackness such as surrounded him now could not really exist, and the sense of disorientation was but an element of the dream.

Yet he had not had a dream for centuries. The Apothecaries had once explained it was something to do with the integration of the catalepsean node that allowed him to rest different parts of his brain whilst remaining awake that interrupted the usual cycle and rapid eye movement that brought a dream state.

Or at least, he would likely never remember his dreams, they said.

Alone in the dark – for Sabrael was clearly another figment of the dream – Annael was struck by a sudden thought. Perhaps the masters of the Chapter did not want the battle-brothers to dream. He could barely remember those he had experienced as a child so long ago, but he vaguely recalled flights of fantasy, of unfettered exploration and curiosity. Dreams made one wonder about reality, to question the nature of things. Since coming to the Ravenwing Annael had learned that such trains of thought were discouraged amongst the other battle-brothers. Curiosity, initiative, independence were vices, straining the bonds that held the Chapter together. It had been a moment of uncharacteristic inquisitiveness that had brought Annael to the attention of his superiors and consequently redeployment to the Ravenwing.

The darkness was becoming a living thing, tangible, replacing the air, seeping into Annael’s lungs. His hearts were beating steadily, and he felt relaxed, comforted by the embracing blackness. He was Ravenwing, and that was to live in the shadows, to be one with the dark nature of the galaxy. To wear the black, to bear the shadow inside oneself was an honour, though a secret one.

And another unlikely moment, a strange instinct that had made him follow wayward Sabrael instead of obeying orders, had now set him on this path. He had thought long and hard during his isolation but had no answers for why he had chosen to save the Imperial commander of Thyestes rather than press the attack against his Death Guard captors. Annael recalled the words of Grand Master Sammael.

‘There is a greater punishment in store for the both of you. You have seen a deeper truth than most. It is not honour or glory to act without thought, simply obeying orders for their own sake. I place a great burden upon you, because you have shown the character and strength of will to bear it in silence, resolute and unyielding. I am short of Black Knights and you will serve me in that role.

‘Some may think this reward for your ill-discipline, but do not take it as such. As Black Knights you will be subject to the highest demands of body and soul. It is an onerous duty, but one of which you are both capable. When you have passed the Seventh Rite of the Raven you will understand that the truth is the harshest master to serve.’

The Seventh Rite of the Raven. It would be coming soon. The dream was a manifestation of anxiety, that much was obvious. The darkness was merely a symptom of perfectly understandable concerns. The feeling of disembodiment was only an expression of unconscious helplessness, confronting a past that could not be changed.

Time had no meaning, his subconscious awareness of its passing eroded by the nothingness that surrounded and devoured him. Annael was becoming the darkness. He was becoming the shadow. He wondered if he was real at all and lifted a hand in front of his face. He felt the slightest movement of air on his cheek and was reassured that he had not become completely incorporeal.

‘In the void there is nothing but darkness.’

Annael flinched, startled. The voice was soft, but in breaking the silence the words were a deafening shout.

‘In the darkness we dwell,’ chorused more voices in response.

As his nerves settled Annael was aware that he was not alone. There were others in the Reclusiam with him, though how they had entered without his knowing was beyond him. He had not heard the slightest sound or felt the softest motion.

‘The past is shrouded by shadows.’

Annael now recognised the voice of Chaplain Malcifer, clear, unhindered by helm vocaliser or vox. The sound rebounded oddly from the buttresses of the Reclusiam walls, but Annael was pretty sure the Chaplain was standing a few metres in front of him.

‘In the shadows we seek the truth,’ replied three voices.

The respondents were behind him and Sabrael, no more than a couple of metres away. Annael could smell them now as his senses adapted to the lack of vision. A rustle of a robe, the gentlest breath of air against the nape of his neck when the others spoke.

‘By its nature the truth shall be found.’

‘The truth is light.’

At these words, the lamps of the Reclusiam blazed into life, blinding Annael. Next to him Sabrael raised a hand to ward away the sudden glare while Annael blinked furiously, seeing thin, indistinct silhouettes passing to either side. As his vision recovered he saw Chaplain Malcifer in black robes, the hood that hid most of his face decorated with the sigil of the Ravenwing. Beneath the cowl glinted a white skull mask, a symbol of his position as Chaplain.

To Malcifer’s right stood Huntmaster Tybalain. The left breast of his robe was embroidered with a silver hammer shaped in the head of a raven, duplicating the corvus hammers the Black Knights wielded from their bikes. Tybalain’s right cheek was slashed with a white scar from nose to ear, the puckered edges of the old wound pierced with a row of twelve dagger-like pins. Annael had not noticed before – he had never seen the Huntmaster so close – but there was a miniscule ruby shaped as a drop of blood at the end of each.

To either side of Annael and Sabrael waited two more Space Marines in the black vestments of the Ravenwing. Their faces were hidden but Annael guessed at their identities: Brothers Calatus and Nerean who were the survivors of Tybalain’s squadron – Brother Demesius had been killed by the Death Guard during the attack on their camp at Thyestes; the squadron of Huntmaster Charael had been wiped out to a man. Thinking on those events reminded him of seeing his squadron-brothers, Araton and Zarall, armour oddly tattered, dead and broken on the snow by cruel fate and a vicious enemy. The Ravenwing had suffered savage losses, nearly a third of their number slain and the same wounded, the fighting drawn out and bitter against the renegade Space Marines who had fought to the last rather than be captured. It would be some time before the company was restored to strength and able to hunt alone.

Annael had felt some measure of guilt at his part in it until both Malcifer and Sammael had told him separately that had he and Sabrael remained with Araton they would likely be dead also, slain by the traitor Librarian they had been hunting; a powerful psyker who had slain more than a dozen Dark Angels with witchery and psychic blade during his attempted escape.

It struck Annael that had not the Black Knights suffered such serious casualties, he and Sabrael might not have been elevated into their depleted ranks. Were they truly worthy, or simply convenient candidates for a Grand Master wishing to retain some morale and honour by such appointment? Annael was saved from further thoughts on the matter by a declaration from Malcifer.

‘As we wear the black, the Ravenwing must be creatures of shadow. The truth is a fickle, cautious prey, oft hiding in the deepest recesses, reluctant to be drawn into the light. It is our job to fetch it forth, to see it scrutinised. To do so, we must know the spoor of our quarry, be prepared to recognise deceit for what it is – the camouflage of truth. To see clearly in the darkness we must bring our own light with us. That light is knowledge.’

The Chaplain motioned for Annael and Sabrael to kneel. They did so without comment, eyes fixed on him. Malcifer moved to the wall behind the altar and laid a hand on the silver plaque placed there.

‘The Hunt began long ago, under the auspices of the Grand Masters in the wake of the Great Treachery. Some of what transpired has been made known to you, from my lips and that of Sammael, who are the bearers of this truth. We told you of the fall of Caliban, our home destroyed by traitors in league with the arch-heretic Horus, thrice-cursed, may his soul burn in torment forever.’ Malcifer sighed, his expression one of sadness not anger. He started to walk around the walls of the Reclusiam, trailing his fingers over the plaques bearing the names of the one hundred and seventy-two Grand Masters of the Ravenwing. ‘An ancient philosopher once said that the truth is the first casualty of war. He was wrong. In war we see truth everywhere. The truth etched into the faces of the slayer and the slain. The truth of men’s hearts and whether they are heroes or cowards. War brings forth the simple truth, of the righteousness of our cause, of our superiority at arms, of our unflinching devotion to the Emperor. These are the only truths that matter. All else is supposition, politics and hearsay.’

Moving out of sight behind Annael, the Chaplain did not speak, the only sound the soft tread of his boots on the stone-laid floor. The footsteps stopped. Annael focused on the altar a dozen metres in front of him; his reflection in the polished titanium, and the black marble sigil of the Dark Angels worked into its surface. Malcifer remained silent, letting his words sink into the thoughts of the two newly-appointed Black Knights. A part of Annael was glad that even Sabrael had been cowed by the gravitas of the moment; he could not bear the thought of the shame if his companion thought it clever to make an improper remark at this juncture.

In the absence of speech from the Chaplain and Sabrael, Annael found himself wondering what it must have been like for those Dark Angels, the ones that had faced the Horus Heresy and survived. How had they continued? What depths of strength, what reserves of courage must they have been forced to reach into to keep true to their oaths in the face of such horror? He remembered how distraught he had felt upon learning of the existence of Space Marines that had become traitors; the shock of being told the manner of the Lion’s death was as fresh as if the knowledge had come to him only yesterday. Hearing of it ten thousand years later had been hard enough and he wondered how the Dark Angels of that distant epoch had managed to survive, bereft of their primarch, all they had fought to build lying shattered around them.

‘Knowledge is so precious that we must guard it with our lives.’ Malcifer’s claim struck Annael as odd, that the words meant something beyond the obvious, but he did not have time to ponder why before the Chaplain continued. ‘It is a scarce resource, and must be rationed and apportioned accordingly. Knowledge in the wrong hands can be misused. Knowledge not treated with care and consideration will spread itself, changing and mutating itself into deception and ignorance. No truth is there greater than that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Better no knowledge than half-truths, for a half-truth is no better than a lie.’

Annael was trying hard to understand the Chaplain’s meaning and was not sure whether Malcifer was making some deeper point without wishing to utter it openly. It worried Annael that he might not comprehend the essential lesson being imparted.

The Chaplain completed his circuit of the Reclusiam and took his place between the Black Knights in front of the altar. With a nod from Malcifer, Tybalain and his men turned and filed out of the chamber through a curtained doorway to Annael’s right. The Chaplain remained with head bowed, his voice dropping to a whisper.

‘It is with deepest shame that I must offer apology on behalf of all those who are guardians of knowledge, and with profound regret inform you that what you have been told before is not the truth.’

Annael felt Sabrael stir next to him, a slow shake of the head and a sigh. The pronouncement surprised Annael too, for he had believed he had been told the truth when he had been inducted into the Ravenwing. Malcifer called into question all of the teachings of the Chapter with that single admission. The Chaplain knew as much; Annael could feel Malcifer studying him, the glimmer of eyes staring at him through the lenses of the skull mask.

‘When you have learned that which has been kept from you, you will understand the need for circumspection, as you came to accept the need for secrecy when you were brought into the fold of the Ravenwing.’ Malcifer raised his hands to his chest and knotted his fingers together as if in prayer. Behind him Tybalain and the others returned. Calatus and Nerean each carried a long-handled mattock with a head shaped like a bird’s beak – the corvus hammers of the Black Knights. The three warriors stood in line in front of Malcifer, as if protecting him, hammers thrust towards Annael and Sabrael haft-first.

‘In taking up these weapons you are accepting a binding oath to the Chapter and the Emperor. You will swear that you will uphold the lore of the Black Knights of Caliban. You will offer up your lives in protection of the rites and knowledge of the Order. As Black Knights of the Ravenwing you shall be the eyes and ears of your Grand Master not only on the battlefield but amongst your brethren. You shall guard against heresy and rebellion with every fibre and be prepared to lay down not only your life but your honour in the prosecution of our ancient pursuit.’

This last statement sent a flush of anxiety through Annael; a momentary doubt he had never experienced before. What was service to the Emperor, in the name of the Lion and the Chapter, if not done with honour? He was willing to die in an instant to protect his brothers, to fulfil a mission and protect the Emperor’s realm. But to sacrifice his good name? To risk being struck from the rolls of honour, to be expunged from the annals of the Dark Angels in shame?

He looked up at Malcifer past Tybalain and the Chaplain noticed the glance. So too did the Huntmaster, whose hard stare had been fixed on Sabrael but now passed to Annael. The battle-brother felt that gaze fall upon him as if he’d been struck, a scrutiny that bore into him, shredding all defence, piercing the walls of duty, honour and dedication that had armoured his soul against doubt, fear and treachery. All was laid bare in that moment as Tybalain knew exactly what Annael dreaded the most and was contemptuous of his fellow Space Marine’s weakness.

Annael wanted to blurt out an apology to the Huntmaster and Chaplain; wanted to abase himself and offer atonement for every moment of doubt he had endured since being chosen as an aspirant of the Lion.

For all that the urge swamped him, every instinct crying ‘They know, they know,’ and a harder, sterner part of Annael kept his gaze level, matching Tybalain’s accusation with defiance. Deep in the core of his soul, beneath any momentary worries and concerns, Annael was a Dark Angel Space Marine. He lived and died at the behest of the Chapter, for the service of the Emperor. If his honour, if his name and legacy, was the price required to defend mankind against unimaginable threat, he would be ready to offer it, as willingly as the blood that was surging through his veins.

Tybalain gave the barest hint of a nod, the corners of his lips twitching into a satisfied smile for a microsecond before his stern demeanour returned.

‘Yes, brothers, everything you fear and more may come to pass,’ said Malcifer. ‘Liar, heretic, traitor.’ Annael flinched at each word as though they were the striking of bullets in his flesh. ‘These things and others you may be called, in life or in death. By your brothers. By those you have sworn to protect. By those you serve, so that their honour can be maintained at the expense of yours. When you became Dark Angels you left your pasts behind. As you become Black Knights you must forfeit your futures. Are you ready?’

‘I am ready.’

The words had left Annael’s lips before he had registered Malcifer’s question. His voice conveyed his utter conviction. Beside him, Sabrael echoed the sentiment.

‘Take up your hammers and your rightful place amongst the Black Knights of the Ravenwing, chosen of Sammael.’

Annael took the weapon proffered by Nerean while Sabrael received the hammer brought in by Calatus. The two Black Knights bowed and received the gesture in return as Annael and Sabrael stood up to join the line at a motion from Tybalain.

‘So oath is made and accepted, sworn in secrecy, upheld in silence. Know then, the truth of the Seventh Rite of the Raven.’ Malcifer drew back his hood and lifted away his mask, revealing an almost paternal look. ‘As Ravenwing you have hunted traitors at the behest of the Supreme Grand Master. As Black Knights you must know the full nature of the creatures we bring to justice.

‘During the war some call the Horus Heresy, the traitor warmaster drew Space Marines to his rebel cause. This you know. Now you must learn of the shame we all share, for the Dark Angels were not immune to the thrice-cursed traitor’s entreaties. Fair Caliban, the birthplace of the Lion, home world of the Legion, was destroyed not by Horus, but by Dark Angels corrupted by their own ambition, who used forbidden warp-tech in an attempt to overthrow the rightful rule of the Lion.’

Malcifer paused while Annael and Sabrael silently absorbed this revelation. Confused, Annael glanced at his companion and saw Sabrael’s brow knotted, jaw clenched. The words sank in and Annael started to comprehend what the Chaplain was telling them. Perhaps sensing Annael’s instinctual refusal to accept this truth and all that it engendered, Malcifer made it clear.

‘The Space Marines we hunt as Ravenwing were once Dark Angels. Their existence has been kept secret for ten thousand years and they are the greatest threat to the Chapter and all who share the gene-seed of the Lion. We call them the Fallen and until the last has been hunted down and brought to account for their sins, there can be no rest.’

The enormity of it welled up inside Annael. He had suspected something – on entering the Ravenwing the notion that there were levels of knowledge to which he was not privy could not be avoided – but he had never in his wildest moments of doubt envisioned something so catastrophic. For ten millennia the Dark Angels had harboured the secret that members of the Lion’s own Legion, the First, Sons of Caliban, had betrayed the Emperor.

With that realisation came something else: hate. At that moment Annael hated the Fallen more than any foe he had ever faced. Their weakness at a time when they had needed to be at their strongest made a mockery of ten thousand years of strife and struggle. Every achievement, every victory and battle honour won by the Dark Angels was meaningless compared to that ancient shame. Every battle-brother who had died in the Emperor’s service was vain sacrifice to the ambition of the Fallen. Thinking of those that had died in blessed ignorance he envied them for a moment, for they had believed themselves inheritors of a pure, noble tradition. Then anger returned, for their belief had been a falsehood, rendered iniquitous by the actions of a selfish few at the dawn of the Imperium.

He understood with pinpoint clarity the importance of the Hunt now. Until that stain was expunged, until there were no more traitorous Dark Angels drawing breath, there was no honour. One of the Chapter mottos sprang to mind, more potent than ever before, and he gave voice to it, hands tightening around the haft of his hammer.

‘Never forget.’ He raised the hammer, head pointing towards the Chapter sigil on the altar. ‘Never forgive!’

THE PRISONER

With the whine of the gunship’s engines dying behind him, Annael stood on the landing apron looking at the large, ornate gates in front of him. They were wrought from black metal in the design of a winged sword that was mirrored on each side.

In the dark, cavernous room beyond, he could see ten giant figures swathed in thick white robes. They were standing in the shadows between the guttering circles of flame cast by tall candles set around the chamber’s walls. Each figure bore a two-handed sword, held upright across chest and face, the sharp edges of the weapons glinting in the erratic light. The ruddy glow flickered off thousands of skulls adorning the walls and ceiling of the vast sepulchre, gleaming in eyeless sockets and shining off polished lipless grins. Many were human, but most were not: a mix of subtle, elongated features; brutal, bucket-jawed aliens; eyeless monstrosities; horned, twisted creatures and many other contorted, inhuman stares looked down upon the assembled Dark Angels.

Alongside Annael was Tybalain, and on the opposite side of the Thunderhawk’s ramp waited the other Black Knights. This was the first time they had come together since undergoing the Seventh Rite and Annael was still getting used to the ivory-coloured trim on his black Ravenwing robes, and seeing Sabrael in the same.

Footsteps at the top of the gunship’s ramp drew his attention to the prisoner.

Annael did not know his name, and details surrounding his capture were sketchy. All Annael really knew was that the warrior was one of the Fallen, a former Librarian of the Dark Angels Legion who had been run to ground during the assault on the Death Guard camp at Thyestes; as far as he could tell the other Black Knights thought the same and there was no reason to suspect there was anything more to be known.

The prisoner was naked save for a grey loincloth, his body a disgusting mass of scars, sores, open wounds and bruised flesh. Annael wondered what manner of torture or infection could inflict such wounds, but he knew better than to ask there and then. Such queries would be dealt with by Malcifer after the ceremony of presentation was complete. Thick chains bound the man’s arms and wrists, his ankles equally shackled. Annael could see tiny runes etched into the links of the black iron, filled with silver that glittered in a way that did not match the candlelight. His head was bound in a metal hood, inscribed with more runes, pierced with lorelai crystal shards that suppressed his psychic talent.

Behind the prisoner came Malcifer and Harahel, fully armoured, as was Grand Master Sammael following them. Gripping the captured warrior by the shoulders the Chaplain and Librarian forced him down the ramp. The stench from his rotting injuries was almost overwhelming. Annael remembered a similar stink from the encampment and warriors of the Death Guard; decay run rampant, a foetid aura that permeated everything. The captive reminded Annael of the filthy Traitor legionnaires, his scab-encrusted body and lesion-marked flesh perhaps an indication of what lay beneath the corroded armour of the Death Guard.

The solitary toll of a bell brought the assembled guard to attention, both Ravenwing and Deathwing. The great gates in front of the prisoner opened inwards, another clanging of the bell drowning out the hiss of hydraulics and creak of ancient hinges. The prisoner took a few steps forward. The Fallen stopped and looked over his shoulder, heavily bloodshot eyes visible through the slit of his iron hood. The glance was met by the unblinking stare of Malcifer’s skull mask. The Chaplain pointed through the gates and shoved the prisoner another step.

‘Where are you taking me?’ the prisoner demanded, pulling loose from Malcifer’s grip.

Harahel was upon him in an instant, sweeping his legs from underneath with the haft of his force axe. As the Fallen crashed to the ground the Dark Angels Librarian pressed the flat of the blade against the Space Marine’s bared chest. Light and heat flared, eliciting a howl of pain from the captive warrior. Annael suppressed a wince – he had never heard a Space Marine utter such a noise and could not imagine the agony that brief flow of psychic energy had imparted.

Cowed, the prisoner did not struggle as Malcifer pulled him upright and dragged him through the gate.

‘Guard, dismiss,’ muttered Sammael. The Grand Master seemed distasteful of the whole ceremony and was quick to head back to the gunship. At a word from Tybalain the Black Knights followed.

As he strode up the ramp, Annael looked back to see Malcifer and Harahel returning to the Thunderhawk. Behind them the gate swung shut as the robed Deathwing closed around the Fallen; he was their responsibility now. At the last moment, he saw a glimpse of bone-white from a Chaplain’s helm and then the group was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the tunnel.

‘Better not to know,’ said Tybalain, following Annael’s gaze.

JUDGED

‘Methelas, damned by deed and word.’

As he spoke this judgement Chaplain Malcifer almost threw the Fallen warrior into the hands of Brother Asmodai. The Master of Repentance stepped back as if recoiling from the plague-ridden creature thrust towards him, beckoning for the First Company to take hold of the prisoner. Telemenus suppressed his anxiety and disgust as he stepped forward to seize the captive’s arm, Brother Laestus taking the other side. The representatives of the Ravenwing were already hastening away, their burden passed to the Deathwing.

Five of the Space Marines turned and took up position in front of Asmodai, while the others fell in behind the prisoner. Telemenus and Daellon had been counted amongst the guard for no other reason than as many Terminator-trained warriors as possible were needed for the war on the planet below. The newest inductees to the First Company could not serve on the field of battle and so their initiation began with this first encounter with the Fallen. As he felt his fingers sinking into corrupted flesh he wished his introduction had started with something less repulsive. He had seen many grievous wounds and deaths by blade, bolt and blast but the visceral nature of Methelas’s condition was hard to stomach at such close range. It was difficult to reconcile the mutated creature with the dauntless armoured warrior he had so thoughtlessly confronted on Thyestes.

At another command from the Chaplain, they started a slow march. The Dark Angels led the Fallen further and further into the bowels of the Rock. Their journey was lit by torches that burned with smokeless flame, held in sconces at regular intervals along the walls.

Other corridors branched left and right. Telemenus knew from recent tuition that they were passing through the tombs of the ancient rulers of Caliban. And yet he could not reconcile the thought of this once being part of the home world of the Dark Angels, torn asunder by the machinations of the Fallen and their diabolic attempt to usurp the Lion. He knew he was on an armoured fortress hanging in space but to hear the testimony of Brothers Asmodai and Sapphon one could be mistaken for thinking that this was still the sacred ground of that ancient world, forever remembered in secret Chapter legend.

They turned left and right on occasion, weaving through the labyrinth of tunnels, surrounded by tablets proclaiming the names of Dark Angels who had died in heroic combat. They seemed to go on forever in all directions. Underfoot, the dust was thick save for a narrow path, having lain undisturbed for many years, perhaps decades or centuries. Small alcoves set into the walls held relics of the past – ornately decorated shoulder pads, the hilt and half the blade of a broken power sword, engraved skulls, a tarnished gauntlet, glass-fronted ossuaries displaying the bones of those who had fallen in battle, a plaque beneath declaring who they were in life. He felt draughts, chill breezes on his face emanating from side chambers, and occasionally heard a distant sigh, or the clank of a chain, all of which added to the macabre aura of the crypt, which did little to ease Telemenus’s unsettled mind.

He felt the prisoner recoiling in his grasp and tightened his grip, fearing his charge would attempt to bolt. The slick, oily sensation of psychic energy leaked from the suppressor helm, tainting Telemenus’s thoughts, and despite every precaution he kept getting glimpses inside the former Librarian’s mind; visions of Caliban as it had once been, debased ceremonies of destruction and obedience to entreat vastly indifferent yet overwhelmingly powerful entities.

‘Bear it no mind,’ snapped Asmodai, breaking the vague connection with his harsh words. ‘The glorified hallucinations of a madman.’

Telemenus concentrated on the task at hand, focusing all of his thoughts into a shield of hatred; it was easy enough when one looked at the depraved creature the Space Marine had become. His soul was as tarnished as his flesh, and the knowledge that the prisoner had once sworn oaths of allegiance to the Lion and the Emperor and then turned on both fuelled Telemenus’s disdain.

Turning right at one particular junction, a peripheral movement caught Telemenus’s keen eye and he glanced to his left. In the shadows he saw a diminutive being, no higher than his waist, almost hidden in the darkness. It was little more than a small robe, but from the depths of the black hood two eyes glittered with a cold, blue light as the strange creature regarded the small contingent, a gust of icy breeze passed over them. As suddenly as he had spotted it, the Watcher in the Dark faded back into the shadows and was gone.

Distracted by this encounter – and the lack of reaction from the others – Telemenus almost missed the command to halt. They were in a circular hallway roughly two dozen metres across, its circumference lined with windowless iron doors. All of the doors were closed except one. Through the doorway Telemenus glimpsed the interior of the cell, barely five metres square, lit by a brazier in the far corner. A stone slab dominated the centre of the room, pierced by iron rings from which hung heavy chains, and to one side a row of shelves was stacked with various metal implements that menacingly caught the light of glowing coals. There were two more robed Space Marines awaiting them, their faces hidden by heavy hoods, their hands concealed beneath studded metal gauntlets. As one took a step forward, Telemenus caught a glimpse of a white skull face under his hood.

Without any further word from Asmodai the other Dark Angels started to file out by the way they had entered. Telemenus followed after a moment’s pause, the last to turn away as Asmodai grabbed the prisoner and with a snarl hauled him into the cell. The crash of the door closing echoed along the corridors, louder and more sinister than the tolling of the bells had been.

RIGHTEOUSNESS

The thing chained to the interrogation slab was not a Dark Angel. It was not even a Space Marine; not even human. It was a grotesque parody of a person. It had two arms, two legs and a head, but the outward appearance, the flesh that clothed it, was nothing but a masquerade.

It called itself Methelas but it deserved no name.

It was a traitor.

This was the simple truth that kept running through Asmodai’s thoughts as he paced around the cell, his stare locked on the creature brought in by the Ravenwing.

It was a traitor. It deserved no pity, no mercy, and no remorse.

Asmodai was barely aware of anything else; the sterile stink of the interrogator’s implements on the silver trolley against one wall; the breathing of Brother Ezekiel as he stood in the shadows cast by the brazier, his psychic effort concentrated on prying open the traitor’s mind. The sweat of the captive was rank, oozing pus-like from the wide pores of his pallid skin. Bile and other fluids dribbled from corrupted wounds.

Asmodai thought of what the thing on the slab represented; ten thousand years of utter shame. It was the antithesis of everything he held to be good and pure. It was the flesh-and-blood incarnation of a malaise that had brought the Imperium crashing down into ruin even as it should have risen to the heights of power across the galaxy.

Traitor, I name thee.

Four words, uttered as a curse so dire there was nothing more filthy or vile in the universe.

Traitor, I name thee.

Four words spoken by the Lion in an accusation so grievous it continued to burn in the minds of his sons ten millennia later.

Traitor. Traitor! TRAITOR!

The thought consumed Asmodai. It turned his world into a tiny vessel; a personal dimension consisting only of him and the assemblage of bones, muscle and organs on the slab before him.

The hatred was always there. Perhaps it had been there when the boy that would become Asmodai had been born; recognised as a gift by the Dark Angels rather than squandered in pointless fighting against siblings and rivals.

TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

The hate was a calm pool compared to the rage. Every brother of the Chapter knew hate. It was poured into them by the Chaplains during their time amongst the aspirants and Scouts, reinforced with elegy, eulogy, catechism and battle-prayer. Asmodai had unleashed the hate countless times with a specific word, a canticle or phrase implanted through day after day of psycho-indoctrinal therapies. As a Chaplain he knew the hundred and one holy words that triggered that implanted hatred.

TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

Asmodai’s hate was no purer than any other’s, but his rage… The rage was his just reward, his true calling. It was the indignity, shame and fear melded as one that had been unleashed in the depths of hive moon Sigma of Ceti Albus. It was the shattering of righteous innocence given vent.

On the slab the thing had a face, plucked from the darkest depths of Asmodai’s memories. The face of the creature that had destroyed his world, physically and metaphorically. The face of a traitor.

Malvine Rhemell.

The first Fallen he had met. The warrior, the beast, who had slain his battle-brothers and sacrificed countless millions for his own petty schemes.

The traitor was so much more than that. It was a more fundamental anger that fuelled Asmodai in the cells. An ork warlord was no less cruel, no less destructive. Yet it was in its nature to do so, it had no choice. The eldar seers were every bit as manipulative and self-serving. Asmodai, for all that he despised them, knew their opposition to mankind was driven by the need to survive. Even the rebels and separatists who sought to break from the Emperor’s rule were simply misguided, weak-willed and easily daunted.

The Fallen had no such excuse. They had been the Emperor’s finest, His chosen warriors, shepherded by His will, led by His greatest general. The Lion had taken them as sons, taught them and guided them. They knew better. They had been better. And they had betrayed everything not out of instinct, or necessity or even delusion. They had, with cold and calculating malice, turned on everything they were meant to uphold and protect and had cast it down.

For that there could be nothing but the purest rage, the most precise and personal affront fuelled by every fibre that made up Asmodai’s being.

TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

He thought of the Lion, dead at the hands of the traitors, of a world destroyed by hubris and a dream of greatness and eternal deliverance quashed. He thought of what the Fallen had done and looked at the creature on the slab.

TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

What followed came easily.

He stopped only when Master Sapphon intervened. It seemed moments had passed but it was actually several hours. When he was finished, standing at the trolley cleansing his arms of the blood and other fluids, Asmodai could barely remember what had happened. The rage had guided him, letting free every pain he could devise, but his subject had resisted.

This time.

He looked at the bloodied thing on the slab. It had a name again. Methelas. One of the Fallen, who had uttered barely a grunt or snarl throughout Asmodai’s gory ministrations. Unsatisfied, the Chaplain scraped clean his forearms while he regarded the traitor. It looked back at him with bloodshot eyes, the crystalline null clamps of the suppressor helm still driven into its temples though the shell of the hood had been removed.

‘There is nothing you can do to hurt me, lackey of the Lion.’ Methelas grinned, displaying toothless gums. ‘I have become pain, I am one with it. My patron inures me to the pitiful weaknesses of flesh.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Sapphon, standing on the other side of the cell, his bone-coloured robes a stark contrast to Asmodai’s which were almost totally crimson, the red darkening as the blood dried. His face was hidden behind a Chaplain’s mask.

Asmodai finished cleaning his hands, leaving crimson swirls in the deep basin atop the trolley. He dried them thoroughly, between the fingers, along the knuckles, every movement a part of the ritual to help suppress the rage. It was still there, held in check only by the presence of Sapphon. Asmodai flexed his fingers, trying to remember the feeling of flesh parting, but he could not. It came only in flashes, the detail washed away by the flood of his ire.

‘Nor do I fear death.’ The defiance in Methelas’s eyes conveyed conviction every bit as strongly as his words. ‘I yearn to be united with my master.’

‘Perhaps you do,’ said Sapphon.

Asmodai returned to the slab, arms crossed. The floor was slick and he stepped around the ruddy puddle to stand beside Methelas’s head. The Fallen looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

‘I can wait for an eternity. Can you?’

The rage was coming back, every word that spilled from the traitor’s ragged mouth bringing it back to the surface.

‘I will not have to,’ said Asmodai, reaching out to take up his Blades of Reason. ‘I am only just starting.’

‘Brother, indulge me for a moment.’ Sapphon stepped towards the cell door and gestured for Asmodai to follow.

With a last glare at his subject, the Master of Repentance replaced his implements on the trolley and followed his superior into the hallway. Sapphon closed the door, sealing away the Fallen.

‘You interrupted my work, brother,’ said Asmodai. ‘Now I will have to start again.’

‘It will not succeed,’ said Sapphon. Asmodai bridled at the comment but the Master of Sanctity stilled his protest with a raised hand. ‘Not for lack on your part, brother. He has aligned himself to the Lord of Decay, his flesh is nothing more than a vessel. No harm you inflict upon it will cause him to repent.’

‘Let us test his faith a little more,’ said Asmodai. ‘It has been but five hours and already your resolve is weakening.’

‘I am not weakening, merely assessing our goals and methods.’ Sapphon took a long breath. ‘There is more to be won on this day than the repentance of a single Fallen. Far wider concerns hinge upon this interrogation.’

‘There is no greater goal than to offer mercy to the soul of a repentant Fallen,’ replied Asmodai. ‘It is the purpose of our existence.’

‘And what if through his testimony, Methelas could lead us to find others of his kind,’ asked Sapphon.

‘A slim opportunity, of little relevance,’ said Asmodai. ‘They are scattered, leaderless, with little regard for each other. Such confessions are almost always lies. You know this, brother.’

‘For the most part, but circumstances can alter,’ said Sapphon. The words were spoken calmly but Asmodai felt the tension behind them and stiffened at the implication.

‘You think that the Fallen are starting to work together? What do you think is so important about this particular creature? Methelas is part of some grander plan?’

‘That much is certain,’ said Sapphon. ‘While you have been exerting your skills on your captive I have been debriefing Brother Malcifer. I expect you to acquaint yourself with his full account, but for the moment it is sufficient that you understand what is at stake. Methelas was working in concert with at least two other Fallen. In turn, they may have information that will lead us to the greatest prize of all.’

Asmodai was intrigued and for a moment allowed himself to wonder what could be so valuable. There was but one thing – one person – that was pursued above all others. Someone Asmodai desired to find even more than Malvine Rhemell.

‘Cypher?’ he said, almost daring to hope that the arch-traitor might be delivered to his attentions. ‘You have found the accursed one?’

‘Not yet.’ Sapphon shook his head. ‘But Sammael came close. Cypher was here, at Piscina, within the last year.’

‘And Methelas knows of this?’ Asmodai looked back at the cell door, picturing the captive within. ‘You lay this bounty before me, and it is welcome, brother. I shall redouble my efforts.’

Sapphon laid a hand on Asmodai’s arm as the Chaplain took a step back towards the cell.

‘Do not hinder me further, he recuperates while we delay,’ said the Master of Repentance.

‘A far subtler knife is required to loosen this one’s tongue, I believe.’

The disappointment was crushing. Feeling used, Asmodai turned his anger on Sapphon.

‘You taunt me with this information and deny me my right to pursue it further! The Inner Circle may have chosen you for your guile, but in these cells you are not my match. Leave me be and I will deliver this cretin’s secrets to you.’

‘Did I command you to cease in your efforts, brother?’

Asmodai reconsidered the other Chaplain’s words.

‘I… It seemed as though you desired it.’

‘Not at all, Asmodai. Unleash your every effort, as grievous as you can be. I do not expect your methods to bring success, but I cannot deny your past victories and will not oppose the opportunity for you to prove your worth again. And when you fail, the traitor will be all the more vulnerable because of your perseverance.’

‘There is some trickery guiding your actions, I can feel it,’ said Asmodai, wary of Sapphon’s silvery words.

‘No subterfuge, brother,’ Sapphon said, opening out his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘You are the one with the talent for prying open deceit and digging through deception. I would not dare to attempt such misdirection against you. Take as long as you need, but when he does not repent I expect you to support my methods to ascertain what we require, whatever that demands of you.’

Asmodai nodded and headed towards the cell door. Sapphon again stopped him.

‘Your word, Asmodai?’

Asmodai was keen to begin the interrogation again. The rage was already building, seeking release, and time was wasting.

‘By the honour of the Lion’s shade,’ he swore.

LESSONS OF WAR

‘I feel like I’m waddling through damn synth-gruel.’ Actuators whined and servos shrieked in protest as Daellon tried to turn his Tactical Dreadnought armour to face Telemenus. His arms were raised from his sides with the appearance of a toddler trying to keep balance. Without his helmet on – all three of the new Deathwing were helmless for the moment – he looked dwarfed by his powered suit despite his gene-augmented height and build. ‘It is worse than when I first put on power armour.’

‘Nearly punched your own head off, if I recall,’ said Menthius, a grin breaking his half-burned face. Daellon looked shocked that anyone would remember such a thing. ‘It was still the talk of the Seventh Company when I joined their ranks four years after you.’

Telemenus did not join in the banter and he barely heard the exchange. Every sense strained as he concentrated on taking a step forward. The bulk of the Terminator armour and its massively powered artificial muscle fibres made him feel as though he was trying to move at some crushing depth underwater; a feat that a trained Terminator was actually capable of performing unlike taking this first step.

‘One step,’ muttered Telemenus. ‘One step. One step.’

He was almost frightened to lift up his foot, feeling that to shift the immense weight around him, to unleash the incredible strength stored in the mnemonic bundles that laced the armour, would topple him backwards and leaving him lying stranded like a flipped beetle. He had already suffered mockery for the past few days over his internment in the penitentium by Belial; to perform badly at this first Tactical Dreadnought trial would see his reputation plunge even further.

Two Techmarines and a gaggle of serf orderlies and servitors lined the walls; they had assisted the three Space Marines into their suits and now watched with amused interest, those capable of emotion, as the Chapter’s finest stood around and bickered light-heartedly about who was going to fall over first.

‘Trust in the tech-priests, and in their artifices,’ growled Sergeant Arbalan. ‘These suits are calibrated for your physiques, down to two micrometres. Just walk!’

Their new squad leader prowled the perimeter of the training hall that had been set aside for them, his armoured boots thudding heavily with each stride. Various ramps, low walls, openings and depressions formed an obstacle course running in a circuit over the reinforced mesh of the decking. The ease with which Arbalan moved astounded Telemenus, a distinctive sway to his stride as he circled like a predator, and the battle-brother redoubled his efforts, screwing up his courage to lift his right foot.

‘What are you going to do now? Hop?’ bellowed Arbalan as Telemenus’s foot rose from the deck almost of its own volition. ‘Lean your weight into it. Use your whole body, not just your legs.’

Ignoring the smart to his pride in the sergeant’s tone Telemenus focused on the content, daring to unbalance himself. The Terminator suit reacted smoothly as he leaned forward. Actuators whined at his hip and knee and his foot crashed down after half a stride. It reminded the Space Marine of the high-gee drills he had learned in the Scout Company as he was becoming accustomed to his first suit of battleplate.

‘Stop! Just stop where you are,’ snapped Arbalan. His footfalls sent shudders through the deck as he advanced to stand in front of the trio. The three newest members of the Deathwing froze in place, limbs splayed in immobile comical statues. Arbalan looked at each of them in turn, more with pity than anger. When he spoke his voice was quiet, encouraging. ‘You are thinking about this too much. You fill minds with the impression that you cannot shift these enormous weights, that somehow you have to do something differently to carry the bulk. The men who designed these suits more than ten thousand years ago were not fools. I know that it is hard, but try to ignore the armour. There is a technique, for rapid movement, but for the moment all you have to do is walk. Close your eyes if it helps.’

It was hard to put the sergeant’s words into practise, as he had admitted. A Terminator suit backpack extended half a metre above the wearer’s shoulders and the pauldrons on either side were clearly visible in Telemenus’s peripheral vision. The natural pose inside the suit was a little like a hunching gorilla, with spine straight, shoulders back and arms hanging out to the sides, knees bent to bring the weight forward on the hips. It was all but impossible to ignore the mass of the armour, but Telemenus closed his eyes and imagined he was clad in his robe, so light to his muscled build it was virtually weightless.

He had almost completed the picture and was ready to risk another stride when a whoop of excitement from Menthius broke Telemenus’s concentration. He heard a rapid clump of footsteps and opened his eyes to see his companion stalking away, boots pounding on the deck. Glancing at Daellon, Telemenus saw that the other Space Marine was on the verge of following Menthius, though with a constant stream of swear words and colourful curses muttered under his breath.

Telemenus saw the audience from the armourium watching him closely and was determined that he would not be the last of the three to master his armour. Such news would soon spread through the company, perhaps even the rest of the Chapter, despite them being deployed across a dozen battle zones on Piscina IV. Fuelled by burgeoning shame and desperation he moved out of raw instinct, and to his delight found himself tramping loudly after Menthius.

Ahead of Telemenus was a wall of mortared blocks three metres high and a metre thick, with a gap in it about three metres to his left. He was approaching with quick strides, propelled by momentum.

He wondered if Arbalan would be offering any advice on how to turn or stop.

PROMISES

The cell door was open, which Asmodai always found slightly counter-intuitive, but Sapphon had refused all petition to rescind Boreas’s standing order that the captive’s chamber remain unlocked. Though unbarred, the cell was not unguarded; pict-scanners and motion detectors monitored the Fallen at all times, watched by mind-scrubbed servitors that would raise the alarm the moment the prisoner stepped out of his room.

From the corridor there seemed to be a line across the threshold. On the one side, in the cell, was light, glowing gently from a lumistrip in the ceiling. On the outside was darkness. For the Fallen the line between light and dark was as solid as any physical barrier and in fifteen years and more he had not voluntarily set foot outside his cell.

Standing outside in the blackness Asmodai could see the prisoner. He sat on a low bench, as straight as his rack-twisted spine would allow. He was naked but for a gown of ragged material, undyed and stained with blood. Brand and blade marks criss-crossed his withered frame – once the toned muscle of a giant warrior, now a wasted, wiry vision of a Space Marine. His bald, scarred head rested back against the bare stone of the wall, hands on his knees. On a small shelf beside him was a bowl fashioned from wood, a plain tin cup next to it.

He had his eyes closed. They opened the moment Asmodai approached the open door, regarding the Chaplain coolly.

‘The sneaking thief returns in the gloom, I see,’ said the Fallen, voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

The taunt was a barb ragging at Asmodai’s anger, pulling the Chaplain into the room. Asmodai was upon the prisoner in moments. He smashed a fist into the captive’s jaw, the blow sending the Fallen’s head crashing into the wall.

‘Choose your words with deference, traitor,’ snarled Asmodai, bringing his hand back across the Fallen’s face, knocking him from the bench to the bare floor. Blood sprayed from lips split countless times and dribbled from a nose already mashed to pulp by similar blows.

The Chaplain stepped back, hands raised, ready for the counter-attack but the Fallen did not respond with violence. He shook his head, pushed himself slowly to his hands and knees and then stood up, the movement twisting his face with a grimace of pain.

Asmodai saw the Fallen about to speak and knew from the look in his eyes it would be more disrespect, more facetious jibes. He grabbed the prisoner by the throat and hauled him from his feet, slamming him spinewards onto the bench before he could utter his defiance.

‘Curb your tongue, and employ ears to purpose,’ rasped Asmodai, face centimetres from the Fallen’s, spittle flying. ‘Your falsehoods have been revealed. Your true nature is unmasked.’

Asmodai stepped back, savouring the coming moment of triumph. With deliberate, pain-wracked movements the Fallen sat up, one eye starting to close beneath a spreading bruise.

‘Deny it once more,’ said Asmodai. ‘Deny that you are a traitor to the Lion, and tell me again how you remain the Emperor’s faithful warrior.’

‘I have little enough breath. To waste it on pointless repetition would be foolish.’ The prisoner wiped blood from his chin with a finger. ‘Do not let me spoil your ranting, however. I have missed your company, Asmodai, and your tirades. I find they are a pleasant distraction from the boredom of my captivity.’

‘So sure, so certain,’ growled Asmodai. ‘Merir Astelan, the ill-understood son, the innocent victim of confusion and suspicion. Admit your lies now, of free will, and your end will be merciful. Fresh evidence of your crimes has surfaced. Any further denial will result in unnecessary pain.’

Astelan feigned a yawn.

‘I was mistaken. The scuttling of the rats makes for more entertaining diversion than your garbled threats.’

Asmodai lashed out, the punch felling the prisoner once more. The Chaplain measured his next blow, driving his boot into Astelan’s chest with just enough force to send him sprawling onto his back. The Chaplain lowered himself, knee in the side of the Fallen’s neck, forcing his face into the hard floor, a position of total dominance. To insure there was no resistance, Asmodai laid a hand on the traitor’s scalp, feeling puckered, ridged scar tissue under his fingertips. He pushed, exerting a fraction of his strength, squashing Astelan’s face into the stone just a little harder still, enough to stop him speaking.

‘Your conspirator, Methelas, has been captured.’ There was no reaction from Astelan. ‘Your grand plans have come to nought. The Ruinous Powers that you serve have been thwarted, and Thyestes has been saved. Confess now of your sins and be granted swift release.’

Standing up, Asmodai dragged the other Space Marine back onto the bench, leaving him propped up against the wall. Astelan fixed the Dark Angel with a hateful glare.

‘I remember when the Chaplains were first introduced,’ said the Fallen. ‘They were custodians of the finest traditions of Terra and Caliban combined. No Word Bearer overseer for us, the First Legion. Raised from our own ranks, when we looked to our Chaplains we saw the finest exemplars of the Legiones Astartes, true to oath and noble of bearing.’

‘And what do you see when you look at me?’ Asmodai demanded.

‘A thuggish child dressing up in the robes of his betters.’

Frustration and fury erupted and for several minutes Asmodai gave it free rein, though enough semblance of control remained to leave bones unbroken and organs undamaged. When the rage subsided, Asmodai stood panting over Astelan, foot on his throat. There was blood on the Chaplain’s hands and sprayed down the front of his surplice.

‘Liar! You are a liar and a traitor!’ Asmodai wished that he had the powers of Ezekiel and the other Librarians. What excruciations he could visit upon these faithless dogs if he had the talent to reach into their minds and souls, to break and twist without the crude interaction of flesh. ‘Your resistance is beneath contempt. Your denial is meaningless. You are such a twisted serpent you would claim night is day even beneath the scorching light of the sun. Though your flesh may cover the marks of your sin, it festers in your soul.’

Stepping away, Asmodai turned his back on the prisoner, showing he regarded him as no threat at all.

‘By past testimony I know that you and Methelas conspired together. His guilt is plain, and yours by association undeniable. Do you now argue against this?’

‘Methelas and I parted ways decades ago,’ said Astelan, a curled heap of rags and pummelled flesh in the far corner of the cell.

‘His taint is plain to see for all. You may hide yours, but he wears his corruption with pride.’

Astelan said nothing. Some might take the silence as admission but the defiance in the prisoner’s eyes told Asmodai a different tale. Whatever mania drove the Fallen to deny his corruption it would not be overcome without being directly confronted with the truth.

The Chaplain seized Astelan by a wrist and pulled him to his feet. In the prime of his power he hauled him up as easily as an adult carries a child though even in his decrepit state the Fallen was no small weight. Astelan stumbled as he was half-dragged out of the cell and along the corridor, feet flapping uselessly against the flagstones to leave a broken trail of bloody smears and scattered droplets.

Reaching the chamber where Methelas was held, Asmodai pulled back the cover of the viewing slot and thrust Astelan against the door to look within.

‘See with your own eyes,’ hissed the Chaplain. ‘Beneath the wounds caused by my hand, witness the malaise of the Dark Powers rampant in your companion’s flesh. Look! Look and deny that you and he consorted with diabolic powers to overthrow the Lion!’

Astelan said nothing, but Asmodai felt a tremble of recognition in the Fallen. He pulled his captive away from the door to look him in the face. There was horror written there, not guilt.

‘I swear I made no pact with the Dark Powers.’ There was desperation as Astelan spoke, his eyes drawn back towards the thing on the slab. Swallowing hard, the Fallen returned his gaze to Asmodai, expression hardening. ‘He was witch-kind, a Librarian. They are the most vulnerable. If he succumbed in later years to temptation it is no proof against me. I am servant to no power but the Emperor.’

‘Lies! Bare-faced lies! Your treachery is without bounds and your duplicity an affront to all dignity of the Emperor.’

For the first time since Asmodai had arrived there was a spark of anger in Astelan when he replied.

‘You compare me to that… that thing?’ The Fallen thrust a finger towards the cell. ‘That abomination is nothing to do with me. I have never denied my part in the rebellion against the Lion, but that is not the cause I served.’

‘Prove it,’ said a voice behind Asmodai.

He turned to see Sapphon stepping from the shadows beyond the small patch of light glimmering from Methelas’s cell. The Master of Sanctity gestured for Asmodai to release his grip. He did so reluctantly, eyes boring holes in the treacherous Fallen.

‘Prove the truth of what you say,’ said Sapphon.

‘I have told you everything, but you will not believe me.’ A hint of desperation marred Astelan’s expression. ‘What more could I claim that would convince you?’

‘Your words are worthless,’ snapped Asmodai. ‘Your lips would sooner burst into flames than have truth pass between them.’

‘Deeds, Astelan,’ said Sapphon. He stepped between Asmodai and the Fallen. ‘As my companion rightly says, your words have been proven false already. We found Port Imperial. We know you did not destroy it, and we know that you conspired further with Methelas to overthrow the Emperor’s rule on the world of Thyestes.’

Asmodai felt a tinge of satisfaction as doubt wracked the Fallen, his bravado slipping away. The former Dark Angel looked at Sapphon and held out an imploring hand.

‘I… I did not…’

Sapphon shook his head and turned away. Asmodai was partly intrigued and partly confused by the interplay between the two. It seemed as though the Master of Sanctity had his prisoner at a disadvantage and yet failed to press home his cause.

‘If you will not treat straight with me, I will leave you to the attentions of Brother Asmodai.’

‘Wait!’

‘Why?’ asked Sapphon without turning around.

‘What would you have me do?’

‘That is not the relevant question.’ Sapphon half-turned, all but his face hidden in the darkness. ‘What would you do to prove you are innocent? If you serve the Emperor as you claim, what will you do to thwart His enemies?’

Astelan considered this for a moment. His eyes widened with realisation and a look of hope crossed his face.

‘You want me to betray Methelas and Anovel?’ The Fallen nodded without waiting for a reply. ‘As you wish. They are nothing to me. I shall tell you everything I know.’

‘You are going to do more than that if you want to prove your innocence.’ Sapphon moved into the darkness and his voice seemed to drift away with him. ‘Much, much more than that.’

MARKSMANSHIP

He had fought in zero-gee vacuum, whirling from one starship to another on a grav-line, and taken the battle to enemies amidst swirling dust hurricanes and in the collapsing core of a hive, but Telemenus nevertheless had to fight back a wave of deep nausea as more data signals, targeter relay reticules and situational analysis symbols swam across his vision. The sensorium of the Terminator suit was even more sophisticated than his power armour’s auto-senses, feeding information not only via sight, smell, sound and touch, but directly interfacing via his black carapace implants to provide a three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees impression of the battlespace around him for up to half a kilometre. Added to that was the feed-link to the armour of his fellow Terminators, sub-displays showing their view, micro-channels conducting what came to their ears.

It was like two extra sets of eyes capable of radar, infra-red and ultraviolet; ears that could detect the sound of a bolt shell dropped onto cloth at fifty metres, powerful enough to use the reverberations for echo location; taste sensitive enough to pick up one part in a million for chemical and biological traces; boosted kinaesthetic and proprioceptors alerting him to the physical position of his armour as an outer skin and the relative attitude of his storm bolter and power fist; all combined with an artificial form of extra-sensory perception that tracked millitorrs of static and dynamic pressure differences as well as fluctuating luminosity, temperature and electromagnetic readings.

And if this sensory overload was not enough to contend with, making Telemenus feel as though he was blinded, disorientated and deafened whilst constantly and gently vibrating from head to toe, the tactical analysis data feeds and vox-network made it seem like there was a thousand counsellors alternately whispering and screaming at him with a host of occasionally relevant but often obscure or nonsensical advice.

Closing his eyes didn’t help this time, it simply made the neural feeds boost the other sense signals to compensate; a nice sub-doctrine of the armour to account for the fraction of a second whilst blinking and to allow him to fight whilst blinded. Telemenus desperately wanted to ask if there was some way to turn off some of the systems, perhaps filtering out half of them to allow his mind and body to adjust. He couldn’t ask, not without showing weakness in front of the others. He was mindful that Grand Master Belial had appeared on the observation gallery above the practice range moments before the Techmarines had activated the armour’s full suite of augmented systems.

He tried to focus on a single element: his storm bolter. The targeter feed from the double-barrelled weapon in his right hand registered as a small inset display that felt like it was somewhere above and to the left of his right eye. He knew he could not move his eye to look at it directly, but had to register the link with peripheral vision as he had done countless times before with his old bolter. At the moment the link showed an unmagnified view of the tiled floor.

With the ease of the last hundred hours of in-suit practice, he braced his legs and lifted the storm bolter, the breeze disturbed by this movement feeling like a wave washing against his right leg and arm. He ignored the sensation, fixed on the target globe two hundred metres away at the end of the live fire hall. Telemenus made small adjustments with his wrist to bring the storm bolter reticule directly in line with the tiny crosshairs that marked the centre of his vision.

How different it was to the fluid locate-aim-shoot that had brought him his one hundred thousand bolter kills and the Marksman’s Honour of the Fifth Company. It was frustrating and harrowing in equal measure, trying to find the rhythm of the shot amongst the static and distraction of the sensorium inputs. The battle-icons from the transponders of the other two Terminators were blinking furiously, while heat- and motionsensitive augur relays were trying to attract his attention to the presence of the other Space Marines and servitors watching on.

Battle telemetry was telling him that there was a slight crosswise, three-degree-downwards pressure in the air from the circulation vents. He adjusted his aim by a fraction of a millimetre and opened fire.

The storm bolter was set to a three-round burst. To his heightened senses the short fusillade was a welter of digital information; the light and heat and stink from the bolt propellant, the wash of the bolts through the air, the sound of the initial crack of firing and whisper of air molecules parting.

The target globe exploded into shards of silvery ceramic and a cloud of dust, the motes coiling away from the impact, tiny fragments of the bolt glittering in their midst.

A moment later another target shattered, followed by four more in swift succession as a line of bolt detonations shrieked across the firing range, almost as many projectiles tearing into the wall at the far end as hit the targets. The sudden flashes and roar dazed Telemenus for a split second, and he turned with an angry shout to see who had fired.

‘You are armed with a storm bolter, use it like one,’ Sergeant Arbalan snapped, the haze of propellant exhaust drifting from the twin muzzles of his weapon. ‘If you wish to fight with a sniper rifle perhaps we should send you back to the Tenth Company.’

Telemenus bit back a retort, though his pride smarted at the implication that he was no better than a novitiate. He lowered his storm bolter and took a deep breath, conscious of Master Belial’s gaze on him from the gallery above.

‘Apologies, brother-sergeant.’ He raised his power fist to his chest as a sign of respect – a bow was awkward in Terminator armour, and consequently considered melodramatic. ‘I shall adjust my approach to combat as you instruct.’

He noticed a flicker of movement from Belial – was it a shake of the head? – and the Grand Master of the Deathwing turned and left. Telemenus wondered why their captain did not remain to watch his companions at their firing exercises. Had that first impression truly rankled so badly? Telemenus had heard frequently that Belial was an unforgiving perfectionist, but it had never been brought to his attention that the Grand Master was vindictive. As he stepped back from the firing line to allow Menthius to take his place, Telemenus could not help but think that Belial’s undue scrutiny was personal in some way.

There was no complaint to be had, for Telemenus was aware that he was falling short of the mark expected of the Deathwing. It nagged him that Daellon and Menthius seemed to be progressing more swiftly with their adoption of the Terminator style of fighting. Stopping beside Daellon he was forced to conclude that the only course of action was to focus even harder and work to impress Arbalan in the hopes that a word of merit would be passed up the chain of command to earn some relent, maybe some respect, from Belial.

ARGUMENTS OLD AND NEW

Washed, wounds tended, garbed in a plain grey robe of a serf, Astelan looked healthier than he had in years. Though in a weakened state after years of deprivation, his body already showed no traces of the beating Asmodai had inflicted; no bruise or cut fresher than a year old marked him.

Sapphon watched the Fallen on the vid-link monitor for a while, gauging his strategy. Next to the Master of Sanctity Asmodai loomed, his desire to lay his hands upon Astelan again emanating like a wash of heat. Sapphon knew that not only was the ongoing hunt for the Fallen reaching a critical juncture, his own reputation amongst the Inner Circle was being set as stake. Though not voiced openly, there were those amongst the highest-ranking Chaplains, Grand Masters and Librarians that believed Sapphon’s leadership was lacking, and that a more hard-line approach led by Asmodai would see the search for the ancient foe strengthened.

For the moment the Master of Sanctity knew he enjoyed the support of Azrael, but the Supreme Grand Master could not silence every criticism, and his chief concern was to maintain cohesion amongst the Inner Circle. If the voices against Sapphon were raised openly, there was only so long left until he would be forced to cede his command to the Master of Repentance; a disastrous move in Sapphon’s opinion and one he could avoid with a fresh victory here.

‘Why do you coddle him like some deserving aspirant?’ Asmodai demanded.

‘I gave you time with Methelas to extract confession, but none has been forthcoming.’ Sapphon allowed his annoyance to show this time, confident that Asmodai could not exploit it. ‘You will convey the same regard to me, without these second-guesses, absent of distracting commentary.’

‘You do not wish me to participate?’ Asmodai was shocked at the thought. He shook his head. ‘You think that words alone will bring forth that which we desire? This creature knows nothing of respect or honour. Do not think to treat it like an equal.’

‘I will treat him any way I choose!’ The sudden outburst caused Asmodai to blink, caught off-guard by Sapphon’s anger after so many occasions of tolerance. ‘You do not instruct me, brother. If you find your bloodlust running high, I suggest you divert your boredom upon the flesh of Methelas while I conduct serious investigation.’

Sapphon turned away from the monitor and opened the door to the adjoining chamber where Astelan was seated. He looked back once, ordering Asmodai to stay where he was with a meaningful glare, and shut the door behind him.

Like the other cells the chamber was bare rock, though it housed padded benches, a table and shuttered lanterns. It was often used for solitary penance by the brothers and it had taken some arguing by Sapphon to allow him to bring Astelan out of the dungeons to this higher level of the Rock. All other personnel had been cleared away and warriors from the First Company were on hand at the entrances and corridor junctions to prevent escape or intercept accidental interlopers.

‘Do not treat me like a fool,’ said Astelan as Sapphon sat on the bench opposite him. The Fallen ran his crooked fingers over the leather covering of the bench cushion. ‘Do you not think that Boreas offered me comfort, seeking to weaken my resolve with mock kindness?’

‘The comfort of the surroundings, such as they are, are to my benefit, not yours,’ Sapphon replied. ‘I will not treat you like a fool if you offer the same in return.’

Astelan regarded Sapphon for a few seconds, lips pursed in thought. He nodded.

‘Our first understanding, it seems,’ said Sapphon. He leaned forward to a ewer of wine and two goblets on the table. He poured out measures of the dark red liquid and pushed one towards Astelan. The Fallen glanced at Sapphon with suspicion and then, perhaps remembering that they were treating each other as urbane, civilised companions, took up the wine. He slurped it down a little more eagerly than perhaps he intended, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he returned the empty goblet.

‘Do you know what the most difficult aspect of my role is?’ asked Sapphon. He sipped his drink while Astelan shrugged. ‘There is so much I would like to know, about the ancient days when the Lion walked abroad as a man. Or to learn what it was like to follow the Emperor Himself into battle.’

‘Ask me your questions, but I do not promise you will like the answers to them all.’

‘And therein we discover the problem. You are, by previous statements, now shown to be false, a proven liar, Astelan. I cannot trust a single word that has passed your lips in the last fifteen years.’

‘Have I passed any lie greater than those that you wrap about yourself? Those that you spin in the minds of your supposed brothers?’ Astelan poured himself another goblet of wine, though he held it in his lap, gazing at his reflection as he swirled the liquid around, rather than taking a drink. ‘I lie, you lie – somewhere between the two perhaps is the truth.’

‘Let us exchange truths for a moment.’ Sapphon knew he had not the endurance or personality to contest headlong with a stubborn foe as Asmodai would, but he had other talents instead of sheer bullish persistence. ‘I need the information you are withholding from us.’

‘And? What of it?’

‘That is my first truth. You do not get another until you return in kind.’ Sapphon watched Astelan out of the corner of his eye as he sipped his wine, almost seeing the calculations being made behind the Fallen’s eyes. Just as the traitor was about to speak Sapphon interrupted him, keeping Astelan from dictating the conversation. ‘And remember that if at any time I tire of our arrangement or I believe I am wasting my time with your machinations, I will have Asmodai make you scream for mercy. I know he can do it. I have heard your cries, Merir Astelan, echoing in the depths.’

The Fallen paled slightly and reconsidered his words.

‘I lied about Port Imperial,’ he said. ‘It was not destroyed.’

‘No, no, that is not good enough, Astelan.’ Sapphon shook his head sorrowfully and placed his goblet on the table. ‘We already know this. We found Port Imperial, and Methelas. You cannot offer me what I already possess. Do not confuse my patience with tolerance. If you continue to test me I will surrender you to Asmodai and seek another means to hunt down your companions.’

‘How can I trust you will not set your savage hound upon me anyway, simply out of spite?’

‘There are no guarantees except mutual self-interest. This is your last chance, Astelan. I will leave here if your next words displease me.’

Sucking his lips against broken teeth, the Fallen Dark Angel looked between Sapphon and the door, where he had clearly spied Asmodai earlier.

‘Tharsis was to provide the recruits, as a new home world under my command,’ said the Fallen, avoiding Sapphon’s gaze, though not out of shame it seemed. ‘Methelas was to use Port Imperial to secure a fleet. Anovel was an Apothecary and we tasked him with recovering arms and gene-seed with which we could create a new force of Space Marines.’

Sapphon nodded, pleased with this confession.

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Now I reciprocate. When we took you and Tharsis, your companions came up with a contingency of their own. Methelas tried to turn the pirates of Port Imperial into a fighting force.’

‘No,’ said Astelan. ‘They were intended simply as a stop-gap.’

‘But they had to make do without your sacred bands as recruits,’ said Sapphon. He avoided asking the obvious question – why Astelan and the others wanted to create their own Chapter – and instead focused on the relationship between them. ‘Methelas and his warriors were corrupted by the Ruinous Powers. Should we expect the same of Anovel?’

‘I swear that I would have no time for such allies.’ Astelan leaned forward, straining with earnest attitude. ‘When we parted ways they were not as you say.’

‘Let us accept that for the moment, and only for the moment, to avoid further debate,’ said Sapphon. ‘What was your interest in Piscina?’

‘What is Piscina?’ The question seemed to genuinely confuse Astelan. ‘Is it a person? A place?’

‘You have never heard of the world before? Did Anovel not mention it to you?’

‘Anovel did not say where he was heading, only that he could secure pure Legion gene-seed and the equipment for its implantation. Tharsis was to be the world where we raised our force and started once more on the Great Crusade.’

‘You still maintain that myth?’ Sapphon sighed. ‘I thought we could dispense with the past, claim and accusation, justification and counter-claim. Methelas and Anovel were not interested in ushering forth a new era of the Emperor’s conquests and neither were you. You sought simply to restore your lost power, to have an army of warriors at your back to legitimise piracy and personal ambition.’

This time it was for Astelan to shake his head dismissively, unconcerned by the accusation.

‘Not you, or Boreas or that vicious cur Asmodai, can grasp the truth even when it is presented so plainly. So narrow have your minds become you cannot see past the bonds placed upon you. The Legiones Astartes once conquered the galaxy for the Emperor. If you only divested yourselves of the shackles weak men placed upon you that time of glory could be restored.’

‘Old ground, well trodden, as you say, Astelan.’ Sapphon stood up and there was a moment of panic in the Fallen’s eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ Astelan stood up as well, casting a wary glance at the closed door. He offered his hands in conciliation. ‘We have only just started. Let not old grievances, well worn by use, endanger the rapport we are building here. Forgive my zeal and not let misunderstandings stifle this progress. Give me a chance to show the nature of my honour, I beseech you.’

‘What of Cypher?’ Sapphon asked, keeping his manner casual. ‘What part was he to play in your scheme?’

‘The Lord Cypher?’ Astelan’s brow furrowed deeply and he shook his head. ‘An antiquated role, lauded by the Calibanites. I do not think he survived the cataclysm.’

Sapphon looked for signs that the answer was evasion but it was impossible to say for sure. Astelan’s reaction seemed natural, but he had been able to deceive both Boreas and Asmodai, and mislead the greatest Librarians of the Chapter. Whatever the truth, Sapphon had Astelan snapping at the bait he had laid. Now the Master of Sanctity would reel him in and, with permission from the Supreme Grand Master, toss him back into the waters to see under which rock he would swim.

PAST TIMES

The parkland was almost unrecognisable, especially under the cover of night. In the months since Annael had last been in Kadillus Harbour the war-torn city had been further ravaged. What had been a grassy space between tall tenements was now a crater-pocked mess of dirt and weeds. The buildings were abandoned, although that was unsurprising considering the pounding the Ravenwing had given them the last time they had fought here; ferrocrete fascias were heavily cracked, windows and doorways split open, roofs and upper storeys collapsed, the streets choked with rubble. Such was the legacy of defying the sons of the Lion.

The augurs read nothing. The central district of Kadillus Harbour was devoid of life except for the Ravenwing bike squadrons and Land Speeders cruising along the streets on the watch for insurrectionists and looters. Above, the distant screams of jets betrayed the presence of Nephilim and Dark Talon aircraft ready to bring in a crippling airstrike at a moment’s notice. The blue haze of Thunderhawk engines illuminated the low clouds as gunships circled the subdued city with lascannons, missiles and battle cannons ready to unleash a torrent of destruction.

‘A little quieter than our last visit,’ remarked Sabrael as Tybalain signalled the Black Knights squadron to a halt a short distance from the rise at the heart of the park. ‘It seems our return is no cause for celebration.’

Annael expected a rebuke from the Huntmaster to follow but nothing was forthcoming. The augurs of his bike, Black Shadow, showed nothing out of the ordinary within five hundred metres. The peace unnerved him, for he knew that it was false. There were many that still harboured resentment against the Dark Angels, and those that had ambushed the Ravenwing on the last occasion still had cause to repeat such attacks. Armouries had been looted as full-scale war had torn the city apart, and although the Dark Angels were undeniably in control of the city now – the orks’ presence eliminated by the latest offensive led by the Deathwing – there were nightly uprisings that threatened to spill over into more significant armed resistance.

‘What do you think will happen here?’ Annael asked. ‘Once order is restored, there will still be much work to be done.’

‘The Adeptus Terra will swing its ponderous might into action,’ said Sabrael, ‘like a full-bellied grox rousing from slumber. I expect they’ll wipe the island clear of everything except the geothermal stations and start again. If they deem Piscina worth rescuing, that is.’

Annael passed his eye along the northern and eastern edges of the park, where prefabricated defences had been erected by servitors from the armoury. Almost a metre thick, the plasteel barricade was two metres high, lowering in short stretches for a few Space Marines to fire over, pierced with vision slits and firing slots in others. It was not manned at the moment; with the Ravenwing returned to finish securing the city and perform counter-rebel patrols the other companies were pressing on through the East Barrens to eliminate the remaining orks.

‘Worlds have been reclaimed from worse,’ said Nerean. ‘It has only been the aegis of the Dark Angels that held back full exploitation of the system. In deference to our recruitment from Piscina Five the Adeptus Terra excluded Piscina from their tithes, but that will not last much longer.’

‘How so?’ asked Annael.

‘Piscina is tainted,’ said Tybalain, turning in his saddle to address them. ‘The traitors have been here. Who can say if they interfered with the tribes from which we recruited? The mark of the corrupt has been laid upon this star system. The Supreme Grand Master will declare Piscina diabolia and no more will the sons of Piscina Five be raised to the ranks of the Dark Angels.’

‘Not that such shall be shared with the Adeptus Terra,’ added Calatus.

‘What of the tribespeople?’ Annael was disturbed by this thought. Ten thousand years of tradition and continuity ended in a moment. ‘What will happen when we lift our aegis from them?’

‘The Imperium will happen,’ said Calatus. He laughed; a harsh noise totally devoid of any sympathy. ‘The people will wait for the warriors from beyond the cloud to return and they will wait in vain. The next time they see ships descending on their world it will be assessor teams from the Adeptus Terra, or perhaps a Mechanicus survey force. The jungles will be flattened, the minerals drilled from the ground, the people put to work in mines and factories.’

‘Is that right?’ Annael whispered, picturing the destruction. ‘After taking their greatest sons for five hundred generations do we not owe them more than that? Is that fair?’

‘Fair?’ Tybalain spoke quietly, and it seemed to Annael that the Huntmaster was equally saddened by the prospect. ‘Fairness is an illusion. For five hundred generations they have been spared this fate because of the service they have given us. That service is no longer provided and the Emperor demands a different sacrifice.’

To the west, to Annael’s right, an undulating halo of light sprang into being; high-powered lamps surrounding a newly-installed skyshield landing pad. As the guidance beams illuminated the cloud layer a Thunderhawk dipped in to an approach pattern from the east, flying low over the city. Augmented Techmarine assistants and their servitors swarmed around the platform as the gunship descended, dragging energy cells, recharging cables, fresh hellstrike missiles and ammunition crates. The blur of a Land Speeder Tornado performing a sweep of the surrounding broken-down factories demonstrated the Dark Angels vigilance despite the recent lull in fighting within the capital.

‘The ignorant savages will know nothing better,’ said Sabrael. ‘In a hundred years, they will not remember the days when they used to be the favoured of the Dark Angels.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ said Annael. ‘Worlds kept alive the hope of being reunited with Terra for the whole of the Dark Age, who can say that the people of Piscina Five will not also keep the stories in their hearts and wait for the day when the Dark Angels return for them?’

‘They will die disappointed,’ said Sabrael.

The sound of incoming motors ended the discussion. A group of four Ravenwing bikes rounded a junction to the left, their lamps bright in the night. As they passed Annael saw a flash of metal; the bionic leg of their sergeant. In the gleam of lamps he recognised his old squadron leader, Cassiel. He had not seen the sergeant since they had parted ways on Port Imperial.

‘A moment, brother-sergeant,’ Annael called out.

Cassiel barked an order to his men and the squadron whirled around, cutting onto the grass from the road to stop a short distance away.

‘Brother Annael,’ said Cassiel with a nod of respect. He looked past Annael and nodded again. ‘Sabrael.’

Annael suddenly realised he did not know what to say. He had greeted the sergeant out of instinct, but hearing Cassiel’s voice brought back the memory of their squadron-brothers who had died on Thyestes. Had Cassiel not been in the apothecarion, his leg blown off by a plasma blast at Port Imperial, it was likely the sergeant too would have been amongst the slain. Annael felt keenly the loss of Zarall and Araton, but could not find words to express the sensation. It was made worse by the fact that he and Sabrael had been inducted into the Black Knights, seemingly promoted for their disobedience. None would openly question the will of Grand Master Sammael, but Annael feared that Cassiel did not understand.

‘Did you have something to say, brother?’ asked Cassiel. ‘Brevity would suit, for we have a patrol to conclude.’

Annael wanted to apologise but that would be ridiculous, because it was not his fault the others had died. The Space Marine was unsure of what he wanted to say, but feeling deep within that he should share words with Cassiel that would renew their brotherly bonds. Everything that came to mind seemed to be trite or, worse still, a falsehood.

‘It is pleasing to see you in the saddle again, brother-sergeant,’ said Sabrael, breaking the awkward moment much to Annael’s relief. ‘It seems that my plan to drive you around in an attack bike has been belayed by higher authority.’

‘An offer that was sensibly rejected at the time, if I can recall,’ said Cassiel. He looked at Annael, perhaps recognising his discomfort. ‘We all die, Annael. You did not. Some would say that to live to fight on is the first duty of a Space Marine.’

Some would say. It was an odd choice of phrase, from which Annael drew no comfort. It implied that Cassiel did not agree; that perhaps had Annael and Sabrael stayed with Araton and Zarall they would not be dead. Annael agreed with the sentiment, despite assurances from Sammael that this would not have been the case.

‘Only in death does duty end,’ said Annael, wondering if he really meant the words so often spoken without thought. He knew that there were other circumstances – despicable occasions – when duty had ended before death. ‘We seek only to serve the Lion and the Emperor.’

Cassiel nodded without comment, raised a fist in respect to Tybalain and led his squadron away. Annael could feel the others looking at him, the lenses of their helms bright in the glare of bike lamps. Were they judging him, he wondered? Was his death the only evidence he could offer to prove his dedication to the Chapter? Was that the only way to alleviate the blame he felt?

CONCLAVE

The hexagonal chamber was lined with hundreds of shelves and each held hundreds of bound tomes and scrolls. A walkway wound up the walls, spiralling into the darkness beyond the light of the few torches held in sconces every few metres. The fluttering and chirruping of something in the far upper reaches echoed back as Sapphon followed the line of the ramp around and around until it was swallowed by the gloom. Columns carved as towering figures robed and cowled holding all manner of implements lined the room: one with a sword; scales; shield; orb; sceptre; axe; globe; key. On and on the path wound about the Chaplain, every figure different from the last.

‘Herein is contained all the knowledge of the Dark Angels.’

The disembodied voice was quiet, leaving no echo. Sapphon was not entirely sure it was a voice at all. He did not detect a trace of accent or a direction of origin. Perhaps it was a thought projected straight into his mind without recourse to his superhuman hearing.

‘Ten thousand years of seeking the truth, all held within this one chamber.’

The weight of it all seemed to crush down upon Sapphon. It made the mind shrink from the magnitude of the universe to think that ten millennia of wisdom, ten thousand years of philosophies and edicts, records of battles, names of commanders and the commanded, star charts, interrogations, confessions, penances demanded and delivered, honours and promotions, censures and rolls of heroic deeds could be contained in one space; and still it was but a fraction of the sum of all mankind’s existence.

‘Find that which you seek and enlightenment shall be yours.’

At first there appeared to be no reason or order to the books, but on closer inspection Sapphon came to the conclusion that the oldest tomes were those furthest away. The state of the volumes grew worse the higher he passed his gaze, and he wondered in what decrepit condition he would find them at the height of the library. Surely it was there he should search, he reasoned, at the very start of the Chapter’s records, for the library had not been built, but rather delved into the bedrock of the Tower of Angels.

He walked a few paces up the ramp, running a finger along the edge of the nearest shelf, looking at the titles on the spines of the plas-bound books. Most appeared mundane: ledgers of the armoury and lists of recruits. Such trivia would continue for storey after storey above him. Was this simply a test of endurance and patience, to see if he had the persistence to reach the top of the spiral?

The thought triggered another. A pattern formed in Sapphon’s mind. The spiral. He remembered something from the old teachings. There was a lot he had learned, so much to recall, so many canticles and verses of exhortation and admonition that it took him a few moments to dredge up the memory he sought.

It was an instruction from his sergeant when he had been in the Tenth Company; or rather an analogy to teach a combat technique. The sergeant had spoken of a time when the knights of Caliban had trained upon a spiral, perfecting their skills with gun and blade, starting at the outer edge and moving ever closer. The Scouts had not learned upon a literal spiral as the knights of old, but the resemblance remained as they learned first to kill from afar and then at subsequently closer ranges until they mastered the dagger and the sword.

The sergeant had said that the truth was found at the centre of the spiral, eye-to-eye and blade-to-blade with the foe. To master the eye of the spiral was to be a true warrior.

Looking up again Sapphon wondered if the eye lay far above, but his instinct warned him otherwise. He turned about and surveyed the rest of the giant hall. The torches laid bare the books on the walls but the centre of the chamber was swathed in darkness. There was something altogether unnatural about the gloom, Sapphon decided. It was, for want of a better reference, too dark. Though dim the torches should have provided enough light for his enhanced vision to see to the centre of the hall but instead there was only blackness.

Darkness was a warning. He understood the symbolism well after years as a Chaplain. Darkness was danger, a metaphor for the unknown, where prying minds should not wander.

Was it a test of faith?

Sapphon pondered the question. Was it as simple as ascending through the light to pass the test? The darkness was temptation; the unknowable that lured the righteous from the path of loyalty. One who delved into the darkness would become consumed by it. To question, to doubt, was a sin. The light was reason and truth. Whichever way Sapphon examined the situation, it made sense to follow the light, the path of purity.

For all that logic dictated such a course of action, Sapphon had never been able to quell his curiosity. Penances and punishments from the Chaplains had never quashed it. Years of service as a battle-brother and then as Chaplain had not dulled it.

He stepped off the ramp and into the blackness.

I should have stayed in the light, thought Sapphon.

In other Chapters the Master of Sanctity was a position given to the strongest adherent to the Chapter orthodoxy, the exemplar to which the other battle-brothers aspired. On the face of it, the same was true of the Dark Angels, but there was a far more vexing purpose to Sapphon’s role, which required not unwavering devotion to the creed but a questioning, anti-authoritarian streak. In a Chapter that favoured obedience, only the disobedient could truly discover the roots of dissatisfaction, seeking the seeds of heresy that had once caused such schism and destruction.

If only Sapphon had stayed in the light he would have remained a simple Chaplain and perhaps never ascended to the mysteries of the Inner Circle. And in that alternate life he would not now be sat at a conclave of the Inner Circle arguing with Asmodai about the merits of allowing two of the Fallen to share the same air.

‘If they but pass word to each other it strengthens resolve,’ said the Master of Repentance.

He stood to Sapphon’s left but had not once looked at his superior, addressing his words instead to the few Space Marines present and the vox-servitors that held the places of members conducting their appearance from the surface of Piscina IV. Supreme Grand Master Azrael had returned to convene the conclave and stood at the head of the table, his robes over armour still scratched and stained from recent battle. A few of the Librarius were present, as was Grand Master Sammael of the Ravenwing and Grand Master Belial. The withered vox-servitors, suspended by pipes and cables from the ceiling of the conclave chamber, were twinned with transmitters and receivers on the world below, so that what they saw and heard was also visible and audible to those that participated at a distance while vox-conducted voices were conveyed back from the surface to move puppet-mouths.

‘We are far beyond plain excruciation and interrogation,’ replied Sapphon, also directing his address to the other members of the Inner Circle. By tradition debates were not made between individuals, but presented as case for all to consider. In practice, the two Chaplains simply argued by proxy, it being plain that their opinions were irreconcilable. ‘This is the closest we have come to bringing Cypher to account for a long time.’

‘Astelan and Methelas both deny knowledge of the thrice-cursed. If we bring them together you simply give them occasion to conspire.’

‘We will monitor every exchange between them.’

‘And are we so learned of the ways of the Fallen that we can trust there is no hidden meaning behind words plainly spoken?’ Asmodai leaned forward, fists on the table, focusing his attention on Azrael. ‘Who can say what message or bargain they might make through hidden code? They have acted in concert before and will do so again.’

‘To what end?’ Sapphon kept the exasperation from his voice but he knew that Asmodai had sympathisers amongst his audience. ‘Both are locked in the bowels of the Rock. There is no plan they can enact. They cannot communicate with the outside. Any conspiracy in such circumstances is meaningless.’

‘It is a blatant disregard to the tenets of interrogation, bordering on giving succour to the enemy.’

This accusation bit hard, but Sapphon was prevented from retort by the Supreme Grand Master, who raised a hand for silence, perhaps realising the Master of Sanctity was quickly losing his famed patience. Azrael looked at the two Chaplains, rugged features half-hidden in the shadow of his cowl.

‘Can he be trusted?’ said the Chapter Master. Sapphon assumed the question was addressed to him. ‘Is Astelan’s oath worth anything?’

‘It is worth less than the compassion of an ork,’ rasped Asmodai.

‘Objectively?’ Sapphon considered his reply more carefully. ‘No. He is a self-serving traitor – a power-hungry demagogue. However, in the context of the position in which I have manoeuvred him, he must abide by a sense of honour or admit his crimes. Such an admission is beyond his comprehension, so for the moment he will strive to show himself aligned to the nobler ideals he pretends to espouse.’

‘We have heard much of the risks, or lack, but what is to be gained?’

Even Asmodai knew better than to offer opinion this time, leaving it to Sapphon to justify his proposed course of action.

‘There is a causal link between Astelan and events here on Piscina. Although not directly involved, if he wishes to prove his innocence by exposing his co-conspirators we shall learn more of the chain that runs from him to Cypher. Anovel is the missing component, I know it. I believe Astelan when he states he does not know where Anovel is, but I am equally sure that Methelas holds that information. What we cannot prise from Methelas with blade and brand we shall nevertheless loosen with subtler means.’

‘Very well.’ Azrael swept his gaze across all of the members, both present and by proxy, a fist held in front of him. With his other hand he pulled back his hood, black hair spilling across his shoulders. ‘The time of decision is upon us. Let it be known that the war on Piscina progresses swiftly to conclusion with the might of the Chapter ranged against greenskin and rebel alike. However, the conflict has much delayed us in the pursuit, as I suspect was intended by those that instigated the attacks on Kadillus and the destruction of the fortress here. The gene-seed was stolen by Anovel, I conclude, and to what end we already know. I consider the thwarting of this plot to be of the utmost significance, while the Ravenwing and Deathwing can stand ready for fresh duties. You have witnessed argument for and against Sapphon’s proposal. Let judgement be made.’

The room descended to pitch blackness so that not even the Space Marines could pierce the gloom. Sapphon raised his right hand, in which he held a white sphere about the size of an eyeball. He placed it into a channel carved into the surface of the conclave table and let it go to roll down the incline into the receptacle at the table’s heart. The black sphere in his left hand he placed in a gutter at the edge, where it clattered to his left to gather with other discarded votes in front of Azrael. The clack of balls rolling and dropping into the containers broke the still as the rest of the Inner Circle likewise made their decision known by the white or black.

Sapphon knew Asmodai would vote against. Belial too, most likely. Azrael seemed in favour of the plan, though his vote counted only once, his position no greater benefit in the matter of blind ballot. There were other allies and opponents to be considered but on the face of it Sapphon’s proposal hinged on its merits rather than politics.

The lights flickered into life once more. Azrael activated a mechanical arm that swept out from the ceiling and brought forth the ballot bowl set into the centre of the table. The crane clanked and whirred as it carried the will of the conclave to be counted by the Supreme Grand Master. Sapphon looked away, not meeting the gazes, normal and half-mechanical, of the others around the table. The balls clicked as Azrael separated them into two slots before him.

‘The white outweighs the black,’ Azrael announced. ‘Master Sapphon will bring together the two Fallen captives. Brother Asmodai will also be on hand to ensure the security of this encounter. Both will report to me in person within a standard day, at which point I will make further deliberations and decisions cogent with the will of the Inner Circle.’

Sapphon slowly let out a long breath, relieved more than he would care to admit. He turned to Asmodai, ready to offer conciliation but the Master of Repentance was already stalking from the chamber, shoulders hunched, hands balled in fists. One by one the servitors slumped as they were deactivated, while the other Space Marines filed after Asmodai, leaving Sapphon alone with Azrael. The Supreme Grand Master betrayed nothing of his thoughts, his face an impassive mask.

Sapphon nodded, a gesture of gratitude, and then bowed to show his respect.

‘Asmodai does not take kindly to your gambles and plots, brother,’ said Azrael.

‘Asmodai does not take kindly to anything, master,’ replied Sapphon. ‘Do not judge him harshly though. He has proven his worth many, many times.’

‘It is not Asmodai’s worth that needs proof,’ Azrael said, pulling up his hood to shadow his features. ‘You have one day.’

PACIFICATION

The pacification of Piscina was in full flow and every warrior was needed to combat the resurgent orks and pockets of rebels. Just days after their full initiation into the Deathwing and being accepted onto the combat roster, Telemenus and his companions found themselves readying for a teleport attack against an ork encampment. Though it had been purged years before, the orks kept returning to this place, the site of the tellyporta gate where many of the ork invaders had arrived on-world during the invasion by Ghazghkull and Nazdreg.

‘Some residual ork psychic field, perhaps?’ suggested Brother Menthius when the subject of the orks’ attraction to the area was raised by Telemenus.

‘Or some damn spore-carried beacon stench,’ countered Daellon.

The three of them waited in the teleportarium situated above the Lower Docks of the Rock. It was a cavernous chamber, the walls lined with faceted plates of plasteel, fashioned with hexagrammic wards that could be activated in the event of a warp breach through the teleportation portal. The teleportarium was far larger than those of any starship, lined by huge conduits to the massive warp drives and antimatter reactors deep in the heart of the star fortress. Such power allowed several squads to deploy simultaneously from orbit, and there were three other such chambers across the fortress-monastery. With such facilities, the entire Deathwing could be dropped as one force into the heart of battle.

The teleporter itself was a wire-framed dome within the heart of the chamber, surrounded by a score of tall spires of girders, wires and dish-like projectors, each linked to its neighbour by a crystal-embedded matrix. The floor within the teleporter was fashioned from a jet-black substance unknown to Telemenus, which seemed to suck in the light, offering no reflection despite the harsh glare. It looked like a sheen of oil, a hint of rainbow-like colours pooled on the surface.

Having been told to muster with the rest of their squad at the appointed hour, Telemenus had roused his companions early, to allow plenty of time for them to arm and armour themselves with the aid of the tech-priests; to be tardy risked further chastisement from Belial or Sergeant Arbalan. As he looked at the inky plate of the teleporter he felt vaguely unsettled by the notion of being disassembled and transmitted, even for a brief instant, through the roiling sea of the warp.

‘Or perhaps they simply do not know any better,’ said Telemenus, answering his own question to distract himself. ‘Orks are stupid and superstitious creatures, let us not attribute to higher meaning that which can be explained by unthinking habit.’

‘I think Brother Telemenus has the right of it, after a fashion,’ announced Brother Cadmael from the teleportarium doorway. He was armed with a storm bolter and power fist as the others, but atop the back of his ivory-coloured Terminator suit, running between his shoulder plates, was a cyclone launcher, filled with a dozen lightweight anti-personnel missiles and the same number of anti-tank rockets.

As Cadmael entered he was followed by Sergeant Arbalan, a sword in his left hand where the others had power fists, and after him, the last of the squad, came Brother Arrias with twin lightning claws as his armament.

‘Thank you, brother,’ said Telemenus.

‘After a fashion,’ repeated Cadmael. ‘The orks return to the teleporter site because they do not know any better, but not out of superstition but necessity. The orks we fight now are perhaps the fourth or fifth generation of such creatures since we first purged Kadillus. There have been systematic exterminations over those years and we have never wiped them out fully, but how can these new generations know the spot where so many of their kind arrived?’

‘Hence my explanation,’ said Menthius. ‘The technology employed by the orks must have been similar in some way to our own, utilising warp power. Such transmissions as must have been necessary to move so many orks and light vehicles to the surface would have a profound effect on the warp-signature of the whole area.’

‘A surprise that you did not seek to become a Techmarine,’ said Arrias. ‘With such technical knowledge you would be a boon to the armoury.’

‘A passing interest, not a calling, brother,’ replied Menthius.

‘Does it matter a damn?’ said Daellon. ‘They go there. We go there. We kill them. Is that not correct, brother-sergeant?’

‘Correct,’ said Arbalan. He had not yet fitted his helmet and his gaze moved over Menthius and Daellon and rested on Telemenus for a moment – a fraction longer, Telemenus thought – before returning to the teleporter mechanism. ‘Scouts have infiltrated the area around Naaman Heights, the site of the ork teleporter incursion many years ago. The terrain is hilly, broken by scrub and small trees in places. There is a geothermal power plant close to the insertion site, hence there will be no orbital support. Tenth Company squads are placing teleporter beacons as we speak and once we receive confirmation that they are in place we assault.’

The sergeant again looked at the newest three members of his squad and waved his sword at the teleporter.

‘Teleportation is highly disorientating, even for those that have experienced it many times. You know the technology, each of us will be passed through a small warp-based tunnel to the planet’s surface, but the reality is something else. Think of the moment of sickness a ship’s translation causes and imagine that magnified ten-fold. We have no Geller fields, so we are completely exposed to the immaterium for that instant – an instant that may seem to last for several seconds, up to a minute from our perspective but I am told lasts no longer than point-five seconds, objective time.

‘When we arrive on the surface we may be displaced and your suit’s systems will be momentarily inactive. You must arrive at maximum readiness. Be prepared to assess the situation and engage the enemy without further authority. There is a possibility that I will not survive the teleportation, so chain of command is seniority. Use your sensorium to highlight and destroy immediate threats first – all other objectives and mission parameters are secondary.’

‘What happens if there is a malfunction?’ asked Daellon.

‘Pray,’ said Cadmael. ‘If you survive.’

‘Brother Cadmael has it right,’ said Arbalan. He paused for a moment, raising a hand to the comm-bead in his ear as he listened. He put on his helmet and waved for them to follow as he stepped up onto the black flooring of the teleporter. His next words came over the vox-link. ‘That was the signal from the Scouts. Beacons and triangulators are in position. I know that you are only just becoming accustomed to your armour but the power plant and surrounding buildings are close terrain and we are the best chance to secure the area from within and allow other companies to clear out the surviving orks. Remember that you are Dark Angels, the Emperor’s First. We are the finest, His Angels of Death, retribution incarnate. For the Emperor!’

‘For the Emperor!’ the others chorused as they spread out across the teleporter bay, a few metres from each other in a circular formation facing outwards.

A schematic of the planned landing site sprang into view as Telemenus connected his sensorium to those of the other Terminators. Their relative positions flickered as green runes.

‘Signal locked,’ confirmed the Techmarine manning the controls beside a huge bank of digital displays and dials. Energy cells whined into action and lightning crept with bizarre slowness along the hanging cables, looking like serpents of energy slithering along vines. Forks of varying colour and ferocity started to spit and leap between the Terminators, moving from one tower to the others, linking them altogether, binding the Space Marines in a net of cracking energy. The Techmarine lifted a fist in salute. ‘Purge the xenos!’

With this thought echoing through his brain, Telemenus felt his whole body lurch, splitting apart and sliding sideways through a dimension in addition to the normal four. He made the mistake of looking down at the black plate a moment before the teleporter fully activated. He was staring down into nothingness; a swirling vortex that existed somewhere between reality and the warp like a giant gullet about to swallow him whole.

His stomach, capable of digesting almost any organic matter, modified to be resistant to poison and toxin, did a somersault as material and immaterial forces intersected somewhere around the Space Marine’s lungs. He felt like he was suffocating, his chest a solid piece of flesh.

The displays from the sensorium were wild and contradictory. There was no sensory input; no sound, no temperature, no light or dark, no pressure or gravity, but his directional and attitude indicators were whirling left and right, up and down, trying to get a fix on a position that did not exist in reality.

With a crack of expanding air displaced by his arrival, Telemenus was deposited on the roof of a bunker-like ferrocrete building at the edge of the power plant compound. On the street below him appeared Daellon and Cadmael, while Menthius resolved into existence just ahead. It looked as though Arbalan and Arrias had been lost, but a blip on his sensorium showed that they were actually inside the building beneath his feet. The wind was coming strong from the west, bringing a fine cloud of dust that was adding to the drifts already piled at the edges of the streets.

Still shaken by the warp transition, it took a moment for Telemenus to realise that along with grains of dirt pattering against his armour were bullet impacts. There were orks on a gantry above and to his left firing down at him, with more on a ramshackle tower next to them turning to see what had caused the shuddering boom that still echoed around the geothermal installation. Telemenus fired instantly, stitching bolt detonations across the xenos filth and their surrounds with a hail of fire. It was a clumsy fusillade, with none of the elegance and precision he found so reassuring, but it was effective. Five orks were ripped apart by two bursts, and another three were sent tumbling by a third.

‘Assemble, point five,’ barked Arbalan.

Telemenus checked the navi-grid on his display and turned to his right to head in the direction indicated by the sergeant. The roof sagged under his weight but he reached the edge of the low building safely. It was roughly two and a half metres to the ground, an easy drop in power armour but Telemenus hesitated, still not certain of himself in his Terminator suit. He felt momentary vertigo as he looked down, the distance exaggerated by the magnification of his auto-senses.

He granted himself a little more time, turning at the waist to fire his storm bolter down at a group of orks hurrying towards them through a gap in the buildings to the left. Heads exploded and limbs scattered through the air, detached by the welter of bolts that ripped along the street. As he moved to reload his storm bolter, his power fist deactivated, its crackling field dissipating with a pop. Telemenus pulled the magnetically-clamped magazine from his thigh, ejected the empty casing and slammed the fresh one into place with practised ease. The power field enveloped his reinforced glove the moment he was finished.

There was nothing for it but to make a leap of faith. Wary of overbalancing, Telemenus stepped out, pushing off with his toes. He crashed into the cracked ferrocrete ground, shattering the surface with the impact but staying on his feet.

Arbalan led the squad ahead, pushing northwards through the power plant, the three veterans at the front, and newest inductees behind them. Telemenus followed Cadmael, scanning the upper levels of the buildings while the other Space Marine was keeping watch at ground level; with a thought Telemenus could switch between the vid-feeds from the other suits and a subconscious part of him was monitoring what they saw as much as what he was directly observing. Pylons and conduits had collapsed across the roofs and blocked some of the streets, but they were little obstacle to the Terminators who wrenched and shouldered aside anything in their path, storm bolters picking off any greenskin foolish enough to come into sight.

‘Movement, ground floor window,’ announced Arrias. His view flashed up in Telemenus’s left eye, showing a shadow passing a window in a long, low row of worker huts ahead.

‘Daellon, investigate. Telemenus, maintain perimeter.’ Arbalan’s orders were spoken quickly but calmly, reassuring Telemenus that the sergeant was in complete control.

The door to the nearest hut had been ripped away in the past, and the hole that was left was not anywhere near big enough to accommodate a Terminator suit. Daellon ducked as best he could and forced his way inside, storm bolter at the ready, lintel and wall collapsing after him as he surged through the bricks. Checking the sensorium, Telemenus stayed outside and kept level with Daellon, watching the windows ahead. There were heat returns on the thermascope.

‘All targets hostile,’ Sergeant Arbalan reminded them. ‘Purge with intent.’

‘Affirmative,’ replied Daellon and Telemenus together. The two of them opened fire, synchronising bursts between them. Brickwork turned to dust as Telemenus pounded the huts from outside while Daellon let fly through interior walls. A few sparks of las-bolts from a window two dozen metres ahead drew the attention of Telemenus. He returned fire, punching half a dozen bolts through the wall.

‘Some kind of sub-level here,’ reported Daellon. ‘Descending.’

‘Wait!’ yelled Telemenus, but his warning came too late. The audio pick-ups brought the sound of splintering woods and crumbling ferrocrete followed by an almighty crash.

Daellon cursed without pause over the vox.

‘Report,’ barked Arbalan.

‘Brother Daellon misjudged the load bearing of some internal stairs, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, trying not to laugh. For once he was glad somebody else was attracting the negative scrutiny. There was a chuckle from Cadmael and a sigh from Arbalan.

‘Daellon, can you climb out?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Negative, a three metre drop at least. The floor will not hold my weight to pull myself up.’

‘No threats detected,’ Telemenus added, his auspex sensors encompassing the long row of huts.

‘Understood,’ said Arbalan. He sounded impatient. ‘Daellon, remain in place, I will signal for an armoury extraction team. Telemenus, rejoin the squad.’

The growl of an incoming rocket wiped away any remaining humour. The projectile burst into flame across Arbalan’s left shoulder, scattering shrapnel and ceramite fragments. Menthius, beside the sergeant, laid down bursts of fire every few seconds as the other Terminators advanced. Telemenus picked out targets but could not bring his weapon to bear quickly enough as the orks dashed from cover to cover, running down the side streets between the worker habs, equipment sheds and the main power plant building.

‘They are trying to encircle us, sergeant.’ Menthius peeled away from the group as he issued the warning, firing off to the left.

‘Understood. Menthius, protect our flank. Telemenus, what is keeping you?’

‘Covering the rear, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus. He had been turning every few paces to check the street behind the squad to ensure nothing was moving towards Daellon.

‘Is there some problem with your sensorium?’ Arbalan sounded angry and Telemenus knew better than to make excuses.

‘No, brother-sergeant.’

‘Then why are you turning to look when Brother Daellon’s sensorium covers our rear?’

‘Apologies, brother-sergeant. Increasing speed to your position.’

‘Negative. Flank right, and provide covering fire towards the main gate. The Scouts should be making rendezvous in sixty seconds.’

‘Affirmative, brother-sergeant.’

Telemenus suppressed a resentful grumble, realising that it was unworthy behaviour. He had made a mistake and the sergeant had corrected him on it. However, he could not help but feel that Daellon’s far more catastrophic error had not been taken seriously, while his own minor infraction had brought down instant reprimand.

The rapid-fire snap of the cyclone missile launcher drew his attention back to the squad as they came into view at the junction ahead of Telemenus. A flurry of missiles streaked from Arrias’s back and smashed into the upper floors of the central power station above them. An ork body spun to the ground, splattering into the dirt just in front of Arbalan. Remarkably the ork was still alive; at least for the second between the impact and the sergeant’s immense boot crushing the alien’s skull into dust-covered ferrocrete.

Boosting power to his legs, Telemenus hurried on and turned right between two ramshackle workshops. Directly ahead was an impromptu ork barricade of barrels and upturned battered crates. The greenskins were pinned down by heavy bolter and sniper fire from two squads of Scouts beyond the curtain fence, making them easy targets for the Terminator. He fired half a dozen shots, trying his best to cut down the orks with one salvo. There was a single survivor from the burst, who turned in shock at the metal-and-ceramite giant bearing down. At close range Telemenus could not miss, his next burst of fire tearing the xenos in half.

‘Gate secured,’ he declared, checking the sensorium. There were no enemy signals within a hundred metres. A cluster of returns showed where the orks had barricaded themselves within the central geothermal delve site.

The Scouts emerged from the grass and rocks, their cameleoline cloaks shielding them even from the multi-spectral scanner of the sensorium. The ground where they had been was riddled with craters while scorch marks stained the boulders, evidence of the much heavier fire that had repulsed earlier attacks. The Scouts dashed up to the gate, sawing through chain links and cutting through metal spars and plates haphazardly welded across the gap by the orks.

A trio of Rhino troop transports and a Predator tank crested the ridge a few hundred metres outside the compound, moving at speed, their green-painted hulls visible past the overgrown ruins of the buildings that had once formed a small settlement around the power station. The armoured column crashed down the slope, firing at targets some way off to Telemenus’s right even as they headed for the newly opened gates.

The hill – Naaman Heights – was named after a renowned Scout sergeant who had been instrumental in the destruction of the orks’ teleporter array, and who had died somewhere in the ruins assisting the Deathwing in a similar teleport assault. It was sobering to think of the sacrifices that had been made in those battles. The Dark Angels had desperately clung on in their defence of Piscina until the rest of the Chapter had arrived in force. It had been luck more than anything that had placed the larger part of three companies on the planet at the time the orks arrived. Telemenus realised he had heard nothing of the five-man garrison that had manned the recruiting citadel in the intervening time. There had been no word of them when the Fifth Company had accompanied the Ravenwing here months earlier, and certainly no news during their return.

He decided that it was probably not in his best interest at the moment to be asking such questions, and it was likely they had simply been overwhelmed, either by the orks or traitors in the planetary defence force. Such matters were to be resolved another day; Arbalan would be waiting for confirmation.

‘Incoming support, brother-sergeant,’ Telemenus reported. ‘Awaiting orders.’

‘Remain in position, suppress ork activity and assist incoming forces as necessary.’

It felt like a rebuke, to be left out here guarding nothing while Menthius was with the rest of the squad performing the last assault on the central building with the others. All Telemenus could do was listen to the reports over the vox as his battle-brother continued to earn the respect and praise of the First Company veterans while he was left to regret his errors.

A RIDDLE IN THE DARK

‘Unhand me!’ roared Astelan as two Deathwing Space Marines manhandled him into the cell, heavy chains binding his wrists and ankles clattering along the floor. ‘This is not what we agreed!’

They unceremoniously dumped the Fallen into the chamber, darting loathing glares at the other prisoner shackled in the corner, his head encased in a wrought iron cage laced with anti-psychic circuitry. Methelas shifted, manacles clinking as he rose to his feet, eyes fixed on the newcomer. With a clang that made Astelan wince, the door slammed shut, leaving them lit only by a sliver of lamplight from under the door and a narrow, flickering shaft coming through the viewing slot.

‘Bastards!’ snarled Astelan, hurling himself at the door. He grunted in desperation as he thudded his shoulder again and again into the unforgiving metal-bound wood. Eventually he slumped to the floor, blood streaming from his injured arm, resting back against the wall. He muttered to himself and the cell filled with the sound of metal links being scraped back and forth across the floor.

‘Merir?’ The voice in the darkness was guttural, edged with the slur of a healing jaw and toothless gums. ‘Merir Astelan?’

The noise stopped and Astelan looked up from his labours.

‘Methelas?’

‘I wondered what became of you.’

‘An unfortunate circumstance, as you can see.’ Astelan resumed his scraping with the chains. ‘I never gave you up, you and Anovel. I want you to know that. I told them Port Imperial had been destroyed. It was no word of mine that took them to you.’

For several minutes the only sound was the skritch of metal on stone.

‘By Luther, will you stop that irritation!’ snapped Methelas. ‘This damn null-psi harness makes my head pound and your pointless scraping is like a rusted dagger being drawn down my brainstem.’

The sound ceased.

‘Apologies, brother. They change the chains, now and then, but no sooner than every ten days by my reckoning. Of course, I have not the strength I used to have. Perhaps you could help?’

‘Help? With what?’

‘Escape, of course.’

‘Impossible. Even if we got out of this cell, and even if we knew our way out of these catacombs, we’d b–’

‘I know these tunnels and chambers, brother. Do you not understand? This is the crypt underneath the west tower of Aldurukh.’

‘Aldurukh? We are on Caliban?’

Astelan let out a long sigh.

‘Alas not, brother. Caliban is no more, destroyed as we fought the slaves of the Lion, I have learned. Aldurukh is all that remains of our world. The great shield protected the Tower of Angels from the storm that consumed us it seems.’

‘You seem to have learned much since our parting. How interesting.’

‘Fifteen years is a long time, brother. Fifteen years under their blades, and not a word of our plan did I speak, but I listened well, piecing together what has happened these ten thousand years.’

‘Plan? We had no plan. I know nothing of which you speak. Leave me be.’

‘I understand. You do not trust me, I think. Very well, we shall sit here together and not speak.’

The metal scraping began afresh, accompanied by a tuneless humming.

In a chamber on the level above the cell, Asmodai and Sapphon listened to the exchange emanating from a vox-set placed on the small table between them.

‘Worse than useless!’ snarled Asmodai. ‘He is warning Methelas, can you not hear it? Now the witch knows he is not alone, that Astelan has survived here for fifteen years. There is no threat that can undo the hope brought by such knowledge.’

‘For one who can labour for hours with the Blades of Reason, and sermonise for even longer, you show a remarkable lack of patience, brother,’ said Sapphon. ‘Did you think Astelan would win his trust in moments? Put yourself in Methelas’s position for a moment and think how he would think.’

‘I cannot ever conceive of the vile thoughts of such a creature,’ said Asmodai. ‘It is utterly alien to me.’

‘You really cannot, can you, brother?’ said Sapphon, with some sadness. Asmodai’s total lack of empathy was almost unique in Sapphon’s experience; even amongst the Adeptus Astartes, a group not chosen for their emotional depth nor trained in anything but the utter suppression of basic feelings. While it made Asmodai perfect in some ways, utterly lacking in compassion or conscience and able to inflict pain and misery without a moment’s regret, that same psychopathic propensity limited the Interrogator-Chaplain’s ability to exercise other levers of control. He never understood his subjects’ fears on anything but an intellectual level, and so could not fully exploit them.

‘Are you sure that Methelas is unaware of our monitoring of the conversation?’ said Asmodai.

‘The Librarium assure me the suppressor-helm curtailsall psychic sense. Further, Brother Ezekiel is in the adjoining chamber exerting influence to ensure Methelas cannot extend any supernatural sense. The vox-transmitter is so low-powered not even a Space Marine can detect its energy source. You seem vexed, Asmodai, and I think the security arrangements are not cause but merely symptom.’

The other Chaplain did not reply. His face screwed up in concentration as he listened to the scrape-scratch-scrape-scritch of Astelan abrading his chain links. Sapphon gave up trying to encourage his companion to share any worries he might harbour and took a drink from the jug of water beside the vox-receiver. The gentle ticking of a tape-drive recording device overlaid the sound of metal on stone.

‘I knew it!’ raged Asmodai, surging to his feet, the sudden movement causing Sapphon to spill water down the front of his robe. ‘He betrays us yet again!’

‘Wait!’ Sapphon dropped the jug and lunged towards Asmodai to grab his arm as the Chaplain flung open the cell door. ‘Do not go down there, you will ruin everything!’

‘You are a blind fool, Sapphon. Your tricks have been turned against you.’ Asmodai tore free from the other Chaplain’s grasp and strode back to the table. With quick fingers he stopped the vox-unit and spooled back the tape. He activated the playback. ‘Listen!’

Sapphon heard the last part of the exchange between the two Fallen, and then half a minute of nothing but metallic scraping.

‘What do you hear, brother? Sub-vocals? I hear nothing.’

‘Listen closely,’ said Asmodai.

The Master of Repentance started to tap a finger on the table, just slightly quicker than once a second. After about fifteen taps the rhythm was in Sapphon’s head and suddenly he heard the pattern behind the sound of Astelan’s scraping. There was more than idle noise; it was a code of some kind, an ancient battle-cryptocom he did not recognise.

‘Clever,’ said Sapphon, intrigued.

‘You admire him?’ snarled Asmodai. He thumped a fist on the table, knocking over the vox and recording device. ‘He mocks us, treating us as fools, and you have words of praise for him?’

‘Stay where you are!’ barked Sapphon as Asmodai took several steps towards the open door. ‘You will not interfere.’

‘The Supreme Grand Master appointed me to oversee this debacle, and I will no longer allow it to continue.’

‘I am still your superior!’ Sapphon hated raising his voice, but it made Asmodai stop at the threshold. He lowered his tone when he continued. ‘Do you not understand what Astelan is doing? By communicating in secret he is feigning allegiance. A lie hidden within the truth. He is probably telling Methelas that we are listening in, and to say nothing.’

‘You argue my case back at me,’ said Asmodai.

‘But listen further. I laud your keen ear for detecting the code, but you did not follow its continuation.’

Asmodai frowned but did as he was told, listening intently to the static-layered noise still coming from the vox. Astelan’s scraping stopped after a few seconds. There was the briefest of pauses and then another scraping noise began, almost identical but not quite, the subtle difference nearly lost in the bad quality of the transmission. This also stopped after several seconds and the original scraping resumed.

‘Methelas is replying,’ said Asmodai, lip curling with anger. ‘It is this that I warned against, brother. You did not believe me then, but now allow me to act on proof of your error.’

‘No, we must let them talk,’ said Sapphon. ‘Our best crypto-servitors will decipher the code easily enough. There may even be record of it in the earliest databanks. There can be only one of two outcomes. Either Astelan works against us and with Methelas, or he does not. If the former, we know he cannot be trusted as you claim, and that gives us advantage. And if he has turned against Methelas, this may be the only way the traitor will let slip any information of value.’

Sapphon could see the indecision wracking Asmodai. It was clear that he hated not knowing what was being said between the two, his natural instinct to corral and control anything beyond his understanding. Weighed against that was the logic of Sapphon’s argument. After several seconds teetering one way and then the other in the doorway, he eventually relented to Sapphon’s will and returned to his stool, arms folded tightly, glaring at Sapphon. The Master of Sanctity righted the vox-devices and sat opposite, meeting Asmodai’s glare with a steady gaze.

‘Astelan has too much to lose to play me false,’ said Sapphon, assuring himself of this fact as much as he sought to convince Asmodai.

‘And we have everything to lose if he does,’ replied the other Chaplain.

TO CATCH A FALLEN…

After the day allotted to him by Supreme Grand Master Azrael, Sapphon had Astelan withdrawn from the cell, cursing and kicking as he had been deposited. Returned to the cell within the solitarium, sitting with shackled hands in his lap, the Fallen was confronted not only by Sapphon but also Asmodai, and with the two Chaplains Chief Librarian Ezekiel and Azrael himself. The leaders of the Inner Circle wished to witness for themselves whether Sapphon’s plan had yielded any useful information, and the Master of Sanctity realised as he looked at Astelan’s relaxed smile that he was probably more intimidated by their presence than the Fallen.

‘You hold yourself as leader here,’ said Astelan, looking at Azrael. ‘Your heraldry declares as such also, though it is much changed from the time of the Order that I remember. Does it feel strange to bear devices from a defunct organisation that was based on a world now destroyed, to which you have no connection other than the fluke of being stolen from your family by a roving band of self-righteous murderers?’

Sapphon suppressed a wince and felt Asmodai stir with a growl, but Azrael greeted the question with a deep laugh.

‘You have a unique perspective, which I find refreshing,’ said the Chapter commander. ‘I like “self-righteous murderers”, particularly.’

Azrael stepped closer to the Fallen and his smile faded. Without warning, the Supreme Grand Master grabbed the front of the prisoner’s robe and drove his fist into Astelan’s cheek, knocking him sideways. He pulled him back upright and punched him again, repeating the attack three times more before letting go and stepping back.

‘Billions dead on Tharsis,’ said Azrael, flicking blood from his fingers. ‘All by your command and all for your ego. Do not call me a self-righteous murderer when there is so much blood on your hands. Asmodai, you and your brothers have had fifteen years to finish what Boreas began, and that is time enough. If this creature lies, evades or otherwise refuses to cooperate fully with Brother Sapphon you will kill him, not swiftly and with great infliction of pain if possible.’

Azrael stalked from the room, leaving tense silence in his wake. Astelan levered himself back to a sitting position and grinned, showing freshly bloodied teeth.

‘I probably deserved that,’ he said. ‘It was a rather rude thing to say.’

‘Enough of your flippancy,’ said Sapphon. ‘We know that you communicated with Methelas. What did you learn?’

‘And you expect me to divulge that information merely because you ask for it?’ Astelan shook his head, wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. ‘Wake me when you have a more tempting offer.’

‘You seem keen for death, and I will grant it,’ said Asmodai. Sapphon thought he detected something strange in his companion’s voice; genuine happiness perhaps?

‘I die a righteous man,’ replied Astelan. ‘Fifteen years wasted, my friend. I will not repent, not under threat of death.’

‘Too much time has been wasted on your account already.’ Asmodai flexed his fingers and stepped towards the captive. ‘I cannot deny that I will gain pleasure from bringing about your end. Be assured I will make suitable penance afterwards.’

‘Wait,’ Sapphon said quietly. He looked at Astelan through narrowed eyes, trying to gauge his prisoner’s conviction. For fifteen years the Fallen had duelled words and will against the greatest of the Chapter’s interrogators and they had not broken him. ‘Death is what he wants. Do not grant him that mercy.’

‘The Supreme Grand Master commands. I obey.’ Asmodai took another step but was stopped by a contemptuous laugh from Astelan.

‘Supreme Grand Master?’ The Fallen seemed genuinely amused. ‘Was “Grand Master” simply not pompous enough?’ The humour disappeared, replaced by a sneer. ‘Even the Lion, colossus of arrogance and ego as he was, was content with the rank of Grand Master of the Order. Perhaps your commander seeks to outrank even a primarch?’

‘He is goading you!’ Sapphon spoke quietly but urgently. He looked to Ezekiel for support. ‘Brother, you must see it as well.’

The Librarian turned his gaze on Sapphon, one eye a red-lensed bionic, the other glittering with the flicker of golden psychic energy. Sapphon had faced death and dread on countless occasions and had attained his position by dint of immense willpower, but even he had to look away from that eternal, damned gaze after only a moment.

‘I am here to ascertain the veracity of any statement the prisoner makes,’ said Ezekiel, returning his attention to Astelan. ‘I am a Librarian, not a Chaplain. I do not care to offer opinion on the conduct of his interrogation.’

‘Then tell me this,’ Sapphon said quickly. ‘Is he telling the truth? Is he willing to die rather than tell us what we need to know?’

‘Better still, why not prise it out of his head?’ demanded Asmodai. ‘Rip thoughts from the mind and leave the flesh to me.’

‘Not this one,’ Ezekiel said with a single shake of the head. ‘We tried before. Brother Samiel… It did not end well. There is a shell we cannot penetrate, no matter how hard we try. Something we have never encountered before or since.’

‘Kill me or make a bargain,’ said Astelan. ‘I am happy with either path.’

‘That is true,’ said Ezekiel.

‘You know that we cannot release you,’ said Sapphon. ‘There is no comfort we will give you. Your continued life is simply a stay of execution – a sentence that cannot be commuted. For what do you bargain?’

‘My honour, and a chance to restore it,’ said Astelan. He grabbed his chains in his fists and leaned forwards, speaking with earnest intensity. ‘We can argue for eternity about my actions but I never swore away my loyalty to the Emperor. I am not like Methelas and Anovel. I am not corrupt. They used me. Had I known to what depths they had descended I would have killed them. Let me prove it to you. Let me help you destroy this vile plot.’

Asmodai and Sapphon both looked at Ezekiel.

‘Truth,’ said the Librarian. ‘He believes what he says.’

‘How will you aid us?’ said Sapphon.

‘Enough of this!’ Asmodai interposed himself between the Fallen and the Chaplain. ‘He is a traitor! We do not negotiate with traitors. There is no good that can come of evil, no matter the intent.’

‘Ulthor.’

Astelan said the word quietly and it hung in the air like a stale odour. All three Dark Angels shared a glance with each other.

‘What do you know of this world?’ snapped Asmodai.

‘It is where you will find Anovel,’ said Astelan. The Fallen moved to the end of the bench and turned so that his legs were along it, resting with his back to the wall, entirely too confident for Sapphon’s liking. ‘When I did not send word of success from Tharsis, thanks to your untimely intercession, the others sought a fresh source of recruits. Anovel made a pact with the Death Guard, and was told to meet with them on the world of Ulthor. You know of it?’

‘It lies on the fringes of the Eye of Terror,’ said Sapphon. It seemed the ideal location for a trap and he looked to Ezekiel. The Librarian caught his glance and nodded.

‘It is as he was told. If there is deception, it is by Methelas,’ said Ezekiel.

‘Now that we know where to pick up the trail, we should dispose of this renegade and begin the hunt,’ said Asmodai.

‘Not yet,’ replied Sapphon. He stared at Astelan who met his scrutiny with a blank expression, affecting innocence. ‘You know that by divulging this to us you condemn yourself?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘What other truth do you possess to bargain?’

‘Myself. I know of passwords and codes that are to be used in exchanges. It seems to me that Ulthor would be a dangerous place to attack, but with my help perhaps that will not be necessary. Why thrust your fist into the maw of a beast when I can bring forth what is within?’

‘Absolutely not!’ For one so often ignorant of subtext Asmodai had caught Astelan’s meaning quickly enough. ‘No prisoner leaves the Rock. You will die within these walls.’

‘I concur,’ said Sapphon, amazed that this was Astelan’s gambit. Did he really hope that they would allow him out of his cell, offering him chance to escape?

‘Ask yourself a simple question,’ said the Fallen. ‘What am I worth to you? More specifically, how many of your brothers will you sacrifice to keep me? A dozen? A score? A company?’

‘Your threat is without basis,’ said Asmodai.

‘I can prevent their deaths,’ Astelan continued, looking directly at Sapphon. There was no trace of amusement anymore; the Fallen had a hard stare and his jaw was set firm. ‘Chain me, imprison me, do whatever you need to assure yourself that I cannot escape. Take me with you, or sacrifice the lives of your warriors to unfounded fear.’

Sapphon’s hatred of Astelan returned with a vengeance. Asmodai ranted about knowing no fear but the Master of Sanctity did not listen. His thoughts were whirling, chasing themselves around his head. Astelan had to be planning to gain his freedom – had to be. And that could be made impossible. Nothing else made sense, unless the Fallen genuinely wanted to prove he was not in league with the Ruinous Powers.

Part of Sapphon wanted to let Asmodai have his way; to let his brother kill this manipulative bastard and be rid of him. He could not, with clear conscience. He was not Asmodai, who could argue away the death of a hundred battle-brothers with talk of purity and duty. Sapphon recognised the need for sacrifices; he was still a warrior first and foremost. But he had been chosen because he walked into the darkness, daring to consider the terrible, imagine the unimaginable. The whole Chapter would be needed for an all-out assault on Ulthor, and the fighting for Piscina was not yet done. Swift action would be impossible. Any lesser force risked annihilation against an enemy of unknown strength. Astelan was offering a third alternative.

‘Brother Asmodai,’ said Sapphon. The Chaplain ceased his raving. ‘You swore an oath not so long ago. Do you remember it?’

‘Of course. I do not present binding words lightly.’

‘To what did you swear, by the shade of the Lion no less?’

‘To support your methods to ascertain what we require, whatever that demanded of me.’ Asmodai’s face twisted with disbelief as he realised what Sapphon had asked. ‘No! You swore there would be no trickery. You cannot use my honour against me like that.’

‘I must,’ Sapphon said with a sigh. He looked at Astelan sure in the knowledge that he was about to place his fate, partly at least, in the hands of a self-confessed genocidal megalomaniac. ‘It is likely that one or the other, or possibly both of us, will be dead before this matter is finished.’

‘Almost certainly,’ the Fallen replied with an insincere smile. ‘Do we have accord?’

Even as the Fallen uttered these words, Sapphon knew that the choice had already been made. The darkness, the unknown beckoned to him. Though he had not quite realised it, his choices for the past few days had been guiding him towards this moment with all the surety of a well-aimed bolt-round. What the Master of Sanctity could not know, however, was whether in reaching this point he would be hailed as one of the greatest heroes of the Chapter or forever reviled as a black-hearted traitor.

It surprised, relieved and then worried Sapphon that he did not really care which it was.

OATHS

Telemenus had no idea where he was. He had been led blindfolded to a chamber, his mnemonic sense of direction confused by the circuitous route, backtracking and, at one point, a period of weightlessness. He found himself in a circle of light, next to Menthius, Daellon on the other side of his battle-brother. A disembodied voice commanded them to pay respect to Grand Master Belial and they knelt as the Deathwing commander appeared from the shadow. There was no sound from his footfalls and nothing to hint of a door opening or what lay beyond in the utter darkness outside the circle of light.

Then the oath had begun, slowly spoken by Belial and repeated by the battle-brothers in hushed reply. Oaths of secrecy thrice-bound; oaths of fraternity until death; oaths mentioning names and places and ranks of which Telemenus knew nothing.

‘Unto the Order, the Founder and the Lords of the Keep I shall oblige myself to all truth, secrecy and trust.’

Telemenus had sworn many oaths during his time as a Space Marine: when he had been taken as a novitiate; when he had been accepted into the Tenth Company Scouts; when he had received his black carapace; when he had first put on his power armour; before his first engagement as battle-brother. Twenty-seven oaths in total, not including pre-battle declarations, as he repeated the words intoned quietly by Belial. Of those, this being the twenty-eighth, only this latest recitation made no sense at all. He parroted the words as earnestly as Menthius and Daellon as they knelt in front of the Grand Master, but he could not help but feel that the others somehow drew a deeper meaning than he did.

He wondered if there was a teaching from the Chaplains that he had missed during his several recent incarcerations in the penitentium, or a book of vows he had forgotten to read.

‘By the blood of my left hand I swear allegiance to Aldurukh and the Seven Signs of the Heavens. By the blood of the right hand I offer my life as penance to the fortunes of war. Unto the flat of the blade I place my honour, unto the edge of the blade I place my soul.’

Belial crouched and proffered the Sword of Silence, half of its dark blade exposed from the sheath. In turn, each of the Space Marines taking the oath laid their hands upon the sword for a moment. Belial then lifted the Sword of Silence, kissed the hilt and placed it on the floor beside him.

‘With the Key of Caliban, to bear witness for my brothers-in-arms, I take up the mantle of the charitable, the wise and the strong. With the Key of Caliban, as my brothers-in-arms bear witness for me, I take up the burden of the hopeless, the ignorant and the weak. By such rites, under the stars of the Seventh Tower, I swear on the soul of my liege and my kin to speak nought of what passes in this circle.’

Belial took up the sword again, unsheathed it fully and stood up. With the point barely touching the ground he paced around the three oath-takers, slowly orbiting with the glowing blade. By the flicker of its light, Telemenus could see thousands of such circumferences inscribed in the grey stone of the floor, each a tiny, slightly wavering ring of varying width, dependent upon the number of brothers encircled at the time of the oath, he guessed. Some were at the very edge of the light, enough for a dozen brothers and more, and he wondered if there were larger circles still in which scores of newly elevated Deathwing had sworn their vows at one time. Belial dimmed the blade, lifted the hilt to his forehead and once more slipped it into its scabbard with solemn purpose.

‘My honour is forfeit, my life sacrificed, my family disowned.’

Telemenus said the words, a little disturbed at their meaning. No Dark Angel owed allegiance to their family, not since that first oath at the beginning of their training. His life he had long considered in the hands of fate and his superiors. His honour, however, was something he thought solely his to protect and prize. Why would it be forfeit now?

‘Unto the Order, the Founder and the Lords of the Keep I shall oblige myself to all truth, secrecy and trust.’ Belial finished with a long bow, which the Space Marines returned. When Telemenus looked up again it was to see the Grand Master standing straight with arms folded across his chest.

‘Embarkation aboard the Penitent Warrior begins in thirty minutes. Brother Daellon, Brother Menthius, you will report to Sergeant Arbalan. He will give you instruction.’

The other two battle-brothers departed without a word, though Telemenus caught a glance of concern from Daellon as they turned and left. Belial gestured for Telemenus to stand.

‘Am I not to travel with the company?’ Telemenus asked, horrified by the prospect. He cast his gaze at his bare feet. ‘Have I shamed the Deathwing so greatly?’

‘I am undecided,’ Belial admitted. ‘Look at me.’

Telemenus did so, and found himself the subject of an intense stare that bored into his soul.

‘You lack commitment, Telemenus. Your brothers outstrip you in training and yet you continue to be distracted, losing focus at critical moments.’

Telemenus was about to defend himself, to point out moments of laxity from the others, but a twitch of an eyebrow and curl of a lip from Belial dissuaded him.

‘Yes, Grand Master,’ he said meekly.

‘You are not without skill, that much is certain from your past achievements and battle record,’ said Belial. ‘Your recent excursion was less than exemplary.’

‘Yes, Grand Master.’

There was a long intake of breath and the sound of Belial shifting from one foot to the other and back again as he considered what to do.

‘Please, Grand Master, I implore you not to make rash judgement.’

‘Rash? No judgement I make is rash, brother.’

‘I am a worthy warrior. Give me leave to prove it and I will. If it is not to be, my life will be the price I pay.’

‘And the lives of those that you fight alongside?’ Belial said sharply. ‘Do you offer up those as penance as well? Would you bargain the ruin of all we strive for on your ability to surpass expectation? Your life is worth much – many decades of training and experience as a warrior of the Dark Angels. It is not to be thrown away lightly. Those of your battle-brothers are so much more valuable. But yet all warriors are ultimately expendable. Your armour? Your armour… Its service to the Emperor has outlasted yours tenfold, twentyfold. A relic of the great times of the Legion, that suit you would gladly allow to be damaged, perhaps destroyed.’

‘I did not think, Grand Master.’

‘You did not, and yet sometimes you think all too much. You second-guess the wisdom of those that have honed you into a warrior these many years. Doubt. It is like a stench that surrounds you, Telemenus. I caught its scent the first moment you came to me and it still cloys now, clinging to you no matter what you do to purge yourself of its presence.’

‘I am not worthy, Grand Master. You are right, I should not endanger my battle-brothers with my presence, nor sully the honoured history of my armour. I will remain behind and continue to train.’

‘That is not your decision to make.’ Telemenus glanced up to see Belial regarding him not with anger, or pity, but a calculating look. ‘A bolter can be fired a thousand times, a thousand-thousand times and never jam, and yet on the one occurrence it does misfire it could be fatal. There is no end to the test of battle, and no means to prove beforehand which bolt will misfire.’

Telemenus was not quite sure whether that boded well or ill for him. He chose a platitude that seemed to suit the situation.

‘I am subject to your will, Grand Master.’

Belial thought some more, every passing second drawing out the agony, each moment a lifetime of uncertainty for Telemenus to endure.

‘Your brothers still hold you in high regard, and Sergeant Arbalan informs me that you make progress with each passing day,’ the Grand Master said eventually. He laid a hand on Telemenus’s shoulder, surprising the Space Marine, who jolted upright and was met by a more kindly gaze than he had come to know. ‘You will come with us, and you will continue to train. I will leave it to the reports of your brother-sergeant whether I consider you fit and ready for active duty amongst the Deathwing when we arrive at our destination. This is your only warning.’

‘Thank you, Grand Master,’ Telemenus said with a long exhalation of relief.

‘Do not thank me. We leave for perhaps the most dangerous mission any of us will undertake during service to the Emperor. You may yet have cause to regret my indulgence.’

PART TWO

ULTHOR

PAINFUL DIVINATION

It seemed strange that such a ceremony should be conducted in the light, when so much of the Dark Angels inner mysteries took place in darkened chambers, but Harahel had been insistent in the manner in which the chamber aboard the Implacable Justice was arranged. He sat on a plain chair, a small throne almost, beneath a great wheel-like candelabrum, another dozen candles arranged around him at the apexes of a twelve-pointed star enclosed within a circle, in turn encompassing a hexagonal device marked with runes in dribbled lead. These were, Harahel had assured Sapphon, not part of any diabolic ritual, but a means to protect both the Librarian and those that would witness his delving into the warp.

With Asmodai, Belial and Sammael, Sapphon waited as Harahel readied himself, each of them dressed in their robes except for the Librarian who wore his power armour and the wire tracery of his psychic hood. Harahel’s eyes were closed but there was a dull light glowing through the lids, briefly glimpsed more brightly as the eyelids flickered and his eyes moved from side to side.

It looked to the Master of Sanctity as though the Librarian was asleep, his hands tucked together in his lap, head resting back against the chair, legs slightly apart, mouth open just a fraction. There was no sign of the trepidation that had been evident when Harahel had entered; a trepidation Sapphon could easily understand because he felt a similar nervousness himself.

Like all Space Marines he feared no mortal threat; it was impossible for him to be afraid of death or injury or any horrifying creature of flesh and blood. Through psycho-hypnotic suggestion he could control that fear, crush it with iron discipline and drive it down into the depths of his mind where it could not affect his thoughts or actions.

The immortal was an entirely different matter.

As a Chaplain he knew intimately the workings of the Space Marine psyche, including his own, and for ten thousand years many had laboured to eliminate the fear of the supernatural and the uncanny, but no matter what therapies and mind-triggers were introduced there was always a residual reaction to the otherworldly. Sapphon had his own theories on the matter – that the daemonic and the Chaotic interfaced directly with the soul rather than through physical agency that could be barred – but whatever the cause, the fact remained that psykers and the corrupt always brought with them a feeling of unease.

‘Do not fear for my soul, Brother Sapphon,’ Harahel said quietly, sensing the Chaplain’s thoughts. ‘Every hour you spent reciting the hymnals and catechisms of the Chapter I spent hardening my spirit to temptation and possession.’

At the mention of such things Asmodai, standing to Sapphon’s right, shifted his weight, perturbed. A smile crept onto Harahel’s lips.

‘Please, Brother Asmodai, draw your pistol if it would make you feel more comfortable. I assure you, the wards are intact. The only person at risk is me.’ Regardless of the assurance offered by the Librarian Asmodai drew his bolt pistol and aimed at Harahel’s head. ‘Do not be too quick to use your weapon, brother, for there may be strange occurrences that are simply part of my delving into the warp.’

‘You seek to send your soul to a world upon the edge of the Eye of Terror,’ said Asmodai, aim unwavering, ‘and I will take any precaution I feel necessary.’

‘As you see fit, brother. Now I must crave silence and to assist me it would be beneficial if you all focused on a particular thing, to stop the turbulence caused by your disparate thoughts as I enter the immaterial.’

‘The Canticles of Nazeus?’ suggested Sapphon, and received a nod in reply.

He began the invocation, the others joining in after a few moments, their voices rising and falling as they chanted the verses, the acoustics of the chamber rebounding the words back at them in odd harmonies. Harahel was silent and still, though every few seconds a finger would twitch and his brow was deepening into a frown of effort.

The Librarian whispered something and the Space Marines ceased their chanting to listen. Around the Librarian’s head a nimbus of power emerged, a faint glow of greens and blues that shimmered with the candlelight. It seemed to Sapphon that the area within the marked circle was darker than the chamber without, the light being drained away.

‘Boundaries falling, walls breaking, the tumble of worlds and civilisations,’ muttered Harahel, his lips barely moving though his eyes were flicking rapidly behind their lids. ‘The barrier sweeps aside, revealing the light beyond, the silvery path.’

The Librarian straightened on the chair, his power armour whining with movement, limbs trembling slightly as his muscles became rigid for a moment. He relaxed again, frown softening, mouth opening with a gasp.

‘On the border it stands, neither here nor there, real and yet unreal. Claimed but still free, the world of decay, a blossom in the dead garden. Upon the brink of hope and despair it stands. Death and rebirth, the spiral of decline, until nothingness…’

‘He is losing his mind,’ said Asmodai. ‘Or something is taking it!’

‘Hold fire and tongue,’ said Sammael, laying a hand on the Chaplain’s bolt pistol. Asmodai darted a look of annoyance at the Grand Master. Sammael glared back, eyes narrowed. ‘Do not think reputation and rank greater than mine, Asmodai. Lower your weapon, Brother-Chaplain.’

With reluctance, Asmodai dropped the bolt pistol to his side. He glared at Sammael and returned his gaze to Harahel, who had been whispering throughout the exchange. The aura around the Librarian was growing, even as the hemisphere defined by the cabalistic ring continued to darken. The candles were tiny flames now, linked to Harahel with threads of light that danced and wavered as though stirred by a breeze.

‘Look, in the light.’ Belial pointed just above Harahel’s head. In the nimbus of power shapes were coalescing, forming into recognisable features. A forest, drooping leaves turned by autumn to russet and gold, mist streaming between the boles tinged with green and blackness, a diseased smog. In the distance an immense edifice soared above the woods, indistinct, giant and grotesque.

The view was ever-shifting, not a painting but more like a vid-projection on a stream, constantly changing, never quite becoming one thing or another. Sapphon saw storm clouds and rockfalls, tides coming and going, eating away at a towering cliff face of dark stone. He glanced at the others, wondering if they saw the same things: were these projections from Harahel or something else?

More movement caught Sapphon’s eye and he looked around the room. The shadows cast by the guttering light seemed unnaturally sharp, jagged at the edges, not quite corresponding to the people and objects that cast them. The glimmer of the light caused the darkness to undulate in odd ways, ragged shapes hardening and softening like a pic-capturing unit trying to attain focus. Various grotesque silhouettes half-lurked in the shadows, always on the edge of vision, disappearing when the Chaplain turned his gaze upon them. Sapphon wanted to look at the floor behind him, to see what had become of his own shadow, but thought better of it.

‘Ulthor, brother,’ said Sammael, stepping closer to the Librarian. The black of his robe seemed to suck in what little light remained, leaving his face a pale mask floating in gloom. ‘Cast your mind to the world of Ulthor. It is close, brother.’

The two strike cruisers, the Implacable Justice of the Ravenwing and the Penitent Warrior carrying seventy warriors of the Deathwing, had braved a long journey through the warp to rendezvous in wilderness space not far from the last recorded location of Ulthor. On the very edge of the immense tempest known as the Eye of Terror, Ulthor was an unknown quantity. Before making the final jump into the system, breaking into the immaterial fringe of the warp storm itself, the Dark Angels needed to know everything they could.

Harahel flinched and tensed again. His breathing came more quickly and his fingers moved from his lap to grip the arms of the chair.

‘The black rose, a thousand flies crawling on the petals. The stem bends but does not break, swayed by foetid winds carrying pollen of despair to the bright flowers of hope. A choking presence, cloying.’ The Librarian gasped loudly and flung a hand to his face, covering his eyes though they were still shut. The darkness around him was absolute, the vista of light-woven scenes playing about his head turning like a kaleidoscope, coming in and out of focus. ‘A field of maggots, lain beneath the bosom of the world, full of vitality, waiting to burst forth. They hear me. The blind worms see me.’

Beads of sweat were running down the psyker’s brow and the light leaking from beneath his eyelids took on a rusty hue.

‘The warp is claiming him,’ snarled Asmodai, shoving aside Sapphon to stand at the very edge of the psychic circle. ‘Something is burrowing into his mind.’

‘Do not break the field,’ warned Sapphon, taking a step closer. ‘We must trust to his assurances, brother.’

Asmodai darted a look at Sapphon that conveyed his contempt for the assurance of psykers more clearly than any words. Sammael moved up beside the Chaplain, eyes flashing with anger, but he did not lay a hand on Asmodai.

‘The pods, all in a row, dangling from the tree of death like the hangman’s fruit.’ Harahel was feverish now, skin ashen, limbs twitching like a palsy victim. ‘Little skins of metal, peeling back, revealing the maggot within the womb. The thorns drip with blood, coiling about the city, snaring all that would enter.’

‘The city, Harahel, what of the city?’ said Sammael, eyes flicking between Asmodai and the Librarian. ‘Think of the city.’

‘The majesty of decay, towering and fallen, standing solid upon the shifting sands.’ Suddenly the Librarian stood up, knocking the chair to the ground. Sapphon felt a moment of dread as Harahel opened his eyes, revealing milky-white corpse eyes. A rope of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.

‘No!’ shouted Sammael, tackling Asmodai to the floor. Sapphon realised that his fellow Chaplain had been about to shoot.

‘They are here!’ snarled Harahel.

Sapphon looked at the way the Librarian’s features contorted, inhuman, baring teeth, savage and unthinking. He drew his pistol while Asmodai wrestled himself free from the grip of Sammael. The Master of Sanctity aimed at the Librarian’s left eye, knowing the shot would punch through into the pysker’s brain and slay him in an instant, cutting off the conduit for whatever was trying to use his soul as a bridge into the mortal world.

He was about to pull the trigger when Harahel collapsed with a shriek.

The Librarian lay still, face down. The light flowed back from his body to the candles and the strange shadows faded back to normality. It was only now that Sapphon noticed the lead symbols of the floor had turned to indistinct blobs, sizzling, spitting and steaming as though on a hot plate.

Harahel pushed himself slowly to all fours and looked at them. Trickles of blood marked him from ears, nostrils and eyes, quickly drying and clotting on pallid skin. Sapphon looked into the Librarian’s eyes, dark brown with disappearing flecks of gold, and saw the warrior he knew looking back. Asmodai was not yet convinced, his pistol once again aimed at Harahel.

‘What are the three Abjurations of Assiah?’ demanded the Chaplain.

‘Despise the mutant, abhor the heretic, loathe the alien,’ Harahel replied, voice hoarse.

‘And name the six principal Lords of the Keys,’ Asmodai insisted, the muzzle of his pistol following Harahel’s head as the Librarian righted the chair and, with much wincing and grunting, forced himself upright.

‘Nessiad, Direstes, Thereoux, Mannael, Dubeus, and…’ The Librarian hesitated, a twitch in his eye. For a moment Sapphon thought he saw something else, a dimming of the gold, a momentary stain of blackness flowing along a dilated blood vessel. ‘And…’

Asmodai fired.

The bolt took off the side of Harahel’s skull, ripping through the intricate wiring of the psychic hood, spattering gore across the rune circle.

‘No!’ Sammael’s bellow rebounded around the chamber. ‘A lapse of memory, that was all.’

Sapphon intercepted the Grand Master of the Ravenwing as he lunged at Asmodai. Dragging Sammael away, the Chaplain saw Harahel’s corpse collapsing, his face, what remained of it, frozen in an expression of surprise.

‘He was gone,’ Asmodai said bluntly. He turned to Sammael and holstered his bolt pistol. ‘It was a mercy.’

‘You murdered him,’ snarled Sammael.

‘I think not,’ said Belial, who had watched in silence for the last few moments. He gestured towards the protective ring. The lead symbols had vaporised completely. ‘Something had come through.’

With an anguished moan, Sammael turned away, head in his hands. Asmodai watched him with impassive eyes.

‘You were right to act, brother,’ Sapphon said.

‘I know,’ Asmodai replied. He looked coldly at Sapphon, lips pursed for a moment in thought. ‘I am always right.’

‘Can we trust to the testimony?’ asked Belial, ever practical. ‘What hope can we wring from disaster?’

Sammael replied, voice breaking at the thought of the loss of a long-held companion.

‘I know many… He shared many visions on the Hunt. I can see the signs, speak of their truth.’ The Ravenwing commander composed himself and started to pace slowly about the ring, gaze down, not looking at the corpse in the middle of the chamber. ‘Ulthor is trapped on the edge of the Eye, caught between the immaterial and material. There are denizens of the abyssal ones living there, sustained by the warp breach. A daemon world.’

‘Nothing else?’ asked Belial. ‘Nothing of the Death Guard, perhaps?’

‘Ah yes, the Death Guard are there, the “little skins of metal”. At least, they have been there and might yet still be, or will be. The warp does not follow strict chronology. The birthing must be related to the gene-seed.’

‘It is there already? The gene-seed?’ Asmodai asked the question hastily, concerned and excited equally by the prospect.

‘It is connected, but when and how I would not venture to say.’

‘It follows that Anovel has been there, or is still there,’ the Chaplain continued, invigorated by the idea. ‘We cannot delay.’

‘What of Astelan?’ asked Sapphon. ‘We will need him to broach contact with the denizens of Ulthor.’

‘He is irrelevant,’ snapped Asmodai. ‘He has brought us this far but he will play us false and see us all doomed. We cannot expose ourselves to such risk.’

‘But why collaborate to this point?’ asked Sapphon.

‘Spite?’ suggested Belial. ‘He has lured us here, the finest of the Chapter. A single misplaced word could warn the Death Guard of our presence and intent.’

‘Brother Sammael, you must see that we cannot blindly attack,’ Sapphon said, turning to the Master of the Ravenwing,

‘I must concur with Asmodai and Belial.’ Finally Sammael looked at Harahel’s corpse. ‘We have already sacrificed one brother to caution and circumspect. Further delay risks further danger. Better to strike fast and hard, as the Ravenwing and Deathwing have acted in concert for thousands of years. The Ravenwing will be the eye and the Deathwing the fist. Ulthor occupies a real space overlap. There is no need to translate from the warp and so we can arrive in orbit directly. The Ravenwing will recon in force and bring down the Deathwing against the concentration of the foe, else withdraw without overreaching our resources.’

‘The Ravenwing will find the traitors and the Deathwing will crush them.’ Belial pounded fist into palm to illustrate the sentiment.

‘We are in accord,’ said Asmodai.

‘We are not!’ said Sapphon, but his protests went unheeded.

Three hours later the two strike cruisers translated into the empyrean, destined for the warp-bordered world.

INTO THE EYE

From the Implacable Justice and Penitent Warrior Ulthor looked like many other worlds; a globe of swirling grey and green against a backdrop of stars. Looks were deceptive. As the Thunderhawks, heat-shielded Land Speeders, Nephilim fighters and Dark Talon interceptors of the Ravenwing dropped into what should have been the planet’s upper atmosphere, everything started to change.

It began with altitude warnings blaring across the flotilla of incoming craft, warning of imminent impact. Pilots wrestled with their controls as hurricane strength gusts lifted and spun their craft where no air pressure should have existed. Instrumentation went haywire, crippled by the unreality of the daemon world’s half-immaterial nature, unable to gauge massively contradictory measurements. Arcs of dark green lightning crackled across the hulls of gunships and earthed along the fuselages of the descending aircraft.

At least the Space Marines aboard hoped that they were still descending, because it rapidly became impossible to tell. A thick murk of fog enveloped everything. Between the total lack of visibility and nonsensical instrumentation readings it seemed likely they would crash at any moment.

Like the other Black Knights, Annael had been virtually thrown from the saddle of his steed when the Thunderhawk carrying them had almost flipped over. Also like the others he was now dismounted, gripping a handrail and staring out through the armourglass of a viewport, trying to make sense of the miasma that churned past. So thick was the smog it felt that the Thunderhawk was stationary while eddies of dank mist curled past them, while logically Annael knew that they must be dropping down towards the surface of Ulthor at an incredible rate.

Moisture started building up on the outside pane of the viewing slit and he heard the pilot complaining over the vox of a mucus-like slick covering the canopy of the flight deck. Tybalain moved towards the cockpit, bent forward as though striding uphill, though Annael’s senses told him the gunship was straight and level, as best he could judge.

‘I would suggest we forget the whole endeavour as a bad idea, but I do not think we can return to the strike cruiser even if we desired,’ said Sabrael. He tried to make his comments appear in jest but Annael detected the tenseness in his companion’s voice that betrayed an uncharacteristic apprehension.

‘A little late for regrets now, brother,’ said Annael. The Thunderhawk lurched to the left. With a screech of metal the hand grip Annael was holding came away from the bulkhead, crumpling in his tightening grasp. He looked at it dumbly for a moment and then realised he had been holding on so tight he had pulled the five-centimetre-thick rail free from its bonding. He dropped the twisted piece of metal and forced a laugh. ‘Let us agree not to tell the armourium how that occurred.’

The gunship was juddering now.

‘In any other situation I would take that as a sign of a thickening atmosphere,’ Annael said, hoping to dispel his unease with pointless chatter. It was a sign of poor discipline, but right at that moment that was the least of his many concerns. ‘But here I think all wagers are void.’

His remark was greeted with silence, adding to the tension. Alone with just his thoughts for company, he started to mentally recite the Catechisms of Resolve to occupy himself.

‘Look, the fog is thinning,’ exclaimed Nerean, his helmeted face pressed up close to one of the larger windows. ‘I think I can see movement. A Nephilim, maybe.’

Annael passed the empty bike clamps and benches arranged along the Thunderhawk’s main bay to stand next to Nerean, mag-grips in his boots pulling his feet down onto the decking. Nerean swayed aside to let Annael see. There was a dark shape, he was sure, though how far away was impossible to judge. It was moving parallel to the Thunderhawk, wisps of cloud trailing from what must have been wingtips.

‘Coming closer,’ said Annael as the object started to resolve through the fog. He activated his vox to warn Brother Naethel, who was piloting their gunship. ‘Possible collision, starboard side.’

‘Affirma–’

Naethel’s reply was cut short as a monstrous maw loomed out of the fog, lined with teeth as tall as men. The beast it belonged to was easily as large as the Thunderhawk, kept aloft on ragged wings, dark leathery skin pocked with sores and lesions. The creature slammed into the gunship, forcing Annael to take a step to avoid falling, the others grabbing hold of whatever they could to steady themselves.

‘Where is it? Where did it go?’ Tybalain demanded over the vox. Annael staggered back to the porthole and looked out but could see nothing.

‘No sound,’ said Sabrael. ‘Not a screech or roar or anything.’

‘Keep watch.’ Tybalain clambered back down alongside the stowed bikes, looking out of the viewing slots to either side. ‘Find it.’

‘It disappeared,’ said Annael. ‘I am sure that it just disappeared.’

The fog was thinning rapidly. The streak of drop pods could be seen, alongside the resolving forms of other descending craft. Suddenly the cloud vanished altogether, revealing a landscape that looked like a diseased carcass: white, with thick hair-like structures forming patches of darkness, the whole vista bloated and torn with red valleys that looked like wounds. The pallid ground was rushing up to meet them and Naethel cursed over the vox as he pulled the Thunderhawk out of its steep dive.

Annael was sure he should have felt more G-force from the manoeuvre but instead he was getting moments of heaviness interspersed with periods of weightlessness.

‘Nothing here is real,’ he muttered.

‘What was that?’ demanded Tybalain.

‘Nothing here is real,’ Annael said, loudly and slowly. ‘It is a warp dream.’

‘A warp dream given form,’ the Huntmaster growled back. ‘Do not think for a moment that we can just wake up from this. We will be landing soon. Mount up!’

Landing on that fleshy surface seemed ridiculous but Annael did as he was commanded and sat astride the saddle of Black Shadow. Instantly he felt reassured; the solidity, the touch of the bike through his armour’s tactile relays gave him a sense of purpose and reality.

From where he was sat Annael could see nothing of the ground, but the continuous bank of cloud above was visible through one of the ports. The whole sky was a sickly yellow and brown, churning with its own energy. Black patches with grotesque faces rippled across the bulging mass, extruding down after the descending drop craft with fanged maws and glaring red eyes, turning like sentient whirlwinds.

‘There’s some kind of city, the Grand Master is commanding that we rendezvous on the outskirts,’ reported Naethel.

‘City?’ said Tybalain. ‘Rendezvous where, brother? Coordinates? Distance? Bearing?’

‘No geo-tracking devices functional, brother-sergeant. The Grand Master simply said to make all speed to the city. I can see a smudge of darkness to starboard, but there is a mass of storm clouds above. Black storm clouds, thick with activity.’

‘Better to make groundfall outside of that,’ said Tybalain. ‘Set us down a kilometre from the storm’s edge, as best as you can judge.’

‘Affirmative. Making touchdown in approximately ninety seconds.’

Annael thumbed Black Shadow’s engine into life, feeling the mechanical steed shudder with power as he tested the throttle. The growl and smoke of the other bikes filled the interior of the Thunderhawk. The gunship banked heavily to starboard for a few seconds, affording a view of the ground. This close it looked even more like pallid flesh, though more ridged and humped than Annael had realised at higher altitude. There were undulations like folds of skin, smooth-edged crevasses and puckered orifices from which issued forth the noxious clouds that filled the sky.

‘What is that?’ asked Nerean, pointing ahead to a dark stain spreading across the bare ground. From the gunship it looked like columns of ants trekking out of their colony, but as the Thunderhawk closed the distance the insect-like creatures resolved into more humanoid forms, stocky and hunched, swathed in leper rags. The back of each splayed out into a hideous basket shape woven of bones and sinew, in which had been piled jagged pieces of rock the colour of raw meat. Their stumbling steps left faint imprints in the surface as they marched in files out of a maw-like opening beneath a bone-crested ridge.

‘Where is the light coming from?’ asked Sabrael. The Space Marine shifted in his saddle to look out of the windows on the other side of the gunship. ‘I see no sun.’

Annael saw that this was true; no brighter patch in the clouds that might betray the presence of the star Ulthor had been orbiting.

‘Do not expect the natural laws to apply here, brothers,’ warned Calatus. ‘I would say trust only your eyes and ears but I fear that even they may be misdirected in this cursed place.’

‘Be sure of your target when you fire,’ added Tybalain. ‘Check armour transponders.’

They did as they were commanded, sending out bursts of data to each other to synchronise the friend-or-foe scanners built into their auto-senses. Four blips appeared on the tactical display of Black Shadow, Tybalain and Calatus in front of Annael, Nerean and Sabrael bringing up the rear.

The Thunderhawk shook violently and for an instant was plunged into darkness, every slit and window utterly black. The moment passed and putrid yellow light seeped in once more.

‘What was that?’ snapped Tybalain.

‘Something out of the storm, brother-sergeant,’ replied Naethel. ‘I have located a level landing zone. Touching down in thirty seconds, combat deployment.’

The roar of the plasma jets became a whine as the pilot throttled back. More light filled the interior as the assault ramp beneath the cockpit opened, revealing pale soft ground speeding past a few dozen metres below.

‘Braking for drop! Five… four… three…’

The Black Knights released the brakes on their machines while the clamps that held them in place on the deck snapped back into the bulkheads. As Naethel’s count reached zero he hit the gunship’s retro-thrusters, bleeding off their momentum in seconds. Inertia threw the squadron forwards along the deployment rails, gunning their engines as first Tybalain and then the others, one after the other, were flung forward onto the ramp.

The Thunderhawk had halted about two metres up and Annael felt as though he and Black Shadow were gently gliding through the air as Space Marine and steed left the end of the ramp at speed. The bike hit the ground harder than Annael expected, jarring his arms as his suit locked to compensate for the impact. Annael had imagined the surface of Ulthor to be soft like the flesh whose colour it shared, but the landing and squeal of tyres betrayed an unyielding, gritty substance.

‘Over to the right,’ said Tybalain. Annael looked up and saw the black roiling mass of the unnatural storm, tendril-like clouds flailing down towards the ground, swatting at drop pods and gunships, while Nephilim and Black Talons slalomed between descending columns of immaterial energy.

Beneath the tumult sprawled a dark conurbation that, on first look, resembled some immense carcass riddled with worm holes and gashes. It erupted from the flesh-coloured ground, a bizarre conglomeration of ribbed structures layered with tattered skin and gristle melded with huge brick-walled edifices with narrow windows. At the centre a termite mound-like structure rose up into the storm, its summit lost from view, immense flanks riddled with countless garrets and turrets. Frond-lined avenues radiated out from huge rusting gates, descending into the city, each teeming with movement that could not yet be identified.

Towering chimneys of brick belched forth what at first appeared to be smoke but upon closer inspection was revealed to be endless swarms of flies. Looking up again, Annael realised that the storm and its appendages were flies also, countless billions of fat black, bristled bodies and veiny wings. Closing the distance to the city brought a steady monotonous drone; an irritation that would have been deafening without the dampening effects of the auto-senses in Annael’s armour.

Some distance to the right, perhaps half a kilometre away – Annael was starting to regain some sense of perspective now that they were on the surface – more of the stunted labourers shuffled and stumbled across bare rock, some carrying rusted saws, drills and axes; others had chains hooked into spinal growths on which were dragged sleds piled high with mouldering wood and timber thick with sprouting fungi. They paid no heed to the black vehicles sweeping past overhead and converging on the city all around them, staring ahead with wide, black eyes in flat noseless faces. Some had thick, matted hair and beards, others were devoid of all hair, their skin grey and blotched with pustules and boils.

‘Servants of the Dark Powers,’ hissed Calatus. ‘Slavemasters.’

Annael had not noticed the slightly taller figures spread along the column. These creatures were more gangling, with bloated bellies and bony limbs. They were cyclopean, and each also had a single jutting horn on its forehead, some broken, others cracked; greenish-grey skin, yellowed in places like dying leaves, split with sores and tears that showed glistening organs and exposed sinew. They held rusted triangular blades and though Calatus had called them slavemasters there seemed to be no goading or lashing, no cajoling or threats.

‘Listen,’ said Sabrael. ‘Adjust your audio scanners to lower range.’

Doing so, Annael heard a faint murmuring in the distance and realised it was chanting; the slow steady invocation of the daemons. There was no change in pitch or rhythm. Though he could not understand the words being spoken Annael was left in no doubt that the creatures were methodically counting, like children concentrating on the task.

‘Shall we divert to kill them, brother-sergeant?’ asked Nerean.

Tybalain considered the question for several seconds before replying, eying the distant column.

‘Negative, unless they present a more obvious threat. We head for the city.’

Swathed with gloom, the great edifice of Ulthor squatted across the landscape like a brooding beast, spewing flies. Effluent and sludge oozed out between the ridges and undulations of the surrounding land in oily rivers. Yet for all its imposing size and disgusting appearance, the city seemed defenceless. Annael could see no towers or walls, no gun batteries or bunkers to protect the approaches. He pointed out this to his companions.

‘That would be fortunate indeed,’ said Sabrael. ‘We can ride straight in and ask nicely if they have seen the one we seek.’

Looking at the hundred-metre high fungal fronds and quivering spires of vertebrae, twisted and heaped tiled roofs slicked with moss, and the ever-present fly swarm above, Annael knew that their mission would not be so easily accomplished.

CITY OF DECAY

The red bricks of the wall to Annael’s left became a three-mouthed appendage that extruded itself towards the Black Knights, fangs of crumbling mortar dripping with ropes of dustlike saliva. He fired his pistol, smashing apart the bricks with three bolts, the constituent parts of the tentacle tumbling like a demolished tower.

Sabrael fired his bike weapon at a swelling bubble of veined stone bulging from the door of a building ahead; both Sabrael’s steed and Black Shadow had been upgraded with devastating plasma talons instead of bolters whilst en route to Ulthor. The ball of plasma smashed into the uneven sphere, puncturing it like a gas-filled balloon, though instead of air the wound poured forth a torrent of vomit-like filth and maggots. This organic detritus immediately started congealing into another tentacle, growing lashes of worms with disturbing human faces that hissed and bared their teeth as Tybalain and his squadron roared past. Nerean struck with his corvus hammer as he passed the apparition, smashing its glowing beaked head through the writhing pseudopod in an explosion of milky fluid and fleshy matter.

The city itself had responded immediately to the presence of the Ravenwing. The first squadrons to enter the low lying outskirts had been assailed by swarms of flies and immense slug-like beasts creeping forth even as the structures warped into flailing appendages and gnashing maws. Sammael had ordered the company into three spearheads, each driving into the heart of the city from a different direction, aiming towards the mouldering keep at its centre.

Gunships and fighter craft bombarded the writhing streets ahead of the advance, trying to cut a way through the ever-changing edifice with missile and shell. Where bone and brick was shattered by lascannon and heavy bolter it dissipated into sludge and mist, becoming the formless ectoplasm of raw warpstuff. Such damage was temporary; whatever conscious mind or mad whim or base instinct that gave life to the city moulded the warp-substance into fresh forms as quickly as they were destroyed.

There were other problems. One Dark Talon pilot had fired his aircraft’s rift cannon only for the warp-powered weapon to malfunction, engulfing his machine with a hardening crust of filth that filled its jets and caused it to plummet from the sky. Another had dropped a stasis bomb; the resultant detonation spawned a towering monstrosity of rippling, barbed tentacles and flame-spewing gullets rather than a time-dampening field. From that moment the air support was restricted to Thunderhawk attack and Nephilim strafing runs.

Similarly the Darkshroud Land Speeders that so often accompanied the Ravenwing, shielding them with a perpetual gloom, were forced to turn back from the city. When they activated their arcane engines instead of the usual swathe of shadow the Land Speeders had disgorged tides of ravening beetles and green-and-black-bodied wasps.

The city itself resisted them, but it was not without denizens to defend its streets. A giant that seemed to be an unholy blend of rotting tree and broken pillars lumbered into view a few dozen metres ahead, easily five metres tall. Its massive fists of gnarled wood lifted for the attack. There was no need for Tybalain to issue an order; the moment the beast appeared the Black Knights opened fire, concentrating their plasma talons on the monstrous conjuration.

Its wooden flesh sparked immediately into an inferno as the plasma blasts struck, while stone flesh ran in rivulets like blood. Still the colossus was not destroyed, taking a stride towards them, its root-like foot becoming one with the heaving, rippling ground, forcing the squadron to swerve hard around sweeping talon-tipped fingers. A fingernail shard of jagged marble slashed along the back of Black Shadow, leaving a ragged welt through the ceramite. Annael turned in the saddle and fired back with his bolt pistol, the shots doing little to the unnatural creature.

‘Shall we go back for it?’ said Sabrael, glancing over his shoulder. ‘It seems a shame not to get better acquainted.’

‘Negative,’ replied Tybalain. ‘Our only concern is to reach the inner district and place teleport homing beacons for the Deathwing. This is no place for us. The First Company can earn their honours today.’

The thought heartened Annael. There was probably less than two kilometres to go between them and the growth of gargantuan fungal fronds that surrounded the central keep as a curtain wall. If they pushed hard they would be there within minutes. Looking back past the burning figure of the giant, which was striding after the Black Knights, Annael could see the city animating itself even further, buildings pulling themselves up from the bedrock, reforming and changing into gangling colossi with hides of brick and bone armour.

‘Signal the Grand Master, our air cover should concentrate on those behemoths,’ said Annael. ‘Reaching the fortress is not going to be the problem – getting out will be.’

Tybalain looked back and saw what Annael had seen. He nodded and there was a buzz across the vox of a coded channel opening. Annael did not have time to ponder what Sammael’s response might be. A horde of the one-eyed daemons he had seen with the slave column was pouring out of grinning mouth archways at the far end of the street. Over the haphazardly slanted tiles of the surrounding roofs boiled millions of flies, an almost solid apparition that smashed into the Black Knights, thousands of bulbous insect bodies bouncing off their power armour, each impact negligible but together strong enough to knock Annael sideways and fling Nerean to the ground.

They had to stop, forming a circle around Nerean while he remounted, blinded and deafened by the mass of black bodies flying and crawling everywhere. The plague daemons burst through the tide of flies, serrated, rusted blades swinging. Annael reacted quickly, deflecting a triangular sword with his left arm while he drew forth his corvus hammer. He crushed the head of the creature that had attacked him, its body turning to slurry to seep into the ground.

His movement restricted astride the saddle, Annael did his best to fend off the blows of the daemon-things trying to surround him. He swept his hammer left and right in broad arcs to knock them back and smashed off heads and limbs. He realised he was shouting, bellowing battle cries of the Chapter with every blow. He heard the sound of crunching and splitting bones, though he knew as sure as anything that the things he slew were not of true flesh and blood.

‘We have lost the initiative!’ snapped Tybalain. ‘Break out and gain speed!’

Rusted blades shrieked across Annael’s right shoulder pad and backpack as with another swing of his hammer he swept aside two daemons clambering over the front of Black Shadow. He gunned the throttle and slammed into the gathering crowd of creatures, using his steed as a battering ram. Nerean carved another path to his left, the rest of the squadron following, corvus hammers and bike guns blazing.

The buildings had warped around them, turning the roadway into a broad courtyard surrounded by bulging archways. Gates of fingerbones started closing across the exits. Annael accelerated even harder, ducking his head a moment before he crashed into one of the intertwining barriers. The force almost knocked him off the back of his bike but he clung on, front wheel rising as he powered through, splinters and chips of bone spraying in his wake. Moaning and shrieking, the plague daemons followed after the departing Black Knights, running after with awkward strides, joints twisted and cankered.

Spires of rock threaded with pulsing veins drilled up through the ground, rupturing like new teeth, cutting off the line of attack to the fortress, diverting the bikers along a colonnade of jutting ribs to their right. Slathering, frond-mouthed beasts lunged and flopped across the road ahead like basking seals. Plasma bolts seared through them, turning the hideous creatures into splashes of paste-like ichor and charred skin fragments. Black Shadow’s wheels slipped and slid as Annael passed over the remains, the tyres squealing for traction.

Another gigantic guardian loomed ahead, stepping over a fluttering barricade of feathery gills, its long arms contorted with extra joints, headless torso made up of a chimney still disgorging thousands of flies. A thick hide of encrusted filth slewed away like skin being sloughed off, revealing tarnished metal bars and crumbling brickwork. A furnace maw opened, spouting an arc of flame across the road, splashing onto the front of Sabrael’s steed. His front tyre exploded, sending the bike into a cartwheel while Sabrael was tossed bodily into a lichen-covered wall.

Annael braked hard and spun his steed around, passing back between Tybalain and Nerean. He slewed the bike around another one hundred eighty degrees as he reached Sabrael. His battle-brother seemed reluctant to climb up behind Annael.

‘Get on!’

Sabrael looked towards the smoking remnants of his bike. Many times he had boasted of coming through an engagement without his steed being hit and now he suffered the shame of a total loss. The Techmarines would not be coming here to reclaim the lost bike, not even in victory. Already the roadway was turning to mush beneath the machine, swallowing it like quicksand.

The crackle and heat of more flames from the giant washed over Annael.

‘Sabrael! Do not be a fool!’

‘One moment, brother.’ Sabrael dashed back down the road, the black of his armour scuffed down the length of his left side where he had been thrown clear. He stopped beside the bike and did something to the controls before sprinting back and jumping onto the back of Black Shadow. He had the armoured casing that contained his bike’s machine-spirit under one arm. ‘A little gift for this vile place!’

Annael accelerated after the others, who were circling the daemon-giant, smashing away at its legs with their hammers, steering clear of its flame-filled mouth. A bang on the shoulder from Sabrael caused Annael to look back just at the moment his companion’s steed exploded. The detonation was half-swallowed by the ground, but as the plasma chambers of the bike’s main weapon overloaded a bright blue star engulfed the street, tossing burning gore and debris high into the air to leave a perfect half-sphere crater.

Sabrael laughed, but his joy was cut short as a fist wrapped in dying foliage smashed into the ground next to them, throwing up a fountain of dirt and pus. Stone shards and globules of fatty tissue pelted the Space Marines, slicking across the vid-display of Annael’s bike and clogging one of his backpack’s air intakes. The giant withdrew its hand, taking a step back as it swept a coiling tentacle at Tybalain. The Huntmaster ducked, the serrated edge of the vegetative pseudopod carving a furrow along the back of his bike.

‘It is no good, we have to fall back,’ said Nerean. ‘It is too big for our weapons.’

‘We can brook no delay,’ said Tybalain. The behemoth was between them and one of the avenues leading up to the fortress. ‘With the city mutating around us there is no guarantee we will find another route. We have to get past.’

Grand Master Sammael’s calm voice cut across the vox.

‘Stand by for support.’

A few seconds later the air ripped apart with the roar of an assault cannon, hundreds of impacts slicing along the body of the chimney-giant in a cloud of brick dust and pulverised mortar. Heavy bolter detonations tore into the mouth-furnace, turning corroded metal into flakes and slivers, spilling hot coals from ruptured innards.

The Grand Master’s Land Speeder, Sableclaw, swept over the heads of his elite guard, still firing its heavy weapons into the giant. A stone knee exploded, toppling the creature sideways like a felled pillar, its parts separating as it crashed down. Smoke and flames swept over Annael and Sabrael as they raced through the billowing debris, bumping over pieces of molten flesh and shattered bricks.

Reaching the avenue, Annael could see that the curtain wall had suffered sustained bombardment; as he watched a Nephilim fighter swept towards a breach, its weapons systems chewing holes into the fleshy wall of fungus. Sableclaw swept around to come alongside Tybalain as they sped up the avenue rising towards the fortress, Sammael at the driver’s controls.

‘Smooth and swift, brothers.’ The Grand Master spoke over the company vox, addressing all of the Ravenwing. ‘Breach the curtain wall, activate teleport homers and leave the rest to our brothers in the Deathwing. Once your beacons have been set, fall back to the city edge by any means necessary. Air assets will continue support strikes under the command of Grand Master Belial.’

Affirmatives chorused back across the channel as the Ravenwing responded, bikes and Land Speeders converging on their target from across the corrupted city. Sammael stood up in his land speeder and held aloft the Raven Sword for his Black Knights to see. He looked down, meeting the gaze of each in turn as they raced up the avenue.

‘For the Lion!’ he shouted, pointing his blade at the citadel, and Annael shouted with him.

MANSION OF MADNESS

Telemenus thought it fortunate that his first teleportation incident had left him unscathed. His second most certainly did not.

He could not suppress a gurgling growl as his inner organs attempted to leave his body via his mouth. White-hot nails were driven into his eyes and ears. Hooks had burrowed into his brain and were ripping it apart piece by piece. All the while the telemetry from his sensorium spouted insanity, as it had done during the brief warp transition before, but this time it did not stop.

A wave of euphoria swept through Telemenus as his armour boosted the painkillers and anti-nausea stimms coursing through his modified circulatory system. Nausea turned to dizziness, which receded into a vague sense of displacement. Agony became pain, which resolved into a dull throbbing ache throughout every bone and muscle of his body.

The sensorium was still reeling wildly, unable to cope with the warp overlap of the half-material world. With a spoken command Telemenus shut it down, keeping only basic auto-senses active so that he could see, hear and touch. That helped more than the stimms, removing the flood of data that threatened to send him spiralling back into semi-consciousness.

All of this had taken a handful of seconds; not long in itself but a lifetime of vulnerability in battle Telemenus realised. He took stock of his surroundings.

He was in some kind of semi-organic chamber, with walls of what looked like limestone deposits found in caves, stalagmites and stalactites forming pillars from bowled floor to arching ceiling. There were clusters of gristly nodules in places and softer, fluctuating panes of flesh between bone-like infrastructure. Around these seemingly natural formations were pipes, rusted and dripping. The smell was horrendous, of a cadaver left long to rot mixed with fresh faecal matter. Telemenus shut down his armour’s olfactory filters immediately. What appeared to be tunnel mouths branched off at random angles.

Most importantly, Telemenus could see nothing of the rest of the squad.

Without the sensorium operating there was no way to detect their suit signals, and they were not within eyesight or earshot. In fact the surrounding area was disturbingly quiet, the silence broken by a distant, exterior humming and the occasional soft, wet pulse of fluid through the pipes around him. Light was emanating from scabrous growths, greenish and faint. He rubbed the grip of his storm bolter across one of the lesions and it flaked away like dry skin, revealing seeping veins beneath that trickled blood-like fluid from the wound.

Disgusted, Telemenus stepped away without looking. He almost toppled as his back foot slipped on a slick of unidentifiable grey fluid bubbling up from a sphincter, dribbling down the slope of the floor into another orifice at the base of a wall.

‘This is Telemenus,’ he said, activating a company-wide vox-channel. ‘Telemenus, seeking confirmation from anyone that can detect this signal.’

The walls pulsed inwards, several fleshy parts whistling like loosened valves. Yellow gas puffed from spiracles in the ceiling. It enveloped Telemenus and the paint on his armour started to fizz and bubble, eaten by the acid. The ceramite layer beneath was hardier, discolouring slightly but otherwise undamaged. Though his suit could survive inside a volcano or even withstand the massive pressures of gas giants and deep sea, it was not impregnable. Eventually a seal or weak point would give way. As another pulse of gas filled the chamber he decided he had better leave.

There was no means to tell which way would lead to the rest of the Deathwing. They were to teleport in two waves, but evidently despite the signals from the teleport homers planted by the Ravenwing the first wave had been scattered all across the target citadel. This was the situation they had hoped to avoid and it seemed the lost brothers of the Second Company had died in vain.

That was despondency talking. Without the effort and sacrifice of the Ravenwing perhaps the First Company might not have been able to teleport at all, or worse…

He focused on the positive aspects of his situation. He had arrived in one piece and was inside the enemy fortification. Somewhere here there were enemies to be killed, and their commander to be captured if possible. If he had survived then so too had others, he was sure. This place could not be so vast that they would never come together. Even now Belial was probably bringing squads together for a determined assault.

Telemenus thus saw that he had two mission objectives. His priority was to locate any enemy and slay them. The second mission was to join up with the other elements of the assault force. To achieve the second would require a degree of luck and starting out in any particular direction was as likely as any other to take him closer to allies. On the first, the slaying of the enemy, he knew that whichever way he went he would come across a foe sooner rather than later.

LEADERSHIP

It was obvious from the moment Sapphon recovered his senses that all was not well. Waiting with the second wave aboard the Penitent Warrior he had been horrified to learn that contact had been lost with the Ravenwing, only for hope to return when their teleport homers were detected. However, the moment Belial had teleported to the surface with the squads of the first assault the ships’ scanners had fallen blank once more. He had ordered the second wave to teleport as soon as possible, using the coordinates fixed for the initial attack.

Of his five-man honour guard, only Fidellus with his thunder hammer and storm shield and Brother Satrael, armed with a heavy flamer, had arrived with the Master of Sanctity. Vox-checks showed that there was no comm-link between the squads and the First Company warriors were forced to shut down their sensoriums, which had been rendered useless by the warp-reality interface of Ulthor.

‘Secure perimeter,’ Sapphon ordered over the external vocalisers.

They had arrived in something like a furnace room, presumably somewhere near the base of the enemy stronghold. The air was dry and hot, a dozen open furnaces that burned with green-and-yellow flame spilled heat and light across crumbling bricks of floor and walls. The ceiling was thick with black soot, seemingly accreted over countless generations although Sapphon knew Ulthor had until a few years ago been an Imperial world and the construct they were now in had not existed then.

‘Main doors secured,’ reported Satrael. ‘Corridor, thirty metres, no enemy.’

‘No other exits,’ confirmed Fidellus, rejoining Sapphon. The battle-brother looked around, storm bolter tracking the movement of his gaze. ‘What is this place?’

Sapphon moved to a nearby pillar and drove his fist into it. Brick shattered, but underneath where one might have expected to find plasteel bars or ferrocrete was a bone-like substance along which ran dark veins. Sapphon punched again, breaking into another layer, this time of almost formless greyish slime, flecked with globules of gristle that started to coagulate, hardening into a new protective layer, turning red to match the brick.

‘It is raw warp made into matter,’ said the Chaplain, pulling his hand away with a shower of bloody droplets. He knew it was not blood at all but it was hard to think of the dark red fluid in any other way. He chose his next words carefully, for although many in the Deathwing had been initiated into the lore of the Dark Angels they were not all aware of the true nature of the warp and the daemons that inhabited it. ‘A psychic construct, made possible only here at the edge of the Eye. No more real than the flame of a psychic blast.’

‘Such flames can still burn and kill,’ said Satrael.

‘True,’ conceded Sapphon. He motioned for Fidellus to follow and walked over to Satrael. ‘Whatever may seem unreal here is certainly material enough to cause injury, even death. We must find the others quickly.’

With Satrael leading the way, the corridor only wide enough for them to advance in single file, the three Space Marines set out from the furnace room. The passageway took them to a junction, the route to the left staying level, on the right the corridor became a set of steps going up after a few metres, and it was upwards they headed. The tunnel-like stairwell was barely large enough for them to pass, backpacks and shoulders scraping furrows in the moss-covered brickwork as they forced their way up the steps.

At the top was another corridor, far wider, the brick-like skin giving way to a fleshy surface that undulated slightly as though rippled by a breeze. A slow, rhythmic thudding like a heartbeat could be heard reverberating along the walls and floor.

‘Brothers!’ Satrael called out as two ivory-armoured giants appeared through an archway ahead. Sapphon recognised their livery: Nemascus and Haerus. The two Terminators, part of the first assault, shouldered their way out into the corridor.

‘A welcome sight,’ said Haerus. ‘The first we have seen since arriving.’

Sapphon noticed that there was thick ichor splashed across their armour, as well as cuts and cracks in the ceramite.

‘You have encountered the foe?’ asked the Chaplain.

‘Aye, and they regretted it,’ said Nemascus. He lifted a power fist, its disruption field crackling. ‘Humanoid and others, not of mortal flesh.’

‘Like this palace,’ added Haerus. ‘See?’

He kicked at the wall, which disintegrated at the blow. Another kick and a punch had opened up a hole into an adjoining chamber large enough for the Terminators to pass through.

‘What of the warp-spawn, do they die as easily as the walls crumble?’ asked Sapphon.

‘They do, and a rare treat it is,’ said Haerus.

‘They fall as easily as living creatures here,’ said Nemascus. ‘No warp blessing to protect them. In this place, between material and immaterial, mortal and immortal are the same, it seems.’

‘A good thing to know,’ said Satrael.

‘There is bad news also,’ replied Haerus. He stepped through the hole and beckoned the others to follow. Sapphon ducked through and found himself in a long column-line gallery, though the columns appeared more like femurs, and the floor was awash with a shallow trickle of thick fluid. At the far end, the floor was bulging up in several places; horns and single-eyed faces were pushing out of the fabric of the palace.

‘I see,’ said the Chaplain. He opened fire, blasting apart the emerging daemons. Their burgeoning heads turned to black pools of filth, spreading out slowly through the mire. Moments later, half a dozen pillars started contorting, forming into pot-bellied figures, arms and swords lifting away as faces pushed out from the bone.

‘Problematic,’ said Fidellus.

‘Indeed,’ replied Satrael. ‘We fight the whole building. It is all one mass: creatures, edifice, world. How can we kill such a thing?’

‘We do not attempt to,’ said Sapphon, heading up the gallery towards the manifesting daemons. Dangling polyps in the ceiling swayed towards him, growing eyes and barbs as he approached. ‘We seek the Fallen, or news of his whereabouts. The nature of our location does not change this.’

‘As you command, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Satrael.

‘Just so,’ replied Fidellus.

Two of the daemons tore themselves free of the structure just in front of Sapphon. He smashed one aside with a single blow from his crozius arcanum. The daemon’s flesh became a fog speckled with wet fragments that drifted to the ground like sodden leaves falling from a tree. Fidellus’s power fist despatched the other, a blow to the midriff turning the otherworldly creature into a smear along the Terminator’s arm.

‘Unpleasant,’ said Fidellus, trying to shake off the filth.

‘Press on,’ said Sapphon.

It was time-consuming to battle every apparition and half-formed assailant, and so the Deathwing warriors stopped only to fight those manifestations that were fully formed, or to clear away grasping, slashing appendages and other weapons of the palace itself. They headed steadily upwards when they could, Sapphon convinced that regardless of the strangeness of the stronghold, the normal hierarchy of the ruler wishing to be above his domain would hold true even here.

As they battled their way up through the citadel they encountered more of the First Company. Soon Sapphon’s small force numbered eleven other warriors, and they advanced at speed, certain they would find more of their battle-brothers in the halls and chambers ahead. More confident than when he arrived, he despatched a squad of Terminators to look for other survivors, sending them away with the instruction that any warrior they encountered was to be sent up; in the higher reaches of the palace the Deathwing would come together again.

FURY

Mewls, whines, growls and howls added their harmony to the rhythmic thunder of storm bolter fire. The entire citadel rebelled at the presence of the intruders, ripping itself apart, reshaping stairways and columns, floors and balconies into grasping claws and cyclopean monstrosities. Walls fell away to become swarms of ravaging beetles, while sinewy roots erupted from doorways to ensnare anything that approached. Flies the size of bolt shells were vomited forth by lesion-marked maws torn out of window slits while giants made of brick and mould waded into the Deathwing with club fists and rusted iron teeth.

Asmodai did not register the strangeness around him, but saw the ongoing battle in a monochrome fashion: allies and targets. A tide of beetles crept over his black-painted armour, their carapaces shining like oil, turning him into a writhing statue of chitin and rage as he tried to sweep them away with the side of his combi-bolter and the butt of his crozius arcanum.

‘Brother Allius!’ The heavy flamer-armed Terminator turned as the Chaplain called his name. ‘Cleanse me!’

The Space Marine hesitated a moment and then opened fire, washing burning promethium over the Terminator armour of his superior. Warning lights and sirens flashed at the temperature rise but Asmodai was unconcerned; his suit was designed to withstand far worse. After a few seconds, Allius ended the gout of flames, leaving a sticky, drying crust crackling across Asmodai’s armour.

There was no sign of Belial. Asmodai had been standing right next to him on the teleporter pad, but a stomach-churning few seconds later and they had been deposited in completely different parts of the target area. A methodical search had ensued, in which Asmodai had gathered up twenty more of the Deathwing, but had revealed no sign of the First Company Grand Master.

There was a lull in the violence; colour and clarity started to return to the Chaplain as ire simmered down to dull anger. He noticed that two of his battle-brothers had been taken down during the fighting, though he could not recall how. Semmean had lost his right leg; Namnos had been punctured through the chest multiple times. Apothecary Temraen was attending to them both, his white armour splashed with blood as he attempted to examine Namnos’s wounds.

‘Brothers Tyronius, Vascaertes, protect the Brother-Apothecary and then follow when the casualties are secure.’

‘Televacuation, Brother-Chaplain?’ asked Tyronius.

‘No,’ said Asmodai with a shake of the head. ‘No teleporter fix. The only way we leave this citadel is to fight our way out when the mission is complete.’

‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Tyronius, moving to stand guard at one of the corridors coming into the large hall. Vascaertes positioned himself to cover another entryway.

‘Follow me, show the enemy no mercy,’ said Asmodai striding towards a stairwell that had, a minute earlier, been a serpentine mass of barbs and suckers.

‘I did not realise we had been,’ muttered Sergeant Daeron.

‘Enough flippancy!’ snapped Asmodai, not turning to look at the wayward Space Marine. ‘Ten days in the penitentium when we return to the ship. Concentrate on the task at hand, not on vacuous humour.’

‘Apologies, Brother-Chaplain.’

Asmodai paid no regard to the sergeant’s contrition. He was occupied using what auto-senses he had remaining to scan the stairwell ahead. It seemed dormant for the moment but he had no desire to march directly into the gullet of some daemonic conjuration.

The steps led upwards, splitting into two curving sets of steps. About twenty metres away each disappeared beyond two asymmetric archways before being lost in the gloom of fog and the buzzing remnants of the clouds of flies. Asmodai pressed on, turning right on a whim, for there was no means of knowing which flight would take him closer to the foe.

After another twenty metres, through which the stairs had curved through one hundred and eighty degrees, the Chaplain stepped through another misshaped opening onto a long ledge that ran alongside a wall on the right shaped like half a rib cage, arching overhead to link with vertebrae-like vaults. To the left the floor sheared away as though cut by an axe, ragged but steep. The ledge was four metres wide, narrowing and widening by a metre or so for stretches, angled slightly up and visible for several hundred metres before hanging fronds of red moss and ruffles of pale yellow fungus obscured the view.

Asmodai stepped out onto the ramp and looked down into the chasm. He stepped back in shock, taken aback for a moment before forcing himself to look once more.

The ledge seemed to be dizzyingly high – thousands of metres dropped away below the Chaplain. But it was not this vertiginous view that had surprised Asmodai. At the bottom of the shaft dwelled some immensely bloated creature; or several creatures, for it was possible that their flabby bodies were pressed so hard together in the confines that they could not be discerned as separate. Hundreds of eyes glared back at Asmodai, some of them clustered like an insect’s, like the many-faceted crystal orbs of flies and spiders, scattered amongst bloodshot, disturbingly human orbs each easily a dozen metres across.

A gargantuan split rippled open along a portion of the creature – Asmodai was convinced now it was a single beast – revealing dark gums encrusted with wart-like growths each as big as the Chaplain, wrapped about broken and cracked fangs each as long as a gunship. Another maw gaped further alone the crevasse, a tongue slipped out languidly across bloated lips, forked and forked again, over and over again so that it became dozens of tendrils each about as thick as his arm, creeping and tasting its way up the slime-slicked sides of the canyon.

‘Emperor protect us!’ said Daeron. Asmodai had not noticed the sergeant come up beside him. ‘Is that just another construct, or do you think it is the controller of the citadel itself?’

‘It matters not. We lack sufficient firepower to inflict significant damage at this range.’ Asmodai watched as a bubo the size of a shuttle craft erupted above an eye, the pop echoing up the chasm like a crack of thunder. From the pus that spilled forth emerged half a dozen shapes, floating like bubbles towards the Terminators as they headed out along the ledge.

As they rose higher Asmodai could see a darkness within the translucent skin of the bubbles, like larvae in an egg. The dark spots grew rapidly in size, other bubble-eggs boiling up after the first, spat forth by erupting boils and suppurating wounds in the creature’s hide. The closest eggs burst, revealing monstrous fly-like beasts each as big as a Terminator, and on their backs clung more of the cyclopean daemons that had assailed the Deathwing since they had arrived.

‘Open fire!’ barked Asmodai, but the order was not needed; the Deathwing started to blaze away with storm bolters and heavy weapons the moment the first fly rider had erupted from its perverse cocoon. The cough of bolt-rounds cut across the thrum of insectile wings as the pestilent swarm rose out of the depths, hundreds-strong by the time the first wave reached the ledge.

Asmodai fired without relent, emptying the bolter component of his combi-weapon, the shots cutting through a trio of fly-riding daemons heading directly for the Chaplain. As he reloaded he switched to the plasma gun fixed by the artisans atop his modified bolter. One blast incinerated another daemonic attacker, its charred remnants fluttering back down the chasm like ash from a fire. To his right the Deathwing force had stretched out, advancing further along the ledge to ensure that their flank was protected. A barrage of bolt-rounds, assault cannon shells and cyclone missiles shrieked and roared down into the abyss, cutting swathes through the oncoming mass, though the daemons did not relent in their approach.

A flying creature with a lashing proboscis loomed up over the edge of the rock shelf, twice as big as Asmodai, its trailing legs tipped with claws, vestigial appendages in its thorax rippling and darting. Astride its back sat a canker-skinned daemon with a wide, fanged mouth, single red-pupiled eye and a curling horn in the centre of its forehead. Between the white nodules that broke its pale green skin were rents and tears, tatters of flesh turned back to reveal pulsating innards and flexing ligaments. Asmodai’s revulsion increased as he saw something like a face leering at him out of the creature’s spilling intestines.

‘Foul spawn! Death to the impure!’

His first blow was met on the blade of a rusted sword as the plague creature buzzed past, its limbs lashing at the Chaplain’s helmeted head, perhaps drawn to the skull into which it was fashioned. His next sweep dug the eagle-headed crozius arcanum deep into the belly of the creature, causing a ripple to flow across its flesh. The daemon rider’s sword crashed down on Asmodai’s shoulder, sending chips of ceramite flying. Where the blow had landed the ceramic coating started turning to dust, flaking away as though the bonds that held it together were breaking.

As the thing rose up, threatening to carry his weapon away, Asmodai wrenched the crozius arcanum free. The effect was like pulling open an effluent pipe as a streaming gush of maggots, half-solid blood and putrescence poured out onto the Chaplain. The sticky mess clogged the seals of his helm and dried in a crust over his left eye. He struck again before the creature flew out of range, once more the head of the power weapon sinking deep into the unnatural body. With a grunt he hauled back, pulling the flying beast toward him. He fired his combi-weapon, the plasma gun pressed up against the daemon-steed’s lolling head, incinerating it in a moment.

Even as its mount ploughed into the ledge with a wet explosion of filth, the daemon lashed out again. Its entropic sword cracked against the casing of the Chaplain’s combi-weapon. The plasteel cover bent unnaturally and then fell away, leaving the mechanical innards of the weapon exposed. Wires started to fray and metal parts coated with rust.

Tossing the useless weapon aside Asmodai seized the creature’s wrist in his now-free hand as the decaying thing tried to stab him in the face. He pulled the daemon out from the foul wreckage of the flying creature and dashed it against the wall once, the rents in its body opening wider to spill out broken shards of bones and exploding organs. Utter disgust welled up inside the Chaplain as he smashed the daemon’s head to a pulp with the flat of the crozius arcanum.

More daemonflies and their filthy riders appeared over the rim of the ledge. Asmodai knocked the first back with a punch and decapitated the second with a swing from his crozius arcanum. Something grabbed his right arm; a fly-thing had managed to punch one of its clawed feet through the seal at the elbow. More limbs closed around the Chaplain as he swung his blazing weapon back and forth. His blows cracked open daemonic chitinous hides and rent gory trails through immaterial flesh, but there were too many foes.

A rider slid low on the back of its mount and drove the broken point of its blade into Asmodai’s chest. The rusted sword shattered, but where the oxide shards touched ceramite the armour crumbled like dust, exposing the secondary adamantium plates beneath. Mandibles lacerated gouges along his left thigh as another fly-beast latched on. Five of the creatures now had him. Asmodai felt the ground slipping away as they tried to lift him from the ledge.

For a moment he swung out over the chasm and was dangling right above the huge mass of the hive-like thing far below. Through a miasma of urine-coloured fog and the blots of flies crawling across his face he locked gazes with the immortal, enormous entity.

Its voice was in his head, he realised, and had been the whole time. It was a comforting feeling, not like the anger and despair he felt, but the warmth of paternal concern. It wondered why he fought so hard against the inevitable. Did he not realise that there was no triumph? All life ended in death. All civilisations fell to ruin. Even planets and stars, the galaxy itself, would one day be no more, claimed by the inevitable power of entropy. There could be no lasting victory against such fate.

Had not his own actions ushered in decay, in the bodies of the slain? He and his brothers were nothing more than hives for the billions of microscopic creatures that inhabited them, much like the citadel he had riled with his attack. Life was a temporary state of affairs, and filled with loss and pain. But death was an explosion of new life, fuelled by the fresh rush of mortal creatures.

He could enjoy that bounty too, if he but released himself from the pain that he craved so much. Life was torture, and for none more than Asmodai. He knew that every waking minute the thought of what had been taken from him, the innocence and purity he had known, gnawed at him, refusing to be forgotten. He might hunt for a hundred lifetimes and never bring Malvine Rhemell to account. What if he had that time? What if, rather than struggle futilely here and die in misery and solitude, he lived to fight on, not just for a hundred lifetimes but for a thousand, a million? Only the end of existence would end the Hunt. In his heart he knew no Dark Angel alive today would know peace; the true peace that would come when the last of the Fallen had been stricken from that long list. But if he ceased his struggles, allowed the destroyer hive to take him and be reborn, he would see that day, he would live long enough to bring freedom and honour back to the sons of the Lion.

Thinking of the Fallen normally brought rage, but now the appearance of the traitor’s visage, the patronising sneer Malvine Rhemell had shown when he had seen the confusion written on Asmodai’s face, the effect was of a cold waterfall washing over Asmodai like a cleansing balm. He could not die without knowing that his tormentor had been brought to justice.

But it was not in Asmodai’s nature to surrender. The pain was his shield, the agony of shame and loss was the fire that burned in the furnace of his soul. It was a reminder that the universe was unfair, that good men could be brought low by their intentions, no matter how pure.

And this was the iron, the true armour of righteousness that protected him. Ceramite, plasteel and adamantium encased his body but his soul was layered with hatred, rage and disgust; more for himself and his own weakness than any other being, living or daemonic.

This would be a pathetic way to die, he thought. Swallowed by a daemon-beast on some Emperor-cursed world, unremembered and pointless.

And then it returned to him, the flame of anger.

Like a single spark in the whole firmament of his black soul, the rage shone bright, growing in strength as he fought back the influence of the daemonic fiend. The fact that it had considered him vulnerable to such an offer, the insult such belief brought to the Chaplain, fanned the flame. It had questioned his righteousness. Only he had that right, for there was no being purer in purpose than Asmodai. He would not be judged or swayed by a conjuration of fear and despair, born out of the self-loathing and blind hope of weak mortals.

He was the judge, not the judged. He was Asmodai, Master of Repentance.

‘Die, filth of the abyss!’

Only a moment had passed though it seemed like an eternity to the Chaplain. Though his Terminator armour was not agile, it was strong. He flexed an arm, dragging himself back over the ledge even as he lashed out with his crozius. The flying creatures scattered from his rage, dropping him in their dread. He twisted his shoulder as he landed, ungainly but keeping enough impetus to turn the fall into a roll that gave him enough momentum to get to his feet again.

‘Do not relent!’ he roared to his battle-brothers, seeing them being pushed back along the ledge in places, surrendering the advantage of the chasm edge. ‘With bolt and blade, with flame and fist, purge the unclean!’

He put into practice what he preached, stomping after the fly-creatures that had tried to capture him, his crozius making a red mess of the first, sweeping the rider from his perch on the second. A heavy flamer burst incinerated another. Storm bolter fire hammered into a fourth and fifth, turning them to shreds of flapping flesh and shattered cartilage that dropped back into the gorge. Asmodai saw Sergeant Daeron striding through the cloying flies and gore, reloading his weapon.

‘Are you well, Brother Asmodai?’

‘I am unhurt,’ the Chaplain replied. For a moment memory of the encounter with the destroyer hive threatened to overwhelm him, but recalling the daemonic entity’s attempts to corrupt him only outraged Asmodai even further. ‘Burn and blast your way through. Get the battle-brothers off this ledge, and find the creator of this cursed place.’

‘What of that?’ Daeron gestured towards the beast at the bottom of the chasm.

‘It will wait, and we will be back for a reckoning.’ More daemon-things flopped into view, slug-beasts that crawled down the wall and over the lip of the crevasse, their fronded-ring mouths gnashing, emitting piercing, almost joyful whistles as they slumped and slid their way towards the Deathwing.

Asmodai thought of the Lion, and how the daemons had thought to persuade him to betray the primarch. It focused the Chaplain’s mind on the Fallen; those detestable souls that had listened to such urgings ten thousand years ago.

TRAITOR!

He thought of the Lion, dead at the hands of the traitors, of a world destroyed by hubris and a dream of greatness and eternal deliverance quashed. He thought of what the Fallen had done and looked at the daemons clambering and flying out of the chasm.

TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

He would prove his worth. He was no coward. The enemy would not escape this time.

TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

What followed came easily.

CORRUPTION

‘Can anybody hear me?’ a non-stop succession of colourful phrases and curses followed, confirming to Telemenus the identity of his fellow Terminator.

‘Daellon?’

‘Emperor damn me! Telemenus?’

The citadel had become a labyrinth and Telemenus was sure that he had walked in circles for nearly an hour, except that the circle was changing every time he took a turn, so that even if he crossed his path a hundred times more he would never recognise the exact same layout of tunnels and chambers. He had quickly succumbed to the depressing thought that he would die alone in this awful place, until he had picked up the distant echo of a shout.

‘Wait while I configure my audio pick-ups,’ Telemenus called back. He stopped walking and adjusted the sensitivity of his auto-senses, hoping to detect the direction of Daellon’s bellowing. ‘Configuration complete. Call again!’

‘Telemenus!’ Daellon’s shout almost deafened the Space Marine, erupting from the vox-link inside his helm. Feedback squealed close at hand, masking any location he might have picked up.

‘Brother, your vox is on,’ Telemenus replied quietly over the open channel.

‘And working again, it would seem. A damn joyous moment for you to hear my voice again, I am sure.’

Both of them spent thirty seconds trying to contact anyone else, switching between squad, personal and company frequencies but with no success.

‘It must be range interference,’ said Daellon. ‘At least that means we are close to each other. I’ll use the external system again.’

Telemenus listened intently, the stereoscopic detectors of his auto-senses turned up to maximum sensitivity. He heard his name rebounding from a passageway behind and to his left. He backtracked and called down the oval-shaped corridor, which like much of the maze resembled nothing so much as an artery clogged with fatty tissue and rank black residue. He told Daellon to call again and by these means was able to navigate his way through two more turnings until he came up on his battle-brother from behind.

‘A perturbing location,’ admitted Telemenus as they raised their power fists to each other in salute. ‘I assume you have seen nothing of our brothers?’

‘You are the first,’ said Daellon. ‘I was right behind Sergeant Arbalan when we teleported, but the moment we arrived… nothing. Not that I would have noticed if he was right in front of me at that moment. I thought I was going to puke out my lungs and my brain would fall out of my arse.’

‘Quite,’ said Telemenus, who had never really come to terms with Daellon’s unique capability for colourful language. He skirted on blasphemy at times but, oddly enough, seemed perfectly capable of keeping his tongue in order whenever Chaplain Asmodai was within earshot.

‘Not tried the sensorium since I switched it off, have you?’ Daellon said. Without any spoken consent, the two of them started heading in the direction Daellon had been facing. ‘I shot holes in the wall as a means of keeping track.’

‘Good idea,’ said Telemenus. ‘And no, I have not reactivated my sensorium. I hate to think what would happen to it if we created a scanner net between us.’

‘Damn good point. And do you see any holes here?’ He waved a hand to encompass the gently flexing corridor walls.

‘No,’ said Telemenus. It took a moment for his companion’s meaning to sink in. ‘Oh. That would mean we are both lost.’

‘So it damn well appears, brother. At least we have company now.’

As well as endlessly branching left and right, the corridors also went through dips and rises, so that the pair were never sure if they were still on the same level or not after a few minutes. Telemenus had a niggling feeling that they were making their way somewhere and though he had disabled his sensorium and did not have a perfectly accurate auspex-generated map to rely on he was also becoming more convinced that his surroundings had some kind of vaguely familiar pattern.

‘Did you hear that?’ Daellon’s question snapped him from his thoughts.

‘No, brother, what did you hear?’

‘A moan, perhaps.’ The two Terminators lifted their weapons. Neither had seen any sign of enemy and it was easy to forget that they were in the heart of hostile territory. ‘Or a groan.’

Daellon indicated the direction of the noise with his storm bolter, pointing down a narrower tunnel to their right. He led the way, power fist casting a blue glow across the organic walls, highlights shining from slivers of sinewy tissue that were expanding and contracting between ridged lines of cartilage.

‘Is there a difference?’ said Telemenus.

‘A difference? What?’

‘Between a moan and a groan?’

‘No idea, now that you ask.’ Daellon stopped. Without the whine of servos and the clump of their footfalls, Telemenus could hear the sound too now. It was a loud wheezing, rising and falling steadily. It seemed to be close.

They rounded the next corner side by side, storm bolters aimed, power fists raised. What confronted them was more disturbing than any foe they might have imagined.

There was something trapped within the tissue of the wall: a Terminator. The ivory of his armour was a stark contrast to the deep, fleshy red and the bluish veins that surrounded him. Tendrils of tissue-like creepers were already investigating, crawling into cracks between the plates, slowly but visibly expanding along limbs and torso. There seemed to be a dim haze surrounding the warrior. Magnifying his vision Telemenus saw thousands of tiny lice-like creatures covering the Space Marine like a fine film. The back of each tiny mite was marked with three overlapping pale green circles.

‘Damn! Sergeant Arbalan!’

Catching up with Daellon, Telemenus could see the warrior’s livery and heraldry clearly now and realised it was true. Arbalan had his power sword drawn but the upper part of his arm was melded with the stuff of the wall.

‘Stay away from the walls, we could get drawn in too,’ warned Telemenus.

The sergeant’s helm was cracked down the front; the wheezing was his laboured breathing whistling out of the shattered ventilator grille. The back of his head was as stuck as the rest of him. Fingers flexed in the depth of a spider web of veins encasing his left arm.

‘Helmet…’ The sergeant sounded hoarse and weak. Daellon moved to comply, powering down his fist to twist free the sergeant’s helm. It came loose with a sucking sound, the wall relenting its grip with a wet slurping noise. Daellon let the helmet clatter to the floor, preoccupied by what he had revealed. Arbalan’s face was almost white, drained of all pigment. His hair was too and his eyes were pale with cataracts. As well as its pallor, his flesh was wrinkled and leathery like the hide of some large beast, gathered in folds around the eyes and under his chin. There was no fat between skin and muscles, leaving just bone at cheek and brow.

‘Damn…’ said Daellon.

‘We will cut you free, brother-sergeant,’ promised Telemenus, gauging the thickness of the fleshy folds encasing parts of the Space Marine. ‘A few minutes work.’

‘No point.’ Arbalan coughed and then winced with pain. ‘It is inside me as well.’

‘How?’ Telemenus was shocked. What sort of creature, what kind of attack could overcome a warrior of the Deathwing so completely? ‘What did this to you, brother-sergeant?’

‘Teleport misadventure, you idiot.’ The sergeant moved his gaze to Daellon. ‘Matter detection systems warped out by this place. Materialised inside this wall. I can feel those things, those bugs, burrowing into me, trying to make me part of the city. They are in my legs at the moment, and my stomach. I want to be dead before they reach my lungs or heart. I do not think they mean to kill me, but to pervert this physical form for their own ends.’

‘There must be some way…’ Telemenus looked around for some clue as to how they might rescue the Space Marine. There was nothing. However, inspiration came in a different form. ‘Lungs! That is what this place reminds me of. Bronchial passageways. We must be in the fortress’ lungs, or something similar.’

‘How does that help?’ snapped Daellon. He began pulling away chunks of flesh and gristle, freeing some of the sergeant’s sword arm.

‘Do not make me beg,’ growled Arbalan, staring at Telemenus from his flesh cocoon.

‘Perhaps if we found a Librarian, he could cleanse the taint from you,’ Telemenus suggested, though he knew it was a hopeless situation.

‘Telemenus, come closer.’ The Space Marine complied with Arbalan’s request as Daellon stepped away. When the sergeant spoke his voice was a whisper. ‘There is more to being a great warrior than shooting straight. You have been a disappointment to me and to the Grand Master since you arrived. It is not patience or skill that you lack, it is humility, and that is why we have been scrutinising you so closely.’

‘You think that I show promise?’ Telemenus was confused, unsure whether Arbalan was praising him or criticising. ‘The Grand Master pushes me harder than the others because he senses what I could offer?’

‘No.’ The sergeant’s lips were almost non-existent and his skin all but a mask but he still managed a dissatisfied expression. ‘With training and armaments like yours, any warrior can serve with distinction in the First Company. Remember, you are not special.’

Telemenus recoiled as if shot, stepping away from the sergeant. He shook his head.

‘Now, which one of you is going to end it for me?’ The sergeant grunted in pain, bared decaying teeth and blackened gums.

‘I will, damn it,’ said Daellon.

‘No!’ Telemenus stepped in front of his companion and raised his storm bolter, aiming at Arbalan’s face. He met the sergeant’s stare, knowing that Arbalan could see nothing of his expression past the helm of Telemenus’s armour.

‘At least I know you can hit me from that distance,’ Arbalan snarled, unrepentant to the end.

‘You deserve this,’ said Telemenus. ‘I owe it to you.’

He fired.

The pair of them turned away, the echoing retort of the single shot muffled by their fleshy surrounds.

‘What did he say to you?’ asked Daellon.

‘Nothing of importance, I assure you.’

The answer hung in the silence, its falsity obvious to Telemenus, but there was no way of gauging his companion’s reaction.

‘Lungs, you say?’ said Daellon after a moment.

‘Yes, it seems to me that is the case.’ Telemenus pointed to a branching corridor ahead. ‘We follow the passages that are widening. It will bring us to the main airways, or whatever the equivalent is. Let us hope that some of our brothers are wise enough to do the same.’

A LOSING BATTLE

Blasting and hacking through the walls certainly made progress into the fortress swifter. Sapphon and his Terminators, swelled by other stray warriors picked up along the way to number thirteen Space Marines, found themselves embroiled time and again by daemonic assailants. There were recurring forms, of pot-bellied cyclopean daemons and bounding, slug-like beasts, and there was a myriad of unique and disturbing manifestations from the palace itself. There seemed to be no pattern or reason behind the waves of attacks; sometimes minutes passed without assault while on other occasions they were beset by seemingly endless hordes of creatures.

By the haphazard nature of the defence it was impossible to tell if they were any nearer their objective. Sapphon might have expected an organised defence force to layer itself in increasingly strong positions the closer he came to the commanders. Here there was no such rigidity. Sometimes a solitary daemon would pop into existence, easily cut down. Other times it appeared that the citadel was making every effort to reshape itself to bar their path only for their route to eventually lead to a dead end or in a circle.

After ninety minutes of near-constant fighting, Sapphon was aware that they were already thirty minutes over the planned operation time frame. Nobody had yet reported low ammunition – power fists, chainfists, thunder hammers and lightning claws were used to bear the brunt of the attacks – but it was obvious that the Dark Angels First Company could not fight on indefinitely. Worse still, there was yet no sign of Belial.

‘We cannot know if the Grand Master survived teleportation,’ Sapphon said, during a brief council with Sergeants Asarael and Caulderain. ‘We must push on, to gather any remaining forces and, with luck, locate the enemy leaders.’

‘Perhaps we need to draw back and think again, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Asarael. ‘We should secure a location and then send out sweeps and patrols to establish ourselves. Roving needlessly from one area to the next does our cause no good.’

Sapphon took the criticism without comment and looked at Caulderain. The sergeant did not reply for several seconds, evidently collecting his thoughts.

‘I concur, in part.’ Caulderain turned and looked back at the squad of Terminators guarding the rear. ‘There is not a warrior here that would not gladly press forwards and take the fight to the enemy, but in doing so we may relinquish the true objective. Our deployment was compromised the moment the teleporting force was scattered. We have yet to recover from that setback.’

‘So we should wait here and hope that others find us?’ said Sapphon, unconvinced.

‘They are as likely to locate us in one place as we are to run in to them by happenstance,’ said Asarael. ‘For the moment we fight without any clear sight of our objective. To be honest, with due respect, Brother-Chaplain, we are flailing like blind men here.’

‘I appreciate your honesty, brother-sergeant.’ Sapphon understood the logic of what he was being told but it strained against his instinct to remain in one place and simply allow the enemy to come at them when they pleased. He had always been taught that one should seize the initiative; that action was always preferable to inaction, daring and courage are at their highest when on the offensive. ‘I must reject your assertion, however. I think that should the whole fortress be turned against us, as it surely would if we remain in one place for any length of time, we lack the resources to victoriously resolve such a situation.’

‘But we cannot simply advance for the sake of advancing, Brother-Chaplain.’

‘Brother Sapphon made his intent clear,’ said Caulderain. ‘We should turn thought as to how best to make mobility a successful strategy.’

Several more minutes of talking did not resolve the fundamental disagreement but Sapphon, Caulderain and Asarael did concur on a plan to widen the scope of their search. Having discovered there was limited vox-communication possible, up to about a hundred and fifty metres, they could divide into three or four forces, covering a wider area. If one prong of the advance encountered severe opposition there would be other squads on hand to quickly assist.

Another few minutes had passed when this new strategy bore results. Sapphon was called to Asarael’s squad, out on the right flank of the attack. The Chaplain found them in a chamber that looked like the inside of an egg, the walls ridged and cracked rather than smooth, pale grey in colour. They had broken a hole into the wall, revealing a dark passage that spasmed intermittently like a gullet, the fleshy walls contracting several metres before expanding again.

‘What have you found?’ asked Sapphon, ducking his head through the ragged gap.

‘The hole, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied Asarael. ‘It was already here.’

Sapphon stepped back and examined the breach. He could see marks where bolters had blown holes in the wall, these wounds then used as purchase for the fingers of a power glove to grip and tear.

‘Already here, you say? Do you think we have come upon our own trail?’

‘No, brother, I do not.’ Asarael handed something to Sapphon; a storm bolter magazine. ‘We found this.’

Examining the empty magazine, Sapphon recognised the marking from the armourium on its underside.

‘This was issued by the Grand Master’s artificer!’ Sapphon looked at the wound in the wall again but it was impossible to tell how long since it had been made.

Redirecting the efforts of his squads Sapphon coordinated his search around the area where Belial had passed. Signs of intense combat, including heavy flamer and assault cannon fire, confirmed that the Grand Master had gathered another force with him. The trail they had left was clear to follow once it was located and Sapphon led his warriors on with some hope and expectation.

The Terminator squad forging ahead of the main body of warriors soon reported the sound of gunfire; the enemy had yet to use any kind of normal weapon. Sapphon ordered his squads to advance at speed and provide whatever support they could. They split along a number of brick-walled passageways, passing through yard-like spaces that opened out beneath a sky of tumourous growths hundreds of metres above.

It was in one such larger space that Sapphon found Belial. The Grand Master and a dozen Terminators blazed away with their weapons at a monstrous many-headed creature formed of mutated brick and twisted sinews of rusted iron and discoloured bronze. Blunt-nosed heads snapped forward with teeth of broken glass, kept at bay by the fusillade of the Terminators. More of the creature dragged its bulk from the far wall, a serpentine body growing out of the stone and mortar.

‘Have your men flank left,’ was the only acknowledgement Sapphon received from the Grand Master.

He complied, using the covering fire of the other Space Marines to close on the beast’s body. The daemonic creature spied the Chaplain dashing towards its side and a blocky head swung down, smashing Sapphon from his feet in a crash of ceramite and bricks. Asarael stood over the Chaplain, firing intently, while Sapphon righted himself.

From an archway ahead another Deathwing squad emerged, assault cannon to the fore. They had been sent to come at the creature from behind, though their rear attack was now compromised by extra heads and limbs extruding from the daemon beast’s back.

‘Death to the xenos! Attack!’ Sapphon charged to draw its attention. The Terminators around him responded in an instant, his battle cry delving deep into hypno-conditioned minds to override whatever they had been planning to do.

He slashed his crozius arcanum into a wide mouth, shattering brick and glass. Beside him Asarael buried his power sword hilt-deep in a sinuous neck. Power fists turned brick and metal to powder and shards.

The plot worked, distracting the daemon-thing from the squad coming up behind. The heavy weapons trooper aimed his assault cannon and let loose a sustained burst, hundreds of shells slamming into the creature, cutting away its lower half. Separated, the top part of the monster collapsed into its constituent parts, showering the Terminators with stone blocks, bricks, pieces of piping and twisted, rusted girders and support bars. As a bank of dust swept over the warriors, it seemed as though a roof had collapsed on the Dark Angels.

Sapphon picked his way across the mound of rubble, which shifted and broke beneath his heavy tread. He came across Belial snapping out orders to his warriors, sending them into the adjoining passages and chambers.

‘Praise to the Emperor that you live, Grand Master,’ said Sapphon.

‘Thanks also for your safe delivery,’ said Belial, out of politeness rather than conviction Sapphon presumed. The Grand Master looked past at the squads following the Chaplain. ‘I see you have found some more of my warriors. Gratitude for keeping them occupied.’

‘We endeavour for victory,’ said Sapphon.

‘A distant prospect, I must conclude,’ said Belial. His voice lowered, a difficult trick with an external vocaliser. ‘I do not think there is any target here for us to seize.’

‘Someone must be in control of the fortress, even if the one we seek is not present in person.’

‘Look around, brother,’ Belial said, sweeping an arm to encompass the ruined chamber. He sounded bitter. ‘There is nothing controlling this beast, for that is what we face. There are not mortal minds at work behind this conjuration. We have stepped into the body of a monster and it attempts to repel us, nothing more.’

This flat statement took Sapphon aback.

‘We must be sure of that,’ he said. ‘To risk so many warriors, for the brothers we have already lost, we cannot take anything as certain. Though perhaps no mortal design controls this place it must have certainly been shaped by one. What point would exist in creating a palace in which nobody lives?’

‘Do not think to get answer from me,’ said Belial. ‘I do not speculate on the workings of the abyssal foe, with good cause.’

‘But one might seek shelter here even if not to be its ruler. Anovel came here, I am certain of it.’

‘If your prisoner speaks truth, and there is no guarantee he does, then the one we hunt is no longer here. There is no mortal presence on this world, can you not feel it?’

‘Supposition is not evidence, Grand Master.’ Sapphon did not want to invoke his rank as Master of Sanctity – spiritual master even of Belial – but he felt he might have to. ‘Until we have scoured every part of this citadel and whatever lies beyond there is no means to know what might be found.’

‘A fool’s errand.’ Belial turned away and started to walk back down the pile of daemonic corpse-rubble but was stopped when Sapphon called his name. ‘Yes, Brother-Chaplain?’

Sapphon bit back a word of command. If needed he could say the words that would make Belial compliant, for a time at least. Grand Master or not, he had been subjected to the same procedures and hypnotherapies as every other Dark Angel; it was this secret knowledge with which Sapphon had been entrusted.

But it was no way to conduct command of an ongoing situation. Belial’s loyalty and dedication were not in question and awkward inquiries would arise if Sapphon used the secret words in such a manner. Instead he limited himself to one last appeal; if not to reason then to vengeance.

‘What of our brothers already slain in this duty?’ the Chaplain asked. ‘Are you willing to admit defeat so easily in their name?’

‘We will recover their armour and take their gene-seed, as we would all that give their life to the Chapter.’ Belial shook his head. ‘We will not forget them.’

‘I hope you remember that I advised against this course of action,’ said Sapphon.

‘It is noted that you wished to press on into an unknown situation for an indeterminate cause,’ said Belial.

‘No, not this immediate circumstance,’ said Sapphon, approaching Belial so that he could speak quietly. ‘I told you and our brothers that it was folly to commit our forces without more intelligence. I wanted to use the prisoner to gather information but you opposed my plan.’

‘Does it make it easier to see this, knowing that you were right?’ said Belial.

Sapphon looked around the chamber. Two Terminators had been killed in the recent fighting and he could see the war-plate of half a dozen more being carried in grav-nets slung on the backs of the survivors. He did not say as such, but their deaths were a vindication, not a condemnation. It irked Sapphon that their sacrifice would be doubly for nothing if they did not pursue the search for the Fallen, but he chose to hold his tongue, realising that Belial would not be swayed by argument.

‘If the Hunt has faltered, let us consider how we might extricate ourselves from this predicament,’ the Chaplain said, following Belial down the slope of broken brick and mangled joists.

‘Do not be vexed on account of our exit, brother. I have a plan.’

‘That sounds promising.’

‘Do not be too enthusiastic, it will not be easy.’

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

Something had changed.

Like a breeze rippling across grass, a shudder passed through the structure of the fortress. Bronchial tubes and arteries had given way some time ago to dank stone tunnels lined with mouldering timber supports and rafters. The wave was made evident by creaks of wood and stone grating on stone.

At first Telemenus could not tell if anything had happened. A few blocks had shifted and splits had appeared in some of the wood supports, but the hall they had been passing across remained the same. A constant dripping had echoed in the distance for several minutes. It had become a trickle and as Telemenus listened it grew into a steady stream.

‘Look, there!’ The beam of Daellon’s suit lamp pierced the gloom, coming to rest on a fractured pipe off to their right in the depths of the grand hallway. The liquid pouring from the break was thickening, blobs of matter congealing in the spreading puddle. An eye blinked at the Space Marines, a small, rotund body forming around it. Razor-sharp teeth seemed to accrete from flakes drifting in the liquid.

‘I think the fortress has found us,’ said Telemenus.

‘What?’

‘It has noticed our presence at last.’

Daellon’s storm bolter barked, turning the glistening pod-creature into a mush. Others were coming to life around it, popping into existence in the foam of the spilling liquid, which had now become a torrent bursting forth from several places along the rusted pipeline. The pool was rapidly spreading across the floor of the hall, sweeping the diminutive creatures towards the two Terminators. Dozens of eyes peered curiously at them out of the slime.

‘I do not think it would be wise to remain here,’ said Telemenus. He cast around, looking for an exit. There had been an archway about twenty metres ahead, but now the gap had been swallowed up, filled with root-like hangings intertwined with each other, each as thick as a man’s arm. A dim luminescence still shone through the gaps from the corridor beyond. ‘Up there. We will break our way through.’

Firing again at the emerging tide of bestial polyp-things, Daellon stepped sideways towards the opening. Telemenus strode more directly and started to tear at the root with his power fist, pulling away the thick strands in clumps. Something like a pained shudder pulsed through the tendrils and they suddenly sprouted dagger-like thorns. A chorus of snarls, whines and growls caused him to turn his head.

There were hundreds of the pustule beasts now, and the detached interest in their eyes had become outright malice. Frowns deepened and tiny fangs were bared. Clawed hands reached out of the ooze, forming from the rancid liquid, pointing accusingly as hisses of displeasure echoed around the hall. Wooden pillars bowed and twisted, splitting from the ceiling, knot holes opening into eyes rheumy with crusted sap.

A barbed tentacle from the archway lashed around Telemenus’s storm bolter, trying to pull it from his grasp. He wrenched the weapon free, tearing more of the vine-like tentacle away from the opening.

‘Save your ammunition,’ he told Daellon, who was keeping up steady bursts of fire into the enlarging mass of bodies, detonating the growths like squeezed boils. ‘Their numbers are too great.’

‘Damn things do not stay dead,’ said Daellon. He turned his back on the tide creeping towards them, flowing and glistening across the flagged floor like giant frogspawn on the surface of a pool, algal growths slicking ahead of the mass, becoming fungus and moss as it climbed the walls and wood beams. Where yellow and green pus stained the liquid, new clusters of claws and eyes formed.

More tendrils slapped and scraped against Telemenus’s armour as he forced his way through them, tearing and pulling, the blue blaze of his power fist lighting the corridor beyond. Daellon punched his way through beside him, using his bulk to force his way into the passage ahead of Telemenus. Fang-like thorns clattered from their armour as they took several steps down the passageway.

Telemenus looked back. The polyp daemons were at the door, pudgy legs with clawed feet giving them mobility as they pulled themselves from the spreading ooze with slurping and sucking sounds. They chattered excitedly, making obscene gestures with tiny fingers as they waddled after the Terminators, propelling themselves with skinny arms as well as rolling and bouncing down the corridor.

The floor bucked beneath Daellon as a monstrous eye erupted from the flagstones, tossing the Terminator into a mutating wall. Remembering the fate of Arbalan, Telemenus powered down his glove and hauled his companion back to his feet, dragging him to the centre of the corridor. The tide of daemons behind was still growing in number, hundreds now piling in waves and mounds after them, their snarling and shrieking rebounding from the narrowing walls.

They opened fire, though Telemenus knew the casualties they inflicted were almost inconsequential. It was ingrained into them to fight, even on the retreat. Walking backwards, alternating salvos of fire, was slower progress than advancing, but they did not dare turn their backs on the wall of daemonic minions slinking, crawling and bouncing after them.

‘Listen!’ hissed Telemenus, his auto-senses detecting a different noise to the retort of the storm bolters and squeals of exploding daemons. It was the faint echo of a boom, the after-noise of a loud crack somewhere in the distance. Telemenus recognised it instantly, as did Daellon.

‘Damn me, that sounded like a thunder hammer,’ said the Space Marine. ‘We should try to link up with whoever it is.’

‘If we turn now they will be on us in moments.’ Telemenus looked around the corridor. The stones were slewing away, revealing a strangely textured substance beneath, like hardened synth-gruel full of moving lumps. There was no way to bring down a roof or wall to block the path.

They fired together now, the combined fusillade of their storm bolters barely enough to hold back the burgeoning wall of vicious pustules. The fortress was trying to reform around them, splitting apart, showing inner sinews and bony structure. Stones and bricks were being shed behind them as the tunnel slowly constricted. Soon there would be no line of retreat.

This was not what Telemenus had expected at all; to perish swamped by a foul tide in the darkness of a warp-spawned nightmare, flailing futilely at his enemies. He had wanted a glorious death, gun in hand, slaying the foes of the Emperor. As a warrior of the Deathwing he had thought he would earn that honourable end. It seemed stupid, now that he thought about it. It was the lot of the Terminators to fight where others could not, in the shadowy places of the galaxy, far from witnesses, far from glory. It was not this that he had envisioned before the mission, when he had argued with Belial that he was ready for full battle.

The Grand Master’s brow furrowed dangerously and Telemenus wondered if he had overstepped his mark, had been too insistent in his petition. Belial said nothing for several moments, his gaze on the deep grain of the wooden desk behind which he sat.

‘Your right?’ the Grand Master said quietly, looking up. ‘You think it is your right to follow me into battle?’

‘A poorly chosen word, plucked from my mind in haste,’ said Telemenus. ‘I have worked hard these past forty days, I am sure Sergeant Arbalan will agree.’

‘I have the reports from Brother Arbalan.’ Belial patted a pile of transparencies neatly arranged in the corner of the desk. ‘He has been very thorough in his assessments of your readiness.’

‘Nobody has spent longer in the firing range and in the drill hall than I, Grand Master. Give me a chance to prove myself.’

‘A demand?’ Belial’s question was asked calmly, but it sent a thrill of nervousness through Telemenus. He would happily face a dozen orks, two dozen tyranid bio-constructs rather than endure this interrogation. Yet even this ordeal was nothing compared to the agony of potential shame should he be left behind whilst the other warriors of the Deathwing went into battle. It was an almost unheard-of dishonour, a fate that even the grievously wounded despised. Death would be preferable.

‘A request, Grand Master,’ Telemenus replied, trying to keep the worry from his voice. He needed to appear disciplined and competent. Better that than to plead, though if need be that was his last resort.

‘Why do you think you are ready for battle as one of the First Company, Telemenus?’

It seemed a strange question, the answer obvious.

‘I have shown consistent improvement in my training assessments, and I have attained the required proficiency with my Tactical Dreadnought armour. My scores out-rate those of Brother Daellon, and my disciplinary record has been exemplary since we translated into the warp. How could I not be ready?’

As soon as he asked the question, a turn of phrase that slipped out, he knew he had made a mistake. It was as though he was challenging his superior to justify himself, which had not been his intent. Telemenus wanted to explain the error, to apologise, but worried that this would show further vexation.

‘Are you really ready, up here?’ said Belial, tapping the side of his head with a finger. ‘You were slow and clumsy in thought as well as body. There can be no indecision, no hesitation in battle. You know this.’

‘Yes, Grand Master. And I have shown over many years’ service to the Chapter that I am capable in combat. Please do not take this as a boast, but to attain the Marksman’s Honour is not simply a matter of shooting straight. It requires focus, clarity of purpose and dedication to the mission. These traits were not erased by my elevation to the First Company.’

Belial leaned back, his bulky chair creaking under the movement. The Grand Master tapped his fingers on the desk top, drumming out a short tattoo. He nodded.

‘Points well made, brother.’

Telemenus sucked in a long breath, of excitement and relief.

‘Is that permission to join my squad, Grand Master?’

‘It is,’ Belial replied. ‘It is not only I that must trust you, Telemenus. Your battle-brothers will be depending upon your quickness of thought and accuracy of judgement. Let them down and dishonour is the least price we will pay.’

Telemenus saluted with a fist to his chest.

‘I will bring honour to the First Company, Grand Master.’

‘Do not be so concerned with reputation and legacy, Telemenus. Even the best of us will be forgotten by the long years to come. Act like the Space Marine I know you can be. That is the warrior I would want by my side. Look to your brothers and your battlegear, and let your honour take care of itself.’

Belial had as near as mattered warned Telemenus against this fate. Stubbornness and pride was holding him and Daellon here.

‘We have to run,’ said Telemenus, reloading his storm bolter.

‘How? Where?’ Daellon glanced across at his companion. ‘We cannot outpace these creatures in this armour.’

‘It is your choice, brother,’ said Telemenus. ‘In ten seconds I am going to turn and run as fast as I can. If you want to live, you should come with me.’

‘What life is worth running away for?’

‘To continue the battle, brother. Others are close at hand. We can still try to achieve the mission.’

‘Damn.’ Daellon fired a long stream of bolts into their foes. ‘Damn you, damn this Emperor-cursed pit, and damn these stupid balls of shit!’

They turned together. Telemenus tried not to think about what he was doing – his armour would interpret his intent without his conscious effort. He broke into a run, not exactly a sprint but after a few paces he had gathered speed, as had Daellon just behind him. Feeling more confident he stretched his strides a little, bounding from one foot to the other, the top of his backpack carving a furrow through the descending flesh of the ceiling.

He did not look back, but concentrated on the winding, undulating passage ahead. Settling into a steady rhythm, aware of the thudding of Daellon’s boots and wheeze of actuators still close at hand, he listened for the sound of combat – the noise of a thunder hammer impact, the crackle of power fists and lightning claws, the staccato detonations of storm bolter-rounds.

A brighter, bluer light illuminated the tunnel a few dozen metres ahead and Telemenus could see the passage widening into a larger chamber. He saw the telltale flicker of bolt propellant as rounds flashed past the opening. Daellon laughed.

‘Emperor-damned miracle, it is. A damned miracle!’

The two Terminators burst into a cavernous space easily a hundred metres high, veined and vaulted like some immense pulmonary chamber. Droplets of spattering fluid fell from open sores above and the uneven floor forced them to slow, lest they tripped on one of the cartilaginous ridges and masses that protruded through the skin-like surface.

Telemenus’s eye was immediately drawn to a figure in black Terminator armour and he recognised the markings of Brother Sapphon. With the Chaplain were eight other Terminators, almost surrounded by a crowd of humanoid, single-eyed daemons that crashed rusted blades against the Space Marines armour, their bodies twisted and rotting. The Terminators blasted and punched their way through the group, lightning claws carving ruinous tatters in immaterial flesh, while Sapphon bludgeoned and decapitated with his crozius arcanum.

‘Praise the Lion!’ Telemenus called out over the short-range vox. ‘A happy moment this is.’

Sapphon turned in their direction, skull helm half-covered with sickly ichor. He pointed at them with his crozius.

‘Beware!’

Daellon and Telemenus pivoted at the Chaplain’s warning. Dozens of the pustule-beasts boiled through the widening archway behind them, bursting out under the pressure of their numbers. Yet it was not these that had so concerned Sapphon. Behind them loomed something enormous, a bloated shadow that lumbered after its diminutive children.

Squeezing its bulk into the cathedral-like hall with surprising swiftness, the immense daemon was a hill of a beast, a mound of pestilent, torn flesh bloated with gas and fluids that bubbled from weeping sores in its green hide. It was nearly five times the height of Telemenus and Daellon, its broad shadow eclipsing both Terminators. Its wide, flat face was split by a slash of a grin, dagger-teeth discoloured and fractured. Broken horns jutted from either side of its head, dangling with streamers of entrails and foetid matter.

‘Get back!’ Daellon stepped in front of Telemenus and opened fire, stitching bolter detonations across the beast’s chest.

The daemon swung its right arm, flab bulging and rippling, a flail of rusted chain in its fist, each of the three massive lengths ending with a clutch of monstrous skulls. The flail slammed into Daellon. The whip-crack speed of the heads hit with a deafening crash, sending the Space Marine clattering a dozen metres across the floor, bouncing and twisting awkwardly over the uneven surface.

Telemenus raised his storm bolter and fired but it was pointless. A rusty pick whose head was as big as his torso plunged down, its tip punching through the left side of his plastron. A thousand crooked nails dragged through his ribs and innards where the pick cut deep into flesh to erupt from the base of his back. Telemenus could not swallow the screech of utter agony ripped from deep within his soul as the daemon dragged free the weapon, the rusted pick chewing at his wounds like a million insects gnawing in his flesh.

He met the gaze of the daemon and tried to fire again, but the storm bolter had fallen from his hand without him realising it. The daemon pouted, brow furrowed, a look of sympathy more than anything else. Telemenus collapsed to his knees, looking as though he had fallen in supplication to its mighty form. Blood frothed from the wound and smaller daemons poured around him, forked tongues lapping at the spilt life-fluid. Telemenus mustered enough strength to swipe them away with his power fist, leaving them as burst smears across his broken armour.

Telemenus fell forwards and was unconscious before his masked face slammed into the floor.

REALITY DAWNS

‘Destroy it! Purge the unclean beast!’

Sapphon’s command was fuelled by the horror he felt as he watched two Terminators laid low by the creature’s attack. The Deathwing gathered about him, pouring fire from all directions into the hulking monstrosity. The gigantic daemon let out a long, gurgling laugh and pointed its pick at the Terminators.

‘Slay them, my pretties!’ Its voice rumbled at the lowest depth of hearing, guttural and churning. The bass vibrations caused splinters of bone to fall from the ceiling, bringing showers of ichor and waste. The sea of daemon-mites that had preceded it into the chamber flowed towards the Deathwing. Storm bolter-rounds exploded within its flesh, leaving pocks of blood and pus, but it seemed unmoved by the wounds. ‘Make nests of their gizzards. Lay the eggs of decay in their eyes. Let free the pleasing snap of bone and splash of bile.’

It laughed again, hauling its bulk further into the cavernous space, folds of rotted flesh leaving skin scrapings along the sides of the archway. Tatters of thick hide flapped like banners from these new wounds.

‘Heavy flamers, keep back that swarm,’ ordered Sapphon. ‘Cadmael, fragmentation rounds. Thin their numbers.’

The cyclone-armed Terminator sounded an affirmative and a second later a flurry of rockets spread across the hall, falling amongst the tide of deamonspawn in blossoms of fire and shrapnel. Burning promethium from the weapons of Satrael and Nadraeus incinerated the small daemons by the score, leaving a slick of burning, deflating bodies.

‘No!’ The great daemon seemed genuinely upset by the loss of its minions. Its guffaws became stentorian grunts and moans of anguish. ‘My pretties! All crisp and shattering! No!’

Several close combat Terminators, two with thunder hammers and storm shields and another with gleaming lightning claws, advanced to stand guard over the inert forms of Daellon and Telemenus. The daemon turned on them, eyes blazing with yellowish warplight. ‘Make them pay, my pretties. Build the maggot-pile with their guts and sow the spores of entropy in their brains. Trample the blood mulch and sprinkle the enriching pus of nourishment upon their flesh!’

The gigantic apparition started to cough, its stomach heaving. Opening its mouth wide it spewed out a thick gout of blood, worms and filth at Brother Galain. The Terminator’s raised storm shield blazed with energy, deflecting much of the disgusting torrent, but thick globules of filth spattered his armour, hissing like acid as they burned into the ceramite.

‘Storm bolters are not having any affect,’ said Caulderain, reloading his weapon. He brandished his sword. ‘We must seek other means of slaying.’

The sergeant was right. The volleys of fire from the Terminators either bounced off the creature’s immaterial hide or else left small welts and wounds that caused it no grief at all. Though its chest and belly were riddled with holes, they were insignificant next to the long gashes and open sores that already split its flesh allowing glistening intestines and bulbous organs to bulge out.

‘Close order, assault weapons to the fore,’ barked Sapphon, breaking into a run with his crozius arcanum held ready.

The thunder hammer-armed warriors were closest and ploughed forward into the attack within moments. The heads of their weapons crackled with building energy, which exploded with streaks of power and the distinctive crash of sound that gave them their name. The daemon’s flesh wobbled and recoiled from blows that would have slain lesser creatures outright.

‘No, that will not do at all!’ bellowed the creature. Brother Galain brought up his storm shield again, warding away the swinging daemon-axe with a detonation of power. Brother Vestes beside him tried his best to parry the skull-headed flail, but was caught on the shoulder and sent spinning away. His lightning claws throwing sparks, Brother Zameus took his place, slashing and hacking, his relentless attack throwing gobbets of daemon flesh high into the air.

Sapphon charged across the field of daemonspawn, ignoring the sensation of them bursting underfoot. Caulderain was at his right shoulder, another Terminator to the left. They fell upon the daemon’s exposed right flank as it drew its pick back for another swing. Caulderain’s sword pierced its armpit. Sapphon leaped up and grabbed a fold of flesh in his fist, putting his momentum into his crozius to smash the power weapon deep into an exposed gut. Below him power fists punched and tore at the daemon’s bulk.

Chins and jowls wobbling with rage, the daemon swung towards this fresh attack. Its pick slammed into a Deathwing warrior and crushed his helm down to his breastplate. Using his crozius as a lever, feet pushing through leathery skin for purchase, Sapphon hauled himself up another metre towards the daemon’s head. It glared down at him, eyes with veins as thick as ropes swivelling madly in their sockets as they tried to focus.

Zameus buried his lightning claws fist-deep into the daemon’s thigh and stretched outwards, tearing apart skin, sinew and flesh. The daemon howled in pain, Sapphon suddenly forgotten. Shuffling its bulk, toppling three Space Marines as it did so, it heaved itself forward, burying Zameus under its massively swollen gut.

Sapphon used this opening to drag himself up to the monster’s chest, free hand plunged into fatty tissue to maintain his position while he swung his crozius arcanum with all the considerable strength of his Tactical Dreadnought armour. The blazing eagle head of the weapon crashed into broken teeth, shattering them further, ripping out of the beast’s cheek with a spray of thick blood and mucus-laced saliva.

‘Suffer… Not…’ Sapphon panted as he rained blow after blow against the skull of the daemon. It flopped backwards under the weight of the Terminators raining blows upon its unnatural body. ‘The… Unclean… To… Live!’

With a last spasm of belligerence, the daemon scattered a handful of Terminators with a swing of its flail, shattering pauldrons and cracking plastrons. Sapphon knew the thing was not of flesh and blood but an accumulation of warp-matter and psychic energy; it had no brain or nervous system that might control a mortal. Despite this, he pounded his crozius arcanum into the thing’s head until nothing was left except for a bloody, pus-ridden mush.

Gas erupted from the daemon’s deflating body, spraying a cloud of yellow filth into the air like a fountain. Sapphon rolled off its bulk to his feet, slicked head to foot in grime and gore.

‘Immolate it!’ he called, signalling for the other warriors to step away and allow the heavy flamers to do their work.

With white hot flames licking across its corpse, the daemon started to sink into the material of the palace, spreading out like melting fat, discolouring the floor and running in rivulets around bony growths.

‘It is not truly dead,’ Sapphon told the others. ‘It, or other things like it, will manifest again.’

‘What of the casualties?’ asked Caulderain.

‘Both alive,’ reported Apothecary Cassaen. He pointed at Daellon. ‘Unconscious but the armour took the brunt of the hit. Telemenus does not fare so well. The wound is grievous but not fatal, but the injury is already infected by the pestilence of this place.’

Sapphon joined the Apothecary and saw what he meant; black lesions were blistering the wound in Telemenus’s chest while a thin drizzle of milky fluid seeped from the fresh scab of Larraman cells closing off the injury.

‘Can you treat it?’

‘I can boost the armour’s conventional anti-disease systems but this is no natural malady. The skills of the Librarius would be more use here.’

‘Wake up Daellon. Carry Telemenus. I have an idea that may be beneficial to him and us.’

The last of the daemonspawn had been purged from the room. Galain and Temraen half-lifted Telemenus between them, while Caulderain marshalled the other Deathwing into formation. The sergeant signalled when they were ready to proceed and fell in beside Sapphon.

‘As much as I would not abandon a brother here, the lives of many more than Telemenus depend upon our swift success,’ said the sergeant.

‘That may be so, but Belial’s plan is not without significant risks,’ replied Sapphon. ‘Once we have broken free and located one of the Ravenwing teleport homers, one of us will have to recalibrate the signal and force-teleport back to the Penitent Warrior with the targeting information we have gathered. Such a manoeuvre is highly unpredictable, and in that regard Telemenus is as likely as any of us to succeed. And if the reverse teleportation succeeds he will be aboard the strike cruiser where Brother Ezekiel can attend to him.’

They advanced in silence for a few minutes, steered by the gentle pulse of a nearby teleport homer on their specially-tuned sensorium. For the moment it seemed the fortress had expended itself conjuring the massive plague daemon and their progress went unopposed.

‘If not for Telemenus, who would be making the force-teleport?’ Caulderain asked as they stopped at a junction with a ribbed tunnelway to get their bearings.

‘I would ask for a volunteer, of course,’ said Sapphon. ‘Does it matter?’

The sergeant paused before replying.

‘It is tantamount to a terminus mission. Tradition dictates that we should draw lots. Would you have entered yourself into the draw?’

‘What sort of question is that to ask of me?’ said Sapphon. ‘I do not understand what you think you are implying.’

‘The warriors grumble and talk, Brother-Chaplain, and I chastise them for it. But I have to know whether you consider yourself above such sacrifice.’

Sapphon drew in a sharp breath, astounded by the insolence of the question. He tempered his response, knowing that there was no malice intended by Caulderain’s inquiry.

‘My bravery is beyond question, brother-sergeant. Why would the battle-brothers doubt that?’

‘Not your courage, Brother Sapphon, but your dedication to them. The Hunt consumes Brother Asmodai and we understand why he is so harsh in his discipline. You are our spiritual leader, the head of the Chaplains, but rarely do you walk amongst us and hear our woes or give us praise. Since your ascension there are those that think you have abandoned us.’

The observation bit deeply but Sapphon could not argue against such concerns. His duties as Master of Sanctity – his real duties to the Inner Circle – did not allow him the time needed to perform the usual ministrations of a Chaplain. It was not until that moment that he realised how much the Deathwing looked to him for guidance; Belial was almost as uncompromising as Asmodai in his treatment of his warriors.

The truth was that the Hunt for the Fallen overtook any other consideration, and his role in the Hunt was of paramount importance to the Supreme Grand Master and the Chapter. However, this mission to Ulthor was going poorly, and it was likely they would leave in defeat. The Deathwing would need to believe in their leaders in the coming days and weeks.

‘Yes, brother-sergeant, I would draw my lot with the others,’ Sapphon lied.

FAITH

A susurrant scrabbling woke Telemenus. Everything was dark, save for a single patch of light that surrounded him but lit nothing else. He was out of his armour, kneeling on a hard floor, though all he could see of the ground in the circle of light was a flat white surface. He laid a hand upon it, feeling neither warmth nor cold.

‘Is this death?’ he asked, quickly realising that he was in no mortal space. ‘Is this all that awaits us? Oblivion?’

His voice disappeared into emptiness.

Another light appeared, a glowing shape that grew larger and larger. It was a skull, thrice the size of Telemenus. It hovered just out of reach. Telemenus thought he could hear the beating of massive wings and something moved in the darkness beyond. An eagle settled upon the top of the skull and regarded the Space Marine with a single eye; the other was an empty socket fitted with a blood-red gem.

‘What are you?’ asked Telemenus.

‘You know me.’ The voice was incredibly powerful, but not loud. It filled Telemenus, far more than sound. ‘I am the beginning and the end. I am the harbinger and the resolution. I am the creator and the destroyer.’

‘Forgive me, Lord Emperor!’ Telemenus cried, abasing himself, forehead to the ground, palms laid on either side. ‘I am not worthy.’

‘Not yet. Look at me, Telemenus.’

The Space Marine forced himself to look up but did not straighten. He trembled, every fibre of his body awash with fervent energy. The eagle was unmoving, claws digging into the bone of the giant skull. Distant flames burned in the eye sockets of the apparition, and in that flame Telemenus saw himself reflected, a tiny silhouette consumed by the fires.

‘I serve your will.’

‘And I receive your service.’ Warmth washed through Telemenus; a sensation he had not felt for many decades, repressed by training, suppressed by hypnotic suggestion. It was the feeling of being loved. From his childhood he had never known such a feeling, washed away with an infancy of bloodshed and hardship, but his body remembered. In the womb and in the cradle, a pure, unconditional love, and it was this that he felt from the Emperor.

‘I died?’ Telemenus was afraid to ask the question. It was strange that in life he had not been fearful of death.

He was shaken by the terror of the thought. It felt odd to be afraid, and the fear in itself added to the sensation, feeding back into itself to raise his dreads to a terrifying level. Now that he was divorced from his mortal shell emotion was raw, unchecked by artificial stimulants and hormonal therapies. The fear that gripped him was primal, unstoppable. He realised that this must be how every battle-brother felt when they died. They lived and fought without fear, but in the end they all died suffused with dread and utterly alone.

‘Never alone,’ declared the Emperor. ‘Those that die in my service are never alone. What lord you think I am, to demand such sacrifice and offer no succour in its delivery? Fear no more, Telemenus. Be strong in the knowledge that you do my work.’

‘I have faltered of late,’ said Telemenus. ‘My faith is tested.’

‘All faith is tested – it is the nature of the faithful to endure hardship. If doubt did not exist, there would be no triumph over it. How can victory be achieved without battle?’

‘I did not die well.’ Telemenus had a brief flash, of a rusted shaft penetrating his flesh. The memory brought a spasm of pain from waist to shoulder.

‘That has not yet been decided.’

‘My fall will be remembered with honour?’

‘Whether you have died.’

‘Oh.’ Telemenus sat up and linked his hands in his lap. He kept his gaze down, only occasionally glancing up at the divine spectre before him. ‘It seems unlikely that I will survive such a blow.’

‘I made you well, and you are strong enough to withstand such injuries. Fortune plays its part and only one lung was crippled. Your hearts still beat and that is enough for the moment.’

‘But my life still hangs in the balance? Do you suspend your judgement?’

‘Life and death are not mine to grant, not in this way. I breathed life into the gene-seed that created you. I gave life to your primarch. But death, death comes from many places and it has nothing to do with my judgement. The unjust sometimes live and the worthy perish. There is not a force in the universe that can overcome that primal truth.’

Telemenus pondered this revelation for a while. He could feel a scratching inside him, like a fingernail picking at the interior of his body.

‘That is a disease trying to ravage your inner organs. The blade brought a daemon-curse and it is trying to devour you.’

‘Will you protect me?’ said Telemenus.

‘I always protect you, Telemenus. Do you not feel my hand at your side in battle? Do you not feel my breath upon you when the rage sustains you? Have I not given you this fine body and the greatest weapons and armour of my followers? What else do you require?’

‘Purpose.’ Telemenus mumbled the word, knowing that he had to tell the truth but horrified by the admission. He could feel his strength ebbing away. He sagged, limbs weak, heart beating feebly in his chest. He knew he was losing the battle with the infection. It was leeching away his life, and he had not the will to fight it. He did not know whether he deserved to live. ‘I no more see the cause for which I fight. The Marksman’s Honour was but a temporal goal, an easement of my pride in place of true calling, but it is no substitute for conviction. Even before I knew of the Fallen, before the lies and secrets were laid bare, I had doubts. I was jealous of my brothers and suspicious of my superiors. I relinquished my honour in pursuit of vainglory. Forgive me, Lord Emperor, but I have brought shame to you and the Chapter.’

‘You are not in a position to make such judgement, Telemenus, but your confession is heard. Do you wish forgiveness, or to make atonement?’

‘I do not understand, Lord Emperor.’

‘If you die now you surrender to my will, burdened by this despair and loss. Live and you are granted fresh means to fight in my name. If you are delivered back to the mortal world, will you transcend the distractions that have plagued you? Will you make amends for your transgressions?’

‘I will!’ Telemenus forced himself to his feet, legs trembling. He clenched his fists to his chest, feeling his hearts strengthening as they were spurred by purpose. The thought of a fresh start, of returning to his body with honour and duty and vigour meant more to him than anything else; not for the sake of life but for the sake of the Emperor.

He looked at the dead visage before him.

‘This is a fever-dream, made real by the Eye of Terror,’ said the Space Marine. ‘I see that now.’

‘Are you so certain?’ said the giant skull. ‘Here there is no definition of real and unreal, all things are possible. Does not the light of my Astronomican stretch across the warp to the far corners of the galaxy? Do you think me incapable of reaching out to my dying servants?’

‘I… I am not sure…’

‘Do you seek proof, Telemenus?’

‘No.’ The Dark Angel’s body was clad in armour now, the white of the Deathwing. He felt power surging through him. ‘Belief is enough.’

He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the bottomless pits of Chief Librarian Ezekiel’s gaze; one real eye and one bionic. Telemenus could not move his head but he felt Ezekiel’s bare hand upon his chest; a suffusion of warmth coming from the fingertips pressing into his flesh.

‘Where…?’

‘Aboard the Penitent Warrior, brother.’ Ezekiel removed his hand and stepped back. Sensation started flowing back into Telemenus and he blinked to clear his eyes.

‘I do not understand.’

‘Nor I, not fully. You force-teleported back to the ship and your vox-system contained a recording from Brother Sapphon.’

‘We lost all comms on the surface. The sensorium went haywire.’

‘So we gathered. Sapphon’s message contained a detailed firing solution, based on a triangulation of the teleporter homing beacons. We will commence bombardment shortly.’

‘Not everybody was in vox-contact,’ said Telemenus. He tried to sit but could not. He was still paralysed below the neck. Sensation had not yet returned to his arms or legs. ‘If they do not know of the orbital strike…’

‘An unavoidable situation. We are broadcasting data across the teleport signal, we hope that will be sufficient warning for those unaware of the plan.’

Telemenus’s thoughts turned to himself and his recent experience.

‘The infection? The daemon-curse?’

‘Cleansed, both physically and psychically.’ There was something in Ezekiel’s demeanour that suggested he was not being fully truthful. Telemenus was tired of secrets and falsehoods.

‘Were you… Were you the Emperor?’ Ezekiel looked genuinely confused by the question. ‘Never mind.’

‘The infection was deep, its corrupting influence spreading. Drastic measures were required to excise it.’

‘Drastic? How drastic?’ It was no shame to be fitted with a bionic or augmetic; to some Dark Angels such alterations were considered a badge of honour. To fight on for the Chapter was the only concern that filled Telemenus at the moment. ‘How much was excised?

Ezekiel stepped away and a Chapter serf in the robes of an apothecarion orderly wheeled a lighted mirror into place with a screech of poorly oiled bearings. Telemenus moved his eyes to the right and looked down at his body.

Very little remained. Everything below his ribs was gone, as was his left arm.

The wounds were stitched and heavily cauterised and a splay of cables and pipes connected him to a life system building into the bottom of the bunk. His skin had a dark cast to it, evidence of the canker that had tried to overwhelm his Space Marine physiology. His veins and arteries stood out like cords.

He was just a head, torso and arm. For a moment it didn’t register that he was looking at himself. Yet he felt very little pain and he certainly was not upset by the discovery; perhaps the sustaining elixirs pumping through his body were suppressing the natural horror he thought he should feel. He looked at Ezekiel, who watched with soul-searching eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Telemenus. The anti-pain stimms were flooding his system and it was hard to form any coherent thought. ‘That certainly was drastic.’

DIVISION

Asmodai felled another cyclopean daemon with a punch that turned its face to a pulped mess. The remains of its body collapsed into a pile, strands of mould quickly covering the unnatural corpse.

‘Brother-Chaplain!’ Sergeant Daeron’s call did not distract the Chaplain as he caved in a daemon’s chest with his crozius. ‘Brother Vascaertes reports detecting a signal anomaly, four hundred metres ahead.’

‘Signal anomaly? Be more specific, brother-sergeant.’ Asmodai presented his left shoulder to deflect a serrated daemonblade away from his chest. He turned back sharply, smashing the back of his hand across the creature’s face before driving the head of his crozius arcanum into the side of its neck. Thick sludge spewed from the wound as the plague-creature fell back, an anguished moan escaping tattered lips.

‘Apologies, Brother-Chaplain, that is all I know.’

‘Brothers, rally to me! Push on to Vascaertes’s location.’

Progress had been tortuously slow, opposed every step of the way by daemons of all shapes and sizes. Materialising out of the warpstuff that formed the structure of the citadel, there was no end to their attacks. Ulthor was partially submerged within the warp itself, the abode of the daemons. Every time a physical vessel was destroyed the essence of the daemon entity simply formed another. Vascaertes and several others had been sent ahead to scout the surest path to the centre of the palace but it seemed they had discovered something else.

Asmodai and the others came upon the lead squad, who had formed a wall of storm bolter fire and armour across a bridge that spanned a seething river of blackness fifty metres below. The surface of the fluid roiled with a life of its own, forming transient shapes that looked like half-formed faces. Vascaertes and his companions kept up a steady stream of fire, keeping back several enormous slug-beasts and a tide of spiderlike, gangling creatures with mandible faces and eerily human hands.

The Space Marines with Asmodai moved up to lend further support, assault cannons and storm bolters adding to the barrage of fire, tearing apart the oncoming horde of misshapen daemons.

‘Vox-channel kappa,’ said Tyronius. ‘Automated signal coming through.’

Asmodai used a sub-vocal command to activate his vox-receiver on the frequency. At first the Chaplain heard a stream of numbers, voiced by a servitor. After that followed a message which he immediately recognised came from Brother Ezekiel. The Librarian had remained in orbit, removed from direct contact with the warp space overlap. The psyker had been unsure whether even Space Marine training and centuries of experience were enough to shield against psychic possession on a daemon world. Now he was somehow sending a message down to the surface.

+Orbital support has been ordered. Placed bombardment will commence at five-oh-eight-oh-seven-alpha. Target coordinates attached.+

Asmodai listened as the numbers were reeled off again and then cut the link.

‘A bombardment? We cannot even maintain vox-contact over two hundred metres, how are they targeting the palace?’ said Sergeant Daeron.

‘The vox-channel is on the same register as the teleport homers,’ said Vascaertes. ‘They must be riding the carrier wave to triangulate a targeting pattern.’

‘For us to pick up the signal there has to be a homing beacon within two hundred metres of us,’ said Daeron. ‘But the Ravenwing could not have penetrated very far into the interior of the fortress. We must be moving towards the outside, not the centre!’

‘That time-code gives us less than five minutes, brothers,’ said Apothecary Temraen. ‘Can we calculate the positions of the bombardments?’

‘Better that we head for the beacon and exit the citadel,’ said Daeron. ‘We are almost out of ammunition and we cannot hope to achieve anything but a successful evacuation.’

The din from the weapons of the Terminators intensified as several of the Deathwing moved to the edge of the bridge and started firing down at the amorphous shapes growing up towards them. Black liquid solidified into hard edges that glinted with warp energy, shattering under the impacts of bolts and shells.

‘Defeatist nonsense,’ snapped Asmodai. He recalled the subversive influence of the destroyer hive trying to possess him. ‘With orbital support we will be able to breach the inner sanctum of this place and destroy the consciousness at its heart. If we have reached the edge of the fortress we need to turn back. Calculate those target coordinates and retro-plot a new course.’

‘To what end, brother?’ said Daeron. ‘There is no mission to carry out. We withdraw while we can.’

‘Do not countermand my orders, brother-sergeant,’ said Asmodai. He joined the line of warriors guarding the bridge. The fusillade had almost died out as quivering stains and bubbling smears were all that remained of the most recent wave of daemons. ‘Daeron, Navaesus, Vascaertes and Manneus will form rearguard. We advance by threes, one hundred metre dispersion, maintain vox-contact.’

‘No,’ said Daeron. ‘We cannot sustain further losses, Brother-Chaplain. We have failed. We have to withdraw and regroup under cover of the bombardment.

‘Do not defy me!’ roared Asmodai. ‘I am your superior and you will obey me. When y–’

The Chaplain’s words were lost in a thunderous crash from above. The bridge shook and the sluggish river spasmed, a wave of viscous darkness splashing up the supports. Pieces of jagged masonry and shards of bone broke away from the ceiling, raining down equally on the dark river and the armour of the Terminators.

‘The bombardment has started!’ said Vascaertes.

‘It seems our chronometers have been affected as well as the sensorium,’ said Temraen.

‘Brother-Chaplain!’ Daeron spoke sharply but quietly. ‘We are as likely to be obliterated by our own ships as we are to fight through. Give the order to withdraw!’

It tore at Asmodai’s soul to order a retreat. Even if the Fallen was not here, this was a stronghold of the enemy, taken from the Imperium. It was his duty to avenge that loss and punish those that had attacked the realm of the Emperor.

Another impact ripped open the ceiling above, sending a shower of debris crashing down on the far side of the warp-river. Through the ragged hole the Chaplain could see yellowish clouds, formed into scowling faces and snarling mouths. Dark blurs descended from the cloud layer, shells descending at supersonic speed to smash into other parts of the fortress. He could feel further impacts shaking the whole citadel. A beam of bright white burned through the cloud for an instant as a laser lance opened fire from orbit, carving a furrow of destruction across the surrounding city.

‘We cross the bridge and break out under the breach,’ Asmodai told Daeron. ‘There will be a reckoning later, brother-sergeant.’

‘A fate I am happy to endure, brother, if we survive this,’ said the sergeant.

RETREAT

The flash of detonation reached Annael a few moments before the shriek of the descending ordnance and the boom of impact. The city convulsed. Chimneys and towers and spires trembled, the roadway and buildings heaved, ascending hundreds of metres as though all of Ulthor had drawn in a gargantuan breath. Flames blossomed along the flank of the central edifice, scattering debris and chunks of burning flesh.

Along with the rest of the Ravenwing, Tybalain and his squadron had been patrolling a perimeter around the central fortification, keeping back daemon-giants and lesser beasts with hit-and-run attacks, drawing the wrath of the city away from the Deathwing within. There had been no communication from the First Company but bike auspexes and Land Speeder passes had identified fierce fighting within the confines of the palace structure. Annael observed the destruction being rained down from the heavens from about a kilometre away, as the squadron took a pass along a bucking plaza between three domed buildings with faces screaming from their walls. Bells pealed a deafening clamour from swaying towers around them.

They brought their bikes skidding to a halt as Tybalain braked hard and turned to watch the ongoing destruction. A lance-beam scored an arc around the base of the pallid structure, steam and smoke rising in billows where the laser seared through warpflesh.

‘Does that bode well or ill?’ asked Nerean.

‘Ill for any enemy beneath such fury,’ said Sabrael, sitting behind Annael. They had stowed the machine spirit of his bike in one of Black Shadow’s panniers and he carried both his own bolt pistol and Annael’s.

‘And the Deathwing?’ said Annael. ‘Have they left targeting beacons, perhaps?’

‘Surely they would not bring down a bombardment onto themselves,’ said Nerean. ‘And the ships would not open fire without a direct command, would they?’

The question hung in the air, none of the Black Knights willing to answer it. It was possible that the assault had gone so badly wrong orbital attack was the only option left. If that was the case, Annael realised, it was a sure sign that there was no Fallen Angel inside. The others seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

‘The whole mission has been a waste of time,’ said Sabrael. ‘Whatever, whoever brought us here has made a sore mistake.’

‘Vital intelligence may have been gathered,’ argued Annael. ‘We cannot say for sure that our journey here has been in vain.’

‘Vain or not, we cannot remain here,’ said Tybalain.

‘You have received word from Sammael?’ asked Calatus. ‘Fresh orders?’

‘No, vox-traffic is still intermittent,’ admitted the Huntmaster. ‘The bombardment must be the culmination of the assault, either for the final push or to assist retreat. We should ride back to the citadel outer reaches and provide assistance and support.’

‘What if the entire area is to be vaporised?’ Sabrael asked. ‘It would be unwise to remain within the city limits for long.’

‘The Grand Master will be at the heart of the city, so we will attend,’ said Tybalain, his tone indicating that this was the final opinion on the matter. ‘Keep comms open for any transmission.’

As they cruised back towards the spasming towers and spires of the palace the city was in full revolt. Buildings collapsed into fragments around them, spraying shards of stone and glass and metal splinters. The hard substance of the road melted away, creating a mire that sucked at the tyres of their bikes, the filthy slew riddled with breaking rocks that threatened to unseat the riders with every bump and turned wheel.

‘Pick a kinder path, brother,’ Sabrael complained. He had holstered one pistol and was holding on to Annael’s backpack with his free hand. ‘Your riding has not improved since our first encounter.’

‘And your tongue has not stopped since,’ Annael snapped back, trying to discern the safest route ahead, pillars toppling on both sides, sinkholes opening up in the ground without warning. Other dangers were materialising: tendrils weighted with chunks of masonry like immense flails and bladed appendages that spun with maddening speed, the air alive with shrieks and whines.

They were about half a kilometre from the citadel, a pinnacle wreathed in smoke and flames towering above them. Larger shapes cut through the gloom, leaving contrails from their wings.

‘Thunderhawks!’ exclaimed Calatus.

The gunships were dropping quickly through the haze and smog, disappearing behind the spasming buildings while fighters and interceptors cut tight circles above, their weapons directed against extrusions and tentacles streaming from the palace walls.

‘The Deathwing are evacuating,’ said Tybalain.

Distracted, Annael did not see a tooth-like rock erupting from the ground just in front of Black Shadow. Sabrael’s cry of warning did not come in time and the front wheel rode up wildly as the bike hit the protrusion at speed.

Annael wrestled to keep his steed straight as the back wheel dragged through the mud, the weight of the bike slipping to one side, threatening to tip over completely. Sabrael reacted in an instant, leaning out to his left to put his weight behind Annael’s effort, his momentum hauling the bike back onto course. Annael compensated, dipping to the other side as Black Shadow crashed level again, churning a spray behind them.

‘Stop your wriggling,’ snapped Annael. ‘You almost tipped us over.’

‘Wriggling?’ Sabrael’s voice rose in pitch. ‘I just saved us!’

‘Quiet!’ Tybalain’s curt command silenced them both. Sammael was transmitting over the company vox-channel, ordering the Ravenwing to pull out of the city and await extraction on the surrounding plains.

There was no debate as the Huntmaster led them around in a tight turn, engines roaring at full power as they ploughed through the thickening mud and slime gripping at wheels and feet. The filth squirmed and swelled ahead, forming hummocks and barricades; the first they avoided, the second they plunged through heedlessly, doused in grime and bloody fragments.

Annael risked a glance back, past Sabrael who was holding on now with both hands.

‘What do you see?’ Sabrael asked.

‘The city is tearing itself apart.’ Annael swerved past a giant, stubby fingered hand that thrust out of the mire. ‘Something monstrous, manifesting from the citadel.’

Annael felt Sabrael’s weight shift as he turned to see.

‘Emperor save us,’ exclaimed the Dark Angel.

‘What is it?’

‘Best not to look. Just ride!’

Annael turned his head for a fraction of a second. In that moment he saw three things. Firstly, the fly cloud was descending, a pall of absolute blackness falling from the sky. Secondly, the city just a few hundred metres behind them was no more. Spires, roads, alleys and chimneys had been replaced by a landscape of monstrous jutting bones, immense tentacles and blisters exploding with swarms of daemon-things. Lastly, the central palace had mutated into a single impossibly-large apparition. He had seen a Thunderhawk passing in front of an eye half a kilometre across, its heavy bolters and lascannons spitting fire ineffectually at the unholy monster.

‘Lion’s oath,’ he cursed, almost losing control of his steed in the moment of shock.

‘I said best not to look! Eyes ahead, brother. Keep your eyes ahead!’

The road, more like the sodden bottom of a river, was sloping away ever more steeply. The city was still rising up, Annael realised, swelling like a bubble about to burst. As soon as he thought of the analogy he regretted it, fearing what was to come.

‘Hold on!’ he told Sabrael, leaning hard to the right. The bikes ahead of him were churning up the ground too badly to follow; better to cut his own way through the mud. The ground looked firmer over to their right and he angled the bike towards it, opening up the throttle to full. As the wheels hit the patch of hardened dirt Black Shadow lurched forward.

Annael stood up, leaning all his weight forward as the front of the bike threatened to upend them again. The slope was almost at forty-five degrees now but there was no chance Annael was going to slow down. Carving a furrow through the grime, speed breaking the hundred and fifty kilometres an hour mark, they arrowed straight towards the open plains ahead.

Land Speeders screamed past to either side while the shadows of gunships above overtook the speeding bikers. Monstrous bellowing and enraged howls followed the Ravenwing as they burst out onto the plain.

‘Where are you going?’ Sabrael asked over the vox, the rush of the wind too loud to hear anything else now.

‘Does it matter?’ Annael replied, unable to shake the feeling that something horrific was only metres behind them, ready to swallow them up the moment he slowed down. He could not risk looking back – and dared not even if he could – but fixed in his mind was the image of uncoiling swarm-tentacles and grasping clawed hands and sentient tar-pits, clawing and buzzing and sucking, desperate to drag them back and sink them down into oblivion.

‘No,’ said Sabrael. ‘Far away from here is good enough for me.’

Annael carried on at full speed for another ten kilometres, far beyond the outer reaches of the city, before he started to ease up on the throttle. He eased the bike in a gentle arc to the left, still travelling at a hundred kilometres an hour, giving them the chance to see what was happening. Squadrons and individual bikes were scattered across the pale ground of the flats, banks of dust kicked up in their wake. The horizon was black with the swarm cloud, the flare of plasma jets bright against the darkness as gunships and fighters climbed up to orbit.

It was clear in that moment, as the Ravenwing retreated in disarray, that the Dark Angels were quitting Ulthor, and not with the honour of victory.

‘Do you think we will be coming back?’ Annael asked.

‘By the Lion, I hope not,’ said Sabrael. Annael did not disagree.

DESPERATE TIMES

‘Grand Master Belial requested that I send news back to the Chapter within the hour,’ said Ezekiel. ‘I cannot do what you ask.’

Sapphon sat down opposite the Chief Librarian and laid his hands on the table, fingers splayed. The Chaplain took a deep breath and sighed.

‘I understand,’ said Sapphon. ‘The Supreme Grand Master should be prepared for our return. This shameful loss will not be forgotten swiftly.’

‘Nor should it,’ said Ezekiel.

The Librarian’s chamber was almost pitch black, lit only by the radiance of a comms monitor and a single glowglobe in the ceiling rose above the small table. It was a cramped space, the cell made all the more claustrophobic by the lead-filled grooves in the walls that served to break up psychic connections. It felt as if they drained the life from Sapphon as much as they guarded Ezekiel against daemonic intrusion.

A large writing pad, ruled like a ledger, was open on the small desk beside the Librarian, an autoquill beside it. The pad was filled with strange symbols Sapphon did not recognise. Ezekiel noticed the object of his attention and turned, pulling the hefty tome onto the table for the Chaplain to see. He looked at the rows of neatly formed runes but could make no sense of them.

‘Messages, warp dreams, divinations,’ explained Ezekiel. ‘The code is unique to the Librarius, with my own interpretations, of course.’

‘Everything you see, it is recorded in here?’ Sapphon was surprised by just how slender the volume was. ‘Is this the only one?’

‘It is mine alone, yes,’ said Ezekiel. ‘The rune system is pleasingly efficient. It is almost impossible for me to explain to you, a mundane, but another Librarian with the same training as me would know many of the symbols used without need of any further information. They convey a… a sense of an image, a sound, scent or feeling. All psychic contact is merely extrasensory perception rendered into physical form. Foreboding, hope, despair, a tower or key, or perhaps even life and death. Combined together a few simple concepts convey a lot of meaning.’

‘And what entry were you completing when I arrived? A dream?’

‘The transmission I am about to make on behalf of Grand Master Belial,’ said Ezekiel. He shut the book with a heavy thud. ‘What has been recorded must be carried out.’

‘And what do those symbols mean, brother?’ said Sapphon. ‘Loss? Shame? Failure? Does it not tear your heart to contemplate that message? In the centuries to come when your successors study your life, the prophecies and communications that will be all that remain of our deeds, what will they think of today?’

‘The Dark Angels have suffered defeat before,’ said the Librarian. ‘Our history is glorious, but not perfect.’

‘Oh, it is far from perfect, brother, as we both know well.’ The Librarian’s eyes narrowed as he took Sapphon’s meaning. The Chaplain shook his head ruefully and continued. ‘We still have a chance to rectify part of that failure, both in the distant past and more recent setbacks. Ulthor was a misstep, an avoidable loss. To return in shame, to not learn the lesson of defeat would only increase the dishonour.’

‘We cannot undo what had passed,’ said Ezekiel. He lifted the book back to the desk, placing it inside a roller shutter. He pulled down the linked slats of wood, revealing a Dark Angels icon branded into its surface. There was a click of a lock catching. ‘The past is done.’

The Chaplain thought this a dismissive conclusion; one easily reached by someone that had not been in the plague stronghold and seen the corruption within. Too many warriors had died in folly for the misadventure to simply be relegated to history. But what was the point in trying to make Ezekiel see thus? He had gazed into the nature of the warp countless times and the horrors of Ulthor would seem trivial in comparison. It mattered not that between the two companies sent down to the planet seventeen Deathwing and eight warriors of the Ravenwing would not be returning, not to mention the loss of armour and bikes almost as damaging. In recent history it was a loss without precedent.

‘The past is indeed done,’ said Sapphon. ‘We can only shape what is yet to come. I ask only for a little time, brother. An hour, if that is what you promised the Grand Master. All I say is do not send that message yet. Grant me this favour, brother.’

‘And what do you intend to do with such a gift? The trail is lost, Sapphon, as cold as the bodies of those that died following it into the plague palace.’

‘And that is where we went wrong. It was never my intent to assault Ulthor, but that was forgotten. Worse than forgotten, wilfully overlooked. Even you, brother, argued against me.’

‘And now I owe you this favour?’

‘We are brothers, we owe nothing to each other except loyalty and protection.’ Sapphon smiled. ‘But would not the message to the Rock be just a little more bearable if we could still give cause for hope. The shame will not be lessened, but might we promise just a sliver of light for the future?’

The Librarian stood up and turned away, disappearing into the gloom. Sapphon could see Ezekiel, hunched shoulders, head bowed, hands gripping the edge of the shelf above his ward-inscribed bunk.

‘I have looked into the mind of Astelan, remember. There are doors in there locked by a power greater than mine, but I think that is for the best. We do not want to open such portals – not now, not ever.’

‘I seek no magic portal, only cooperation already offered. Delay your astrotelepathy for an hour, no more, and grant me the chance to seek confirmation of Astelan’s continued intent to aid us. If it was his aim to have us bloodied at Ulthor he has succeeded. If he thought we might be destroyed, he has failed. There is nothing further he can do.’

‘We both know that is not true,’ said Ezekiel, turning around. His good eye was a spark in the darkness, reflecting a silver gleam from the anti-psychic wards around him. ‘In this place my talent is suppressed, but it is not gone. We both know what it is you seek.’

‘I seek the truth, and victory, like every member of the Inner Circle,’ Sapphon said. His heart quickened at the thought of the Librarian peering into his mind, but he knew that the wards and the oath of the Librarius prevented such intrusion. Only exceptionally strong emotions and projected thoughts could be detected. ‘We crave redemption, brother, I will not deny it. It was my idea to come to this place, even if we did not follow through on my strategy. When we return, my disgrace will be complete.’

‘And you think to appease those of the Inner Circle that wish you removed with further involvement in the machinations of a Fallen Angel?’

‘I have no other choice. I must follow through this cause and course to its conclusion, for good or bad.’ Sapphon went over to the Librarian and stood in front of him, fist clenched over heart as though making an oath. ‘This defeat is not final, but I am ruined by it, brother. You have never been amongst those who opposed my elevation. Exercise a modicum of choice now, brother, and allow me this last attempt to save not only myself but perhaps secure a great prize for us all.’

Ezekiel stared long and hard at the Chaplain. His gaze was dead for a moment, looking through Sapphon, seeing sights that no normal man would see. There was a hint of pain and resignation in the ancient look. Sapphon was strong-willed but he had never felt his body being stripped away, his soul exposed in such detail before. Even though Ezekiel had no access to his psychic powers it was an intimidating feeling to be scrutinised in such a fashion; Sapphon wondered how the Fallen could resist such attention backed by the full psychic might of the Chief Librarian.

Eventually Ezekiel offered a hand. Sapphon took it and gripped it tight, reassured by the gesture.

‘Two hours,’ said the Librarian. ‘I give you an extra hour for the sake of all our souls.’

Sapphon thanked the Librarian and left. He headed to the part of the penitentium that had been cordoned off from the rest of the ship’s complement. Two Deathwing Knights in full armour and wielding large maces, Hastfed and Molochai, stood guard at the door to Astelan’s cell. They stepped aside at the Chaplain’s approach.

‘He has been singing,’ reported Molochai, obviously disapproving of such behaviour. ‘I would have told him to shut up but your instructions were to exchange no word with the prisoner.’

‘You judged right, brother,’ said Sapphon, producing a key from a pouch at his belt. Normally the cells were not barred – to leave before penance was complete was unthinkable for a Dark Angel – but it had been a wise precaution to install a lock on this particular chamber. The key was gene-coded to Sapphon – Asmodai had another – and as well as physically fitting the complex lock it transmitted a unique sonic code.

Sapphon unbolted the door and lay a hand on it but did not push it open. He turned to Molochai.

‘Singing what, brother?’

‘I did not recognise it as any battle hymn or prayer, brother,’ replied the knight. ‘I could not even tell you what language it was.’

‘Very well. Remain at your posts.’

Sapphon stepped inside the cell and closed the door behind him. Astelan was clothed in a grey smock and ankle-high boots and had regained a lot of his lost weight. He was shackled by the ankle to the bench at Asmodai’s insistence. Several books were piled beside the Fallen and he sat reading another. Every penitentium cell contained volumes of Chapter teachings as well as treatises on Guilliman’s famed Codex Astartes. Sapphon quickly scanned the titles of the books that had attracted Astelan’s attention. Unsurprisingly they were those that concerned battle doctrine and organisation.

‘It was very different, when I first joined the Legion.’

‘I am not interested in your reminiscing, Astelan. I need assurances from you.’

‘Then you will have to indulge me,’ said the Fallen, lifting the book so that his face was concealed.

Sapphon slapped the book away, in no mood for Astelan’s theatrics and posturing. Asmodai was not the only one capable of inflicting pain when necessary. The Chaplain grabbed one of Astelan’s wrists and twisted, forcing him to turn, face against the wall. The Fallen did not resist but waited meekly, cheek pressed against the plasteel of the bulkhead.

‘I told you that if you played me false you would die in agony,’ snarled the Master of Sanctity. ‘The next words to pass your lips will stand testament to the choice you have made.’

Astelan wisely remained silent, his flippant remarks and insults gone for the moment.

‘I see that I am understood,’ said Sapphon, still keeping his grip tight. ‘Admit that you lied to me. Confess and death will be swift but without pain.’

The Fallen remained still, breathing quick and shallow, open hand and face pressed against the wall.

‘Blessed is the mind too small for doubt,’ he whispered. ‘Do you claim that as your greatest teaching, or do you possess a more open and analytical mind, Sapphon?’

It was not the reply the Chaplain had been expecting. He relinquished his hold and stepped back, trying to work out what Astelan meant. The Fallen stretched and rolled out a kink in his neck, eyeing Sapphon with suspicion. The distrust was mutual, but despite everything that had passed in the last few hours Astelan could still prove useful.

The Chaplain wished he could be rid of the burden of this traitor, to release him into Asmodai’s unkind care once more, but there was more than simply Sapphon’s reputation and position to consider. The threat posed by Anovel, allied with the Death Guard perhaps, was very real. The attack on Piscina was no phantom of potential dishonour, it had actually happened. He had listened to Boreas’s testimony many times since it had been unearthed by Malcifer and Sammael, and it told a tale of deliberate assault and provocation against the Chapter.

‘You claim doubt is not a weakness? It was doubt that corrupted you and turned you from the true path of loyalty. That is why your protestations of honour and allegiance to the Emperor ring so hollow, Astelan.’

‘If you did not have doubts, I would be having this conversation with Asmodai.’ The Fallen shook his head. ‘No, I would be bleeding at the hands of Asmodai, no conversation involved. It is doubt that keeps you here – the doubt that I lied to you. Your brothers, the other ones that know about me, they are convinced that I have misled you. It is clear that something has gone wrong. You attacked Ulthor, I assume? You may have me here in the bowels of the ship but even so I can remember the noise and feel of a warship emptying its launch bays. I heard the battle-sirens.’

Sapphon hated that Astelan could glean such insights from the scantest clue. In moments the Fallen had turned hesitation to his advantage, challenging the Chaplain to dispute these claims, any failure to do so confirming them.

He was moments from turning and leaving; calling on Asmodai to make the Fallen pay for his treachery with torment. They would return to the Rock and Sapphon would face dishonour. No penance for the Chaplain, no humiliation in front of the Chapter. Such matters had to be dealt with in circumspect manner. The Inner Circle would let its displeasure be known only amongst themselves. To the rest of the Dark Angels, it would seem that Sapphon was Master of Sanctity, spiritual leader. To Sapphon it would be the silent judgement, a tacit sentence of death. Every drop assault, every forlorn hope, every last-ditch defence and terminus mission he would be expected to lead from the front until Sapphon had offered the only reparation left to him: his death.

‘Let me make a further guess,’ Astelan continued. Sapphon wanted the Fallen to be quiet but knew that another outburst would only encourage the traitor. ‘You did not find what you seek. If you had suffered defeat that would not be enough to bring you here, you would be preparing fresh assault to secure Anovel.’

‘You seem sure of your deductions, Astelan. What makes you think you read the situation correctly? You were a war-leader, a fighter, when did you gain such illuminating insight into the minds of others?’

‘I learned such things as you and your brothers applied brand to my flesh and parted skin with rasp and knife,’ snarled Astelan. ‘When your witches tried to prise open your mind they opened to me for an instant and I stared back. Boreas was a fine torturer, though Asmodai was more efficient. He was also nearly your equal in manipulation. I almost fell for his tricks and lies, but I did not give up. I learned your ways, the means by which you pull secrets from the heads of others and cloak yourself with false faith and misdirection.’

The Fallen swept the pile of books from the bench, quivering with anger.

‘Deceit and treachery, hidden behind superstition and dogma!’ Astelan’s hands formed fists. He did not turn them on the Chaplain but controlled himself with visible effort. ‘Nothing you represent stands for the ideals of the Emperor any more. I am done with helping you.’

Sapphon smiled. He slowly picked up the books and returned them to the gaps on the shelf on the wall of the chamber. He did not turn around.

‘No, Astelan, you are not done with helping me. The fact remains that you stand accused of consorting with the Ruinous Powers. Save your fake rage. Nothing you have said or any act you have performed supports your professed innocence of this crime. It was a foolish hope of mine that you might be telling the truth. A doubt, you would call it. Now you accuse me of disloyalty, as deflection from your own guilt.’ Sapphon turned to face the Fallen, who was sitting on the bench once more, arms folded, expression set defiantly. ‘Petty games. You lie to yourself even more than you lie to us. I do not think you were as pivotal in the rebellion as you claim to be. You were a pawn of Luther as much as anybody else. He fell to the Dark Powers and you fell with him. You were nothing – a failed commander sent back by the Lion to where you could do no more harm. A spoilt child, believing you were special because the Emperor called you a warrior in his First Legion.’

‘I know that you do not believe that,’ replied Astelan. ‘Boreas told me that my name was at the top of a list of Fallen, the list of those you hunted.’

‘That much is true,’ said Sapphon. He saw a glint of triumph in the Fallen’s eyes; triumph that was soon crushed by the Chaplain’s next words. ‘That list was simply alphabetical, Merir Astelan.’

The Fallen said nothing, resentful and petulant at this declaration. Sapphon did not allow himself to become too confident. He had wrested control back from his adversary but he had not gained what he needed.

‘You refuse to confess and you refuse to repent,’ said the Chaplain. ‘You have nothing of worth to us in terms of information. We have wasted many hours with you, Astelan, and I will waste no more. You were no architect of the schism. I do not even think you were a co-conspirator with the other Fallen. Perhaps you were a lackey, but nothing more than that. My time is better spent with Methelas. We can still extract what we need to know from him.’

The two locked stares, testing each other’s will. Each knew that they were entwined through bluff and double-bluff, half-truth and pretence. And despite the elaborate vocal and mental dance they had enacted, the simple matter remained that they were bound together by something far more potent: mutual need.

Astelan relented first, his grim expression breaking into a smile. He thought for a moment, chewing his lip.

‘You are far more testing than Asmodai,’ the Fallen confessed. ‘Even the Librarians have nothing on you, Brother Sapphon. I am a devious bastard, but I do not understand how you can keep straight all of the lies you tell, how you can be so flexible to accommodate all of the cerebral and moral contortions. I would like to promise that the lies stop here, but you would not accept that and I cannot offer it. You are right, though, that my only usefulness to you is in aiding with the capture of Anovel.’

‘We have accord, once again. I think you brought us to Ulthor in good faith. Do you think Methelas knew your intent when he divulged the plan to you?’

‘It would be unlikely, but not impossible,’ admitted Astelan. He shrugged. ‘I do not think Methelas was in a state of mind to devise such an elaborate counter-ruse on the spur of the moment. Although his flesh has been transformed by his dark allegiance, so that pain will not rip from him what you seek, he was still shocked by the recent turn of events.’

‘And even if he thought to deceive us, he must have known what awaited us on Ulthor by some fashion. Such news is not common rumour.’

‘True, the place was not plucked at random from the air. The name meant nothing to me. It was certainly not one of the systems we conquered as a Legion. Methelas’s knowledge of it must have come from a more contemporary source. I think he spoke in earnest, boasting it seemed, assuring me that his capture had not halted the great scheme.’

Sapphon let out a sigh of exasperation and rubbed a hand across his forehead.

‘We still have not made any progress towards apprehending Anovel or thwarting his schemes.’

‘But you have inflicted setbacks,’ said Astelan. ‘My capture, the taking of Methelas, these may yet prove irrecoverable intercessions. It depends whether his new allies have the resources Anovel claimed they possessed.’

‘New allies?’

‘The Lord Cypher and several other Fallen.’

Immediately alert to subterfuge at the mention of the name of the thrice-cursed one, Sapphon loomed over Astelan, fists balled.

‘You denied any knowledge of Cypher! Another lie?’

‘I knew nothing when you asked,’ said Astelan, holding up his hands. ‘Methelas mentioned him in passing.’

‘And you kept this information from me until now.’

Frustration became anger. Sapphon resisted the urge to strike the Fallen, knowing it would take them right back to where they had been when he had first entered the prayer cell. Astelan had learned much in the past few minutes but the Chaplain was no closer to his objective and had no desire to start again with that disadvantage. A part of Sapphon found Astelan’s deft manipulation amazing, but it was swamped by the far larger part that hated the Fallen for turning such talent against the Lion and the Emperor.

He had lied about Astelan being unimportant. Time and again the former Chapter Master’s name had occurred in testimony wrought from other Fallen, naming him as one of Luther’s chief lieutenants and a prime architect of the rebellion. Luther had found it easy to sway the native Calibanites to his cause, but it had been Astelan’s influence that had brought the Terran-born Dark Angels under the arch-traitor’s cause.

‘You did not ask,’ said Astelan. ‘I do not understand this preoccupation with a defunct honorific of a knightly order that was disbanded ten thousand years ago. I see the mere mention of his name causes you great vexation. What did he do to earn such hate and dedication?’

‘Do not concern yourself with the exploits of Cypher,’ Sapphon said hurriedly. He stepped away, trying to think. ‘Focus on keeping yourself out of the clutches of Asmodai. Tell me about Anovel. Tell me where we might find him. Port Imperial is no more. Ulthor is beyond our limits. Where else will we pick up the trail?’

‘You have become a parody of yourselves.’ Astelan laughed, with bitter humour. ‘You have shaped your existence for the Hunt, and blinded yourselves to other opportunity. It is sad to see what has become of the Dark Angels.’

‘You have a point to make? Make it!’ snapped Sapphon.

‘We were the First Legion, Brother Sapphon. Consider for a moment what that means. We had to do everything. We fought fleet actions and planetary assaults, razed fortresses and captured whole worlds. We were both the hammer and the anvil, the bait and the trap. We brought death from afar and slaughter at close hand. We acted and others followed.’

‘I fail to see any relevance to the current task.’

‘The Lion learned a simple lesson in the forests of Caliban: hunt or be hunted. Do you not think that remarkable?’

‘The primarch learned how to be strong. His perseverance is an example to us that we shall never forget.’

‘Not until the last Fallen has been hunted down?’ It sounded peculiar to hear the refrain from the lips of a traitor. Sapphon did not like it, and suspected some hidden insult or taunt in Astelan’s choice of words. The Fallen looked serious, watching his captor intently. ‘Even when the Lion was found and raised within the Order, always he was the hunter. From Aldurukh the knights rode out and slew the great beasts of the forest.’

‘I know the history of our primogenitor,’ said Sapphon, irritated by the Fallen’s meandering.

Though Ezekiel had granted him two hours, he was fully aware of the time slipping past. He needed a fresh plan of action, some new insight or scrap of information to present to the other commanders before they set course back to the Rock. As soon as the journey began he would be damned. Asmodai would ascend unopposed to the rank of Master of Sanctity and sooner or later his lack of subtlety, his bull-headed stubbornness would go too far and bring the Chapter into outright disrepute or conflict with the Inquisition. It was all Azrael could do to limit the damage done by the Master of Repentance at the moment; if there was no balance to Asmodai’s blind zealotry the Dark Angels would become their own worst enemies. The thought spurred Sapphon and leant harshness to his mood.

‘I am not interested in your warped version of past events. I tire of your sly asides and furtive trickery. The Lion destroyed the great beasts with the last hunt, and Caliban was delivered from the grip of darkness. What bearing has that on matters at hand?’

Astelan shook his head with an expression of incredulity. He waited for several seconds, expecting some further remark perhaps. Sapphon glared back.

‘You really do not see the similarity, do you?’ Astelan crossed his arms, refusing to concede to Sapphon’s desire for haste. ‘The hunt for the great beasts? The hunt for the Fallen?’

The Chaplain said nothing.

‘When the last Fallen has been found, what then, Interrogator-Chaplain Sapphon? What will you hunt next? Who will you interrogate?’

Sapphon denied Astelan any satisfaction of an answer. The Fallen had no genuine point to make and was simply hoping for some kind of offended response. Sapphon would play this game no longer.

‘Have you ever considered not hunting the Fallen?’ Astelan asked, unfolding his arms, leaning forward with elbows on knees.

The Chaplain allowed his silent stare to be answer enough.

‘My point is proven by your reticence to envision any alternative to the current situation. You track, follow and hunt. You are the Lion in the great forest. You are the Order sweeping away the beasts. Do you know what the ordinary people of Caliban did to protect themselves from the ferocious creatures that preyed on them in the night?’

‘I am sure you are going to tell me, even if I do not desire to know.’

‘They set traps, Brother Sapphon. Pits and deadfalls, snares and spikes.’

‘How completely uninteresting.’

‘They used themselves as bait, more often than not. A very dangerous vocation, but one that was held in high regard. Not the weak and the expendable, they were not left out for the great beasts. The monsters of the forest preyed upon the strongest. They had a sense for it, I am told. It is why they came for the primarch again and again, drawn to his puissance and energy.’

‘Must I fetch Asmodai?’ said Sapphon, turning away. ‘Perhaps he is right. I indulge you too much, traitor.’

‘The best bait was another great beast,’ Astelan said sharply as Sapphon reached the cell door. ‘If you could capture one alive it would draw others from all across the forest.’

Sapphon stopped. He had allowed the debacle on Ulthor to cloud his thinking, desperately seeking some clue or spoor to follow in the absence of Anovel himself. That had not been the intent. Astelan had not been brought along simply to ascertain whether the Fallen was on Ulthor, but to draw him forth.

‘A great beast? Are you suggesting we use you as bait to catch Anovel? Where would we set such a trap?’

Astelan smiled.

THE GAMBIT

Disbelief struck Asmodai dumb. He stared at Sapphon, torn between incredulity and despair. Sammael rose from his chair on the opposite side of the council table. Power armour whined as the others turned to look at him. They were still in the Ulthor system and everybody was at combat readiness but the necessities of ship life and the needs of maintenance meant that the company’s Terminator suits were being tended by the Techmarines.

‘Tharsis? The world Astelan enslaved?’ said the Grand Master of the Ravenwing.

‘You must know that he may still have sympathisers there, even after all of these years,’ said Belial.

‘Idiocy!’ Asmodai finally found his voice. Sapphon opened his mouth to reject the accusation but Asmodai did not grant him the time. ‘Have you learned nothing from the disaster at Ulthor? How many more of our brothers would you sacrifice for these insane ideas?’

‘Any brother that died on Ulthor can be laid before you, Asmodai!’ Sapphon snarled back. He thumped a hand on the table. ‘I told you, all of you, that we had to be sure of our target first, but you overruled me.’

‘Because you wanted to allow a known traitor to make contact.’ Asmodai was so outraged he could barely speak. ‘Do you think we are fools, Sapphon? To repeat a past mistake is regrettable and to do so immediately borders on treacherous incompetence.’

‘If we had stayed with my plan, and allowed Astelan to make representation in the correct manner, we would have known that Anovel was not on Ulthor.’

‘How?’ said Belial. ‘There is no surety when dealing with this serpent-tongued Fallen. He may have conveyed warning or message from Methelas without us knowing. Any information from him is deeply suspect and only the evidence of our eyes can be trusted. No matter what Astelan told us, we would have had to go down to Ulthor.’

Sapphon brooded, silenced by the Deathwing commander’s logic. Asmodai was not content to let his fellow Chaplain simply stew in his own anger.

‘You go too far, and this time there must be consequence.’

‘I go too far?’ Sapphon seemed incandescent with anger, enough to match Asmodai’s own. ‘I have lost count of the number of times your reckless actions have brought suspicion upon the Chapter. How many times has the Supreme Grand Master been forced to dissemble and lie and grovel because of your constant mistakes, Asmodai?’

‘This is no time or place for such argument,’ said Sammael, looking back and forth between the two Chaplains.

‘You are wrong,’ said Sapphon. He stood up and started to pace, backwards and forwards in front of a large comms-screen set into the dark wood panels of the wall. The flickering light of the ceiling strips caused his shadow to flutter like wings across the matt grey surface. ‘This is exactly the time and the place, Brother Sammael. If we return to the Supreme Grand Master now, without further effort, we have achieved nil. Nothing. Shame will be upon this campaign and those who took part in it will bear that dishonour, living and dead. Should we not bend every sinew to the effort of rectifying the deficit?’

Asmodai could not believe that Belial and Sammael appeared to be considering this argument. The Chaplain turned to Ezekiel, who had been sitting silently at the foot of the table during these exchanges.

‘Brother-Librarian, do not hold tongue on fresh opinion. What think you on this matter?’

Ezekiel laid his hands upon the table with precise, deliberate slowness. He looked at Asmodai and then Sapphon, expression impassive. Without a word he shook his head.

‘I will interpret that as an abstention,’ said Sapphon.

‘No vote has been called,’ said Belial. ‘No motion raised.’

‘Did I not speak clearly and at length concerning my newest proposal, brother?’ Sapphon threw up his hands in exasperation.

‘That was meant to be considered a course of action?’ Belial frowned with bemusement. ‘I thought you were spilling forth addled contents of mind, not making serious entreaty. We cannot take Astelan to Tharsis.’

‘Why not?’

‘He is a traitor and a danger to the whole Chapter,’ said Belial.

‘More specifically? What risk is there in taking him to Tharsis? He has made no attempt to escape thus far. The world is firmly under the rule of the Emperor once more. There is no mischief he can undertake.’

‘I am inclined to the Brother-Chaplain’s plan,’ said Sammael. ‘We purged all remnants of Astelan’s sacred bands when we retook the planet. He is despised there, even if his name resonates still with a few scattered anti-Imperialist voices.’

‘Think on it, brothers,’ Sapphon said, dividing his attention between Belial and Ezekiel, knowing well that Asmodai would not be swayed by any argument. ‘I do not promise that we will return to the Rock in triumph, but we will be reunited with our Chapter-brothers knowing that we spared no exertion. How many times must we regret a lead not followed? How many times do we lament the trail left to grow cold by other endeavour?’

‘Do not discuss this heresy any further,’ snapped Asmodai, his thin patience worn through already by Sapphon’s bleating. ‘We will return to the Tower of Angels and seek fresh endorsement from the Inner Circle. Brother Sapphon is free to present his case before the Supreme Grand Master and others, and I will abide by their judgement. Again.’

‘To delay is to court failure, brother.’ Sapphon spoke quietly now. It annoyed Asmodai when his Brother-Chaplain did so, because it always seemed patronising.

‘I see no need for haste.’

‘Let me remind you all that Anovel is not our goal here.’ Sapphon stared at Asmodai, sincere and intent. ‘There is another who is still close at hand, his purpose not yet complete.’

Asmodai could not stop the flutter of excitement he felt whenever the prospect was raised. Even now, burning with anger, the thought of apprehending the arch-Fallen and subjecting him to the torments of repentance warmed his soul.

‘Methelas confirmed to Astelan that Anovel communicated with Cypher, perhaps even met him,’ Sapphon continued. ‘The incident on Piscina, the loss of our Chapter fort, is still hot in our minds. While the Chapter is distracted suppressing the rebellion and ork attacks brought forth by this interference, Cypher is free to enact whatever plan he wishes. If we allow ourselves to be turned from the pursuit, we grant the thrice-cursed one free charter.’

‘Do you really think we are that close to capturing him?’ Belial seemed to be softening in his opinion.

‘Conjecture and pretty tales,’ snarled Asmodai, disappointed with himself that he had entertained Sapphon’s wild scheme even for a moment. ‘Cypher will not be found on Tharsis. You create tenuous link to obscure poor reasoning.’

‘Anovel still waits for confirmation from Astelan that he has found a recruiting world fit for their purpose.’

‘After fifteen years it seems doubtful Anovel much cares what has happened to Astelan,’ said Belial.

‘But curiosity alone may pull in our favour,’ countered Sammael. ‘Can Anovel afford not to respond? Ulthor is no place to start a new Chapter. That much we have confirmed.’

‘Why do you entertain these notions with such conduct?’ Asmodai could not comprehend what purpose his brothers thought was served by this idle talk. ‘Brother Sapphon, recuse yourself to the penitentium and spare us further madness. Brother Belial, Brother Sammael, do not exacerbate Sapphon’s vexed condition with pointless curiosity.’

‘Do you not want to catch Cypher?’ Sammael’s question surprised Asmodai. It took him a moment to formulate a reply that adequately summarised his feelings on the matter.

‘I want every dark-spawned Fallen to feel the touch of judgement, brothers, but wanting it does not make it happen.’

‘Exactly!’ declared Sapphon. ‘Only by action will we achieve that victory. We do not need permission from the Supreme Grand Master. The highest members of the Inner Circle are in this chamber. We form a quorum with enough experience and judgement to decide this matter alone.’

‘Such talk borders on mutiny,’ said Asmodai, horrified by what he was hearing. He pulled his pistol free. ‘I will not allow such sedition to continue.’

‘Put away your sidearm, Asmodai.’ Belial spoke calmly and slowly, and a glance at the Grand Master of the Deathwing showed he was resolute. Asmodai slid his weapon back into its holster.

‘One does not free the caged bird to catch another,’ said the Chaplain. He could not remember where he had heard the phrase but it seemed appropriate now. ‘If we are to vote on this, then so be it, but I tell you now it is further folly.’

‘The vote is called,’ said Sapphon. ‘A show of hands should suffice.’

The others nodded, including Ezekiel.

‘Those that wish to travel to Tharsis and attempt to draw out Anovel, raise your hands.’

Sapphon put his hand in the air, and likewise Sammael.

‘The vote fails,’ said Asmodai, trying not to sound triumphant but knowing he had failed. ‘Two votes do not carry the motion.’

‘Brother Ezekiel has already hinted at abstention,’ complained Sapphon. ‘Raise hands now those that oppose the plan as I have set it forth.’

Belial and Asmodai showed their disapproval. Ezekiel sat unmoving.

‘We are at an impasse, it seems,’ said Belial.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Asmodai said with a snort of derision. ‘Such behaviour is unbecoming of the Inner Circle.’

‘The white or the black, brother?’ Sapphon said, looking at Ezekiel. ‘In the Inner Circle there are no abstentions. Make your will plain for all.’

‘This is not the Inner Circle. I will not cast a deciding vote. Though two each stand to either side, I will not be held alone responsible for one course of action over another. Neither argument has convinced me – I see merit in both views.’

‘The motion does not carry,’ said Asmodai. ‘A majority is needed. We return to the Rock.’

Belial stepped away from the table, ready to leave. Sammael looked disappointed, sighing heavily.

‘Wait! Perhaps there is another means to decide,’ said Sapphon.

‘Trial by combat?’ suggested Asmodai eagerly, relishing the prospect of legitimately unleashing much frustration and rage on his fellow Chaplain.

‘Let fate, or the hand of the Emperor, decide,’ said Sapphon. He plucked a bolt pistol cartridge from his belt and thumbed a round from the top onto the wooden tabletop. Placing the magazine back in his belt, he took up two goblets and upturned them, either side of the bolt. He looked at Asmodai with an eyebrow raised.

‘A child’s game?’ Asmodai shook his head. ‘When reasoned argument fails, you resort to trickery.’

Sapphon stepped back from the table. He looked at Ezekiel and waved a hand towards the goblets and bolt. Ezekiel nodded and took Sapphon’s place, resting a finger on each upturned cup.

‘I am willing to allow providence, the fortune of the Emperor, to let itself be known,’ said Sapphon, manner serious, speaking softly. ‘I am willing to surrender my fate to a greater fate. Are you so invested in your desires to refuse the same, Brother Asmodai?’

‘Is this the will of those gathered?’ said the Master of Repentance. ‘Do you endorse this charade?’

Sammael nodded with a half-smile. ‘Better this than another hour of endless discussion,’ said the Ravenwing leader.

‘If you both swear to abide by the result, I see no better resolution,’ Belial conceded.

‘I swear,’ said Sapphon, a little too quickly for Asmodai’s liking.

‘I swear also,’ said Asmodai, grimacing as he forced the words from his mouth. ‘In the Emperor’s will we trust.’

‘The challenge was set by Brother Sapphon,’ announced Ezekiel. ‘The choice is yours, Brother Asmodai. Turn away.’

The Chaplain did as ordered. He heard the scrape of the goblets on wood, moving three times.

‘When you are ready, brother. If you reveal the bolt, your will shall be done. If not, Brother Sapphon wins the vote.’

Turning back, Asmodai looked at the two cups. They were impossible to tell apart, save for small scratches and dents. He did not know under which the bolt had been placed and there was no obvious means of deduction. He reached his hand towards the goblet on the left and then glanced at Sapphon. The Chaplain’s features were set, showing no hint of his thoughts. Asmodai stared at the cups as though trying to bore through them with pure hate.

In a quick movement he changed his mind and lifted the right-hand cup. There was empty table beneath. The metal of the goblet crumpled as Asmodai clenched his fist in anger. He tossed the mutilated vessel aside and glared at Sapphon. The other Chaplain looked relieved rather than triumphant.

Asmodai was about to turn away when a thought occurred to him. He snatched up the other cup. The bolter-round sat underneath, glinting in the erratic light. With nothing to say, he stormed to the chamber door. He stopped at the threshold and turned back, his gaze sweeping across all of them.

‘Upon your heads and souls be it, brothers,’ warned the Chaplain. He focused his stare on Sapphon. ‘If this plan turns to misadventure, I will name you traitor. Your life and your honour now weigh in the balance. Are you sure this is your wish, Brother Sapphon?’

The other Chaplain replied without hesitation.

‘What will be, will be, brother. I regret nothing.’

‘You will,’ said Asmodai. ‘When you are taken down the long stair to the cells and my blades part your flesh. When your cries merge with the other traitors’, you will know a very deep, very personal regret. I guarantee it.’

Asmodai left, leaving the others secure in the knowledge that he did not make idle threats.

CONTEMPLATION

The clamour of rivet-binders, molecular drills and lascutters had passed. The Techmarines and servitors had left. Armoury bay seven of the Implacable Justice was almost completely silent. Almost.

There was the ever-present thrum of plasma drives and the almost imperceptible hiss of gases and liquids passing through the pipes overhead. The quiet scrape of a slightly misaligned fan in one of the overhead air circulators broke the still. Muffled by bulkheads came the clatter of machinery from the servants of the armoury continuing their labours in bay six.

Annael knelt beside Black Shadow, alone with his steed. Seven days out from Ulthor and it was the first time he had an opportunity to offer thanks to the bike for saving his life – and the life of Sabrael. He whispered devotions to the machine-spirit of the bike. Arranged on the deck in front of him were four jars, each containing a different sacred libation. The Techmarines had taken some convincing to part with them, but Annael’s impassioned pleas to make dedication to his steed had proven enough.

He had already flushed the engine with the Oils of Vitality and polished the metalwork with the Unguent of Readiness. He had applied the Lubricant of Swiftness with a square of soft material stitched with four sacred runes, the meaning of which remained a mystery to him. The last, the Tonic of Cleansing, remained stoppered for the moment.

In his right hand Annael held the litanies he had hastily scribbled as they had been recited on the other bikes, and he was sure he had misheard. It was impossible though, his hearing was pitch perfect. He spoke the words, knowing that he lacked understanding of their deeper meaning, in the hope that Black Shadow’s machine-spirit would be pleased.

Finishing the chant, he pulled the stopper from the bottle, his gauntlets making the task a little awkward. He poured a little of the contents onto the bristles of a small brush in his left hand. He stood upon and started to clean around the runepad and dial controls of the bike’s main display. A gentle froth built up, which he delicately wiped away with the blessed cloth.

Sharing this moment with his steed allowed Annael to think about what had happened on Ulthor free from guilt or concern. Away from his battle-brothers he could look back at the memory and glean what he could from the experience. He found it hard to imagine that Sammael had led them into such a debacle. From the moment they had entered the city the Ravenwing had been at a disadvantage.

Annael told himself that whatever had been on the planet – whoever this Fallen Angel was they had been seeking – it must have been important. It was hard though, to have faith without question. Since the Seventh Rite, since learning the truth about what had happened during the Horus Heresy – the deeper truth not shared even with the rest of the Second Company – he had felt tainted by the knowledge. He understood why it had to remain secret, on an intellectual level. It was a dangerous thing to know, that even a Dark Angel could be flawed. It was one of the seeds of doubt the Chaplains had repeatedly warned against during Annael’s centuries of service. The seed of doubt was nurtured by selfishness, secrecy and unbrotherly thoughts. But the same Chaplains that had taught him this now demanded that he keep silent what he had learned.

In the fraternal prayers and briefings he had felt uneasy amongst his battle-brothers. He was worried that a strange mania would seize him; cause him to blurt out to everybody the truth of what he had been told.

He sought reassurance, applying himself to the cleansing of Black Shadow with focus and vigour. He wanted to talk about the changes he was undergoing, but it felt foolish to speak of them with the other Black Knights. Tybalain and the rest seemed untroubled by their burden. They were made from much sterner stuff, Annael recognised. He had thought to broach the subject with Chaplain Malcifer but when opportunity presented itself each day after massed benediction he would find himself leaving with the others, his concerns bottled up.

He needed a confidant that would not judge him, or pity him; someone that he could share his secrets with and so aid in the carrying of the burden.

‘Would that you could carry it too,’ he said to Black Shadow. He ran the brush down the side of the vid-screen, picking out flecks of dirt. It occurred to Annael that perhaps it was not such a strange notion. His steed bore him into battle, and through its strength Black Shadow carried him to victory and brought him back to safety. Perhaps it could offer more. Certainly it would not speak to any other of Annael’s confessions.

‘If you could speak, what tales would you tell,’ Annael said, feeling foolish but pressing on with hope that he had found an answer to his problem. ‘A spirit seven thousand years old, given new body after new body. There is little you have not seen, faithful steed. Traitors and allies, victory and defeat, honour and shame. I wonder how I compare to those that rode before me. Am I worthy? Have I proven my courage and dedication as well as they did?’

He applied the brush with determination, sharing in the action of cleansing.

‘Many brothers died on Ulthor. Some of yours too will not return to the armoury. Do you feel their loss? I used to think that not a battle-brother died without purpose. I am not sure that is true. What will be said of their deaths when we return to the Tower of Angels? What will they put in the Roll of Heroes? “They died in battle”. We all die in battle, it is the fate every Space Marine shares. Even you, Black Shadow, perpetual mount, will die some day. Not while I can prevent it, of course. You have saved me and I will repay the debt a thousand times if necessary.’

Annael placed the bottle and brush on the deck and swung a leg over his bike to sit in the saddle. He gripped the handlebars, feet still on the floor, and felt welcome.

‘What goal did we serve, coming here?’ There was no plan behind his words, just a flow of thoughts that needed to be set free from the confines of his mind. ‘Will they ever tell us? It troubles, and perhaps it should not, that I might be killed and not know the reason why my life was laid upon the altar of battle. Is that selfish? Probably. It is not my place to reason the manner of how or where I fight. I am a weapon, made by the Emperor for the protection of His domains. I am a Dark Angel, a son of the Lion, and to serve the Supreme Grand Master is my only purpose.’

He fell silent and listened for a moment, thinking he had heard a sound of someone entering the armoury bay. Nothing disturbed the usual noises.

‘Of course, I know these thoughts are wrong. I should share them with Brother Malcifer so that he may set mind at rest and renew attention to duty. Is it a disobedience not to confess my failings, surely it is, but I cannot bring myself to air these doubts, knowing it should bring shame upon me. Cleansing and penance have their place, but why should I not ask these questions? I am a Black Knight, favoured of the Ravenwing, holder of the secrets of the Seventh Rite.’

Even uttering this fact felt like an act of betrayal to the Chapter. More than that, it felt as though he made a mockery of the deaths of Zarall and Araton. He had not spoken to Malcifer or his squadron-brothers of the guilt that still surrounded events on Thyestes. Disobedience had brought him here, through the sacrifice of his battle-brothers’ lives, and to squander that on the fear of punishment was itself a terrible crime. It might have been better had he stayed true to duty and ignored Sabrael on that cold night. He would likely be dead, but perhaps that would be preferable to the angst that plagued him.

‘It is unseemly to prefer the company of machines to flesh.’ Sabrael’s voice shocked Annael out of his contemplative mood. He turned in the saddle to see his battle-brother approaching across the bay, pistol on one hip, the Blade of Corswain scabbarded at the other. Annael wondered if Sabrael ever had a moment’s doubt; if his vainglorious facade hid something more sinister. ‘Unless you would prefer the red of the Techmarine to being a Black Knight.’

‘I pay homage to the machine-spirit,’ Annael said quickly, waving a hand towards the unguents as explanation.

‘You provide further evidence of your guilt.’ Sabrael stopped a couple of metres away, a smirk on his lips.

‘Guilt?’ said Annael. ‘What guilt?’

‘I spoke in jest, but perhaps without thought,’ said Sabrael, growing serious. ‘A man who seeks solace in the company of his machine might perhaps prefer it to pass unremarked.’

‘No, not at all,’ said Annael. He forced a smile and good humour. ‘I felt it worthwhile to appease my steed after the iniquitous deed of saving your worthless hide.’

‘Saving my…?’ Sabrael grinned and shook his head. ‘Had it not been for my swift action on the retreat we would have both been swallowed by that wall of filth!’

‘Had you not been hanging from the back of my steed like a drunken jokaero I would have been out of the city with time to spare.’

‘I think you will find that had I not intercepted that incendiary attack on your behalf, you would currently be a crispy stain on the roads of Ulthor.’

The outrageousness of Sabrael’s claim left Annael speechless, first with indignation and then with the absurdity of the debate. Annael’s smile was genuine now, darker thoughts forgotten, spirit lifted by the simple camaraderie.

‘Come with me, brother,’ said Sabrael turning away.

‘Where to?’ Annael asked. Sabrael did not reply, so he dismounted and followed the other Space Marine.

They cut between the other bikes of the Black Knights, including Sabrael’s new steed. It was a standard Ravenwing mount, with bolters not plasma talon, freshly painted and polished, the old machine-spirit installed into its cogitating banks. Sabrael stopped beside it for a moment, laid a hand on the saddle and moved on.

At the back of the bay, under the shadow of dormant cranes and running gear, Sabrael stopped beside a door barred by a wheel lock. He spun the lock, which opened without a sound, and pulled the door. Beyond was a narrow passageway, just wide enough for a Space Marine to pass in armour. Sabrael stepped through the doorway and turned left.

‘Where are we going?’ whispered Annael, standing at the doorway. The corridor was lined with pipes, a faint steam in the air; a maintenance conduit. There was no answer from Sabrael. Annael hesitated for a few more seconds, remembering what had transpired the last time he had followed Sabrael against his better judgement. His companion’s natural confidence was infectious though, and Annael’s curiosity had been piqued. He stepped into the corridor and followed, the other Space Marine silhouetted against dull orange lamps twenty metres ahead.

The access space ran along the armoury bays, parallel to the main thoroughfare of the deck that ran half the length of the ship. He had to stop to turn and look back, the cramped confines restricting his movement. As far as he could see the conduit ran aft, buried within the armoured skin of the strike cruiser.

‘Come on, you laggard,’ Sabrael called back. He had opened another door and was lit by pale yellow light from another armoury bay. ‘You walk as slowly as you ride.’

Sabrael waited until Annael had caught up with him before stepping through the opened hatch.

‘Welcome,’ said the Space Marine as Annael followed, ‘to Armoury Bay One.’

‘Bay One? Is that not the personal armoury of Grand Master Sammael?’

His question needed no spoken answer. The bay itself was half the size of the others, about fifty metres by one hundred. There was loading and maintenance equipment stored along the walls, and at the centre of the deck waited Corvex and Sableclaw – the Grand Master’s jetbike and Land Speeder. Annael had seen Sammael’s famous steeds in battle, but never so close, never able to examine them in detail.

Both anti-grav machines were locked to the deck in broad clamps, pistons and hydraulics holding the skimmers in place. Annael went first to Sableclaw while Sabrael inspected Corvex. The Land Speeder’s gun mounts were empty at the moment, the ammunition feeds and hoppers opened for maintenance and cleaning. Annael had training on a Land Speeder – all Ravenwing warriors could pilot skimmers as well as the aircraft used by the Second Company – and the controls were mostly familiar. There was a complex suite of scanner arrays and communications screens that he assumed were for commanding the company.

He wanted to run a hand over the jet-black paint; to climb up into the driver’s chair or the gunner’s cupola. The urge was almost overwhelming but he fought it, knowing that it would be an act of disrespect.

He turned around and found that his companion shared no such constraint; Sabrael sat astride Corvex, turning the handlebars and leaning left and right as though slaloming through an enemy battleline.

‘Sabrael!’ snapped Annael.

‘Does it suit?’ asked the other Space Marine. ‘Do you think I will be a fine Grand Master?’

‘I think you a fool if you aspire so highly,’ laughed Annael. ‘Who would give you command of a company? You can barely control yourself.’

‘Is that not to my advantage?’ said Sabrael. Annael realised he was being serious. ‘The unexpected, the daring, they are the greatest weapons of the Ravenwing. I am sword master, bearer of the Blade of Corswain, Black Knight of the Dark Angels. Why should I not be a Grand Master one day?’

‘Tybalain may have greater claim before you.’ Annael did not want to tell his battle-brother, but the thought of Sabrael leading the Second Company was nearly more dread-inspiring than the denizens of Ulthor. ‘It is unseemly to harbour such ambitions. Be content with your current station.’

‘I do not seek to usurp any other’s rightful claim, nor ignore the chain of command. I merely dream of serving with even greater glory. Is that so wrong?’

Annael did not reply, perturbed by the topic. He took several steps towards the other Space Marine, intending to pull him off the jetbike. A thrum of electricity and the flicker of overhead lights filled the chamber before he had the chance. One of the bay’s main doors rumbled open, revealing a solitary figure standing on the ramp down to the central corridor. He was short and young, a serf dressed in the red robes of the armoury. He had a digi-slate in his hands and seemed preoccupied as he stepped into the chamber. He looked up, stopped, eyes widening as he saw the two Space Marines.

‘You… You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said, hands trembling.

‘We are Black Knights, the right hand of the Grand Master,’ said Annael, stepping away from the two machines. Sabrael dismounted and gave Corvex a parting pat on the handlebars.

‘That is right, we pass where Sammael passes. Who are you to question our right to be here?’

‘You misunderstand me, masters,’ said the serf. He bowed in apology. ‘I merely meant that Lord Sammael has issued order for the company warriors to assemble for briefing. It sounded important.’

‘Damn,’ muttered Sabrael. He looked at Annael. ‘I knew I came to tell you something. It slipped my mind.’

‘Idiot!’ snapped Annael. ‘Selfish, vain, pompous idiot!’

Sabrael was already heading towards the open door, breaking into a run.

‘If you had not been cleaning your bike,’ Sabrael called back, ‘none of this would have happened.’

Annael glared at the serf, who stepped back, holding up the digi-slate like a shield.

‘I do not have time for this,’ said Annael, shaking his head. He followed after Sabrael, realising that whoever arrived at the briefing last would have the most penance to complete.

PART THREE

THARSIS

OLD WOUNDS

With Asmodai and a squad of Deathwing as escort, Sapphon opened the door to the cell. Astelan looked up, closed the book slowly and stood. He was pensive.

‘We have arrived?’ asked the Fallen.

‘Yes, we will make low orbit over Tharsis in twelve minutes,’ replied Sapphon.

‘Come with us,’ said Asmodai, beckoning to the Fallen with a brusque wave.

‘My guard dog, I presume?’ Astelan smiled insincerely at Asmodai, who said nothing, jaw clenched with anger.

‘If you attempt to escape or if you attempt to mislead us, if you attempt to make unauthorised communication with anyone or attempt to contact the enemy you will be executed immediately.’ Sapphon emphasised each point slowly, gauging the Fallen’s reaction. Astelan nodded his consent but stopped as they turned down the corridor.

‘I am under-dressed for the occasion,’ said the Fallen, holding out his arms and looking down at the plain grey robe of a prisoner.

‘What do you mean?’ said Sapphon.

‘If you attempt to delay or hinder us, you will be executed,’ said Asmodai. His gauntleted fingers flexed on the haft of his crozius arcanum. ‘Do you wish to make further objection or would you prefer to be returned to the Rock where your just punishment awaits?’

‘Justice will come to each of us, I assure you,’ said Astelan. He turned his attention to Sapphon. ‘I am serious. You cannot expect me to proceed without war-plate.’

‘Out of the question!’ said Asmodai.

‘I am inclined to agree,’ said Sapphon.

Astelan folded his arms defiantly.

‘Anovel will be expecting communication from Astelan, Lord Commander of Tharsis. The astropaths will need to send images to confirm my identity. If I am not garbed in battle-plate it will arouse suspicion.’

‘I warned that he would push us further,’ Asmodai said to Sapphon. He looked at the Deathwing. ‘Return him to his cell.’

The Terminators stepped forward but were stopped by a word and a raised hand from Sapphon.

‘Not yet,’ said the Master of Sanctity. ‘He makes valid argument.’

Asmodai looked at Sapphon for several seconds without blinking.

‘I argued against taking him from the confines of the Rock. Under protest only do I allow this prisoner to leave this ship. Do not expect me to allow him to do so in full armour! I think you underestimate his abilities. He is a Space Marine, and furnished with power armour could cause significantly more damage than I am prepared to accept.’

‘It is not your decision, brother,’ said Sapphon. He looked at Astelan. ‘There is also another benefit to this course of action. Our prisoner’s face is well known on Tharsis, and though there are few that survived his purges still alive there will be those amongst the new Imperial commander’s staff that will recognise his features. Concealment of helm negates such risk.’

‘Throwing his corpse into a hole with a bolt in his head negates all risk, brother, should I pursue that option?’

‘Also, power armour will transmit location signals at all times, so he will be even harder to misplace.’

‘I have no intention of wandering off,’ said Astelan.

‘I would not recommend it,’ said Sapphon. ‘If the people of Tharsis find out who you are, they will try to kill you.’

‘And will you protect me?’ Astelan looked at Asmodai, smiling at the prospect.

‘No,’ replied the Chaplain. ‘I will kill you myself.’

‘Such perseverance, Asmodai. I can see why they made you a Chaplain, after all.’

Asmodai stepped up to the prisoner, and though the Chaplain was armoured Astelan was almost the same height, having regained his full build and strength. The Fallen’s face was reflected in the ruby lens eyes of Asmodai’s skull-mask, equally impassive.

‘I will see you dead by my hand, traitor. Boreas should have executed you. Do not think I will repeat his mistake.’

Astelan stared back at the Chaplain. Sapphon could see murderous intent behind the Fallen’s eyes and was taken aback for a moment. He had become used to the conversational, urbane aspect Astelan had presented in recent weeks, but was now reminded that this was an individual who had opened fire on his own primarch in cold blood and later enslaved a world and slaughtered billions in an insane cause; a world to which he was about to be returned.

It was not possible that this was the intent of Astelan. It was too happenstance that they had ended up in this situation. Whatever the Fallen was capable of, no matter how well he might have hoped to manipulate the Master of Sanctity, Sapphon could not see any way in which Astelan had planned for a return to Tharsis. However, even if it was not by Astelan’s design that they had come here, the Fallen was certainly capable of taking advantage if presented with the opportunity.

‘If you wrong me, I will kill you first,’ Sapphon reminded his prisoner. ‘I guarantee it.’

Astelan smiled and stepped back from Asmodai. He moved back to the cell door and looked over his shoulder at them.

‘I think it may take you some time to prepare my armour,’ said the Fallen. ‘You possess only later marks of war-plate, which will require some modification as well as the application of older symbols and my personal heraldry for it to be fitting. I can wait.’

Sapphon left, taking Asmodai with him in case the Fallen provoked the Chaplain to a lethal response. Ever since the council had gone against his wishes eighteen days earlier, the Master of Repentance had been in a state of near-murderous rage. The First Company warriors on board the Penitent Warrior had learned to give him a wide berth when possible, lest they incur his wrath and days in the penitentium for the slightest infraction. Sapphon had not attempted to speak with this battle-brother until the time had come for them to fetch Astelan from his cell.

Asmodai excused himself and headed in the direction of the Reclusiam while Sapphon made his way to the armoury. He made known his needs – met with quizzical looks but no spoken questions – and was told it would take several hours for the battleplate to be made ready to his specifications.

It was a delay Sapphon had not wanted, and while Asmodai cloistered himself in solitary contemplation, the Master of Sanctity felt the need to spend some time with the battle-brothers. Although his duty was to the Hunt above all other considerations, it would be good to share words with the Deathwing after recent setbacks; not only for their spirits but for Sapphon’s also. It seemed long ago that they had been faced with the simple task of eradicating the orks in Kadillus Harbour. How quickly news of the Fallen could change the fate of the whole Chapter.

He went around the dorters of the squads where they tended their battlegear, ready to fight at a moment’s notice, making small talk and offering such advice and benedictions as were required of him. The distraction was useful, allowing Sapphon to lose himself in the minutiae of personal contact again. It was too easy to become distant from this, the fighting heart of the Chapter. It reassured the Master of Sanctity to know that whatever lies he had told, whatever misdeeds he had perpetrated in the cause of the Dark Angels, it was to protect something pure. The warriors of the Chapter, even the Deathwing who had been taught of some of the ancient shame, were protected by his sacrifice. As they had all sworn, their honour was forfeit, surrendered to protect the honour of others.

Whenever he had doubts, and Sapphon was certainly not above doubts unlike Asmodai, it was from the battle-brothers that he drew strength, even as he bolstered their fortitude. Many foes had been vanquished, worlds protected, billions of lives saved by the efforts of the Dark Angels. That was a worthy cause. That was something for which he felt no shame at all.

Just before the appointed hour arranged with the Techmarines, Sapphon found himself alone in his chamber, preparing himself for the trip down to Tharsis. He asked himself again if he was doing the right thing. As when he had asked himself a dozen times before, the answer was yes. Asmodai’s road was the easy route, but it was the slow path. Sapphon had a chance here and now – a chance he had engineered with his own will and desire – to take a massive step forward in the Hunt. It was this type of insight, the crossing of lines to seek new paths, which had been the cause of his elevation to Master of Sanctity.

With a Deathwing escort he took Astelan to the armoury, which had been cleared of all but the highest ranking Techmarines. When the arming process was complete, Sapphon’s doubts returned with a vengeance.

Clad in full war-plate, Astelan was the very image of the ancient Dark Angels. His armour was black, like the Chaplains’, the sword-and-wings insignia picked out in dark red on his left shoulder. His right carried insignia not used for ten thousand years; a heraldry comprised of personal symbols indicating his origins on Holy Terra itself, along with markings for the Chapter he led and the Order to which it had belonged.

It was incredible to Sapphon that when Astelan had first donned power armour the Emperor still walked abroad, and had personally led the Dark Angels into battle. Astelan’s command had numbered more warriors than the entire Dark Angels could now muster, and in turn was only one of dozens of such commanders. Terra had been reconquered and the Dark Angels had been the spearpoint of the Emperor’s armies to retake the whole galaxy.

The sight of Astelan and the thought of what he had once represented took Sapphon’s breath away, leaving him humbled before the magnitude of duty and ten thousand years of history. Astelan’s right greave and down the right forearm were filled with names painted in small, white letters. Sapphon recognised them from the ancient annals: each a battle honour of the Legion. There was a lump in his throat as he looked at Astelan and was reminded that this warrior fought at Caerthorn, Betel Nineteen, Sathathorix and Greiman’s World. He had liberated hundreds of systems from the darkness of the Long Night, decades before even the Lion had been found.

What pride would that create? Sapphon wondered if any Dark Angel of the present day could ever emulate such courage, dedication and spirit. To venture into the shadows between stars seeking the last remnants of humanity, bringing retribution and hope in equal measure. Was it a wonder that some of them had started to think of themselves as better than the humans they saved? Time and again the testimonies of captured Fallen had told the same sorry tale, of humility falling to arrogance, duty to ambition. Even those that repented, who had seen the error of their decisions before the touch of a Chaplain’s blades, could not be pardoned for those transgressions, even if they could be forgiven.

He had always known what the Fallen were, but it had been so easy to think of them only as traitors, as debased servants of Dark Powers who had willingly turned aside the grace of the Emperor’s service to pursue their own ends. They had been objects, even Astelan; things to be hunted and turned to the Dark Angels purpose.

Now Astelan was revealed again as what he once was: a Space Marine of the First.

The Emperor’s Finest.

Dark Angel.

‘A thuggish child dressing up in the armour of his betters.’ Asmodai’s contemptuous declaration broke Sapphon’s trance. Astelan replied with a condescending smile and any semblance to the noble and honourable warriors that had led the Great Crusade from Terra was shattered. Sapphon saw only a selfish, immoral murderer again.

‘Follow us,’ said the Master of Sanctity, his tone made harsh by the regret of his earlier sentiment. Asmodai had not been enamoured for a moment, and it shamed Sapphon to think of such a moment of weakness.

‘By your command,’ said Astelan. He fastened his helm in place.

A Thunderhawk waited for them in one of the launch bays. Clearance had already been confirmed by orbital command of Tharsis, though Belial had noted that the system’s authorities had received the arrival of the Dark Angels with a less than enthusiastic response. Sapphon could not blame them. Like Piscina the actions of the Fallen – of Astelan – had sullied the name of the Chapter for generations.

‘What web of lies did you spin for my usurper?’ asked the Fallen as they sat down in the main compartment of the gunship. Through the modulation of his helm his voice was even deeper, so reminiscent of Sapphon’s battle-brothers. The Master of Sanctity forced himself to remember that it was the same voice that had issued the order for Caliban’s defence systems to open fire on the Lion’s fleet.

‘Be silent or be silenced,’ said Asmodai.

‘Too late for threats,’ replied the Fallen.

An instant later Asmodai was next to Astelan, the muzzle of a bolt pistol pressed against the eye lens of the Fallen’s helm.

‘I have a habit of vexing my superiors with rash action,’ growled the Chaplain. ‘It is a fault, I admit. Ask Brother Sapphon whether he thinks I will pull the trigger.’

‘He will,’ said Sapphon. ‘He has been guilty of far more counter-productive acts and has yet to show any remorse for them. Believe me, if you value your life you will not push my brother any further. His temper is raw at the moment and I would not agitate him further.’

‘You draw no weapon in my defence, Sapphon?’ said Astelan. ‘I am essential to the success of your plan. I would think you value me more highly.’

‘Whatever you think, regardless of our differences of method, Brother Asmodai is worth a thousand of you,’ said Sapphon. ‘Especially now.’

The Fallen was subdued by this and said nothing more. Asmodai sat down but kept his weapon free as he fastened the security harness. A few moments later the last of the small group joined them: Ezekiel. The Librarian sat a little way from them, eyes fixed on Astelan.

‘That completes our landing party,’ announced Sapphon. He gave the order to the pilot to lift off.

It took nearly an hour for the descent to the surface, which passed without any comment from Astelan. The Fallen appeared to have accepted the gravity of the situation – and his tenuous part in future events – and sat immobile for the entire journey.

Sapphon spent the time trying to conceive of every possible way in which the Fallen would try to escape or otherwise betray his captors. Under close guard, unarmed, the former was impossible. Even if Astelan somehow overpowered one of the Chaplains, the other, with the Deathwing and Ezekiel for support, would kill him in moments. The second was trickier in prospect, but Sapphon believed he had those eventualities covered as well. It made no sense for Astelan to reveal his identity to anyone on Tharsis – unless he believed that the Dark Angels would protect him from retribution. He was being granted access to the world’s astropathic choir to send his message to Anovel, which came with its own dangers.

The content of the message would be scrutinised but it was the nature of such psychic communication that codes and passwords, cipher images and innuendo were used. What possible damage could he do with a simple message? Warn Anovel? That only made sense if the Fallen was already at or heading to Tharsis. Send for reinforcements? It was a possibility, but with the loss of Port Imperial such forces as Anovel might have had access to were much diminished. The Deathwing and Ravenwing, despite their casualties at Ulthor, were a match for almost anything the traitor could call upon at short notice.

Above it all, as long as Astelan believed his life hung in the balance he would remain compliant. With Asmodai only a trigger’s breadth away from ending the Fallen’s life, Astelan had to know any treachery would be rewarded with death the moment it was uncovered. Survival instinct was the surest guarantee Sapphon could depend upon.

After making planetfall at the Imperial commander’s personal star port they were met by a small delegation of functionaries dressed in elaborately patterned togas, wooden sandals, shaven heads and long beards. Each carried a dataslab and quill, save for their leader, who introduced himself as Comptroller Farius Contrateus Danageo. He held a communications sceptre shaped as an eagle’s claw gripping a green glass orb, and over his bare scalp and right ear was arranged a receiver of some kind, two long aerials jutting up like the antenna of an insect.

He did not look pleased to see his visitors.

‘Felicitations from Imperial Commander Gastrex, honoured lords of the Dark Angels.’ Danageo’s bow was perfunctory, his eyes roaming from one super-warrior to the next in the few moments it took to dip and rise. He blinked rapidly as his roving gaze returned to the skull masks of Sapphon and Asmodai and then his eyes seemed to fade and his expression slackened.

‘And such to the Imperial commander,’ said Sapphon. ‘All is in order as we requested, I hope.’

‘Hmm, requested, yes,’ said Danageo, and Sapphon could easily imagine that Belial’s requests might sound much the same as his commands. ‘If I could just have your titles and names, for our records.’

There was a moment’s pause. Sapphon wondered why he had not considered this possibility. Astelan stepped forward, causing Asmodai to stiffen, hand on pistol.

‘Brother… Belath,’ said the Fallen, inclining his head slightly.

‘I am Brother Sapphon, Master of Sanctity,’ the Chaplain said, trying not to appear unduly hurried. The others gave their names and the scribes noted them down on their data-slates. Danageo lifted the orb of his sceptre to his lips and said something. The glass globe lit up with each word. A few seconds later the gates behind the group rumbled open, revealing a gaping tunnel leading into the lower levels of the Imperial commander’s administration complex. A company of soldiers, roughly one hundred and fifty strong, waited inside the gates. Heavy weapons on tall tripods were trained on the Space Marines.

‘You were told to bear no arms in our presence,’ said Sapphon. It was unlikely the Tharsis defence forces had many weapons to threaten a Space Marine, but it had been decided not to risk giving Astelan any opportunity to arm himself from an inferior foe.

‘And we were told that you came with peaceful intent also,’ replied Danageo, unfazed. The comptroller looked pointedly at the weapons of the Space Marines. Sapphon decided the device on his head, which in places pierced the skull, had some kind of emotional dampening effect because he had never seen a normal man so coolly face up to the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes.

‘We will not disarm,’ said Asmodai. He looked around as though expecting ambushing forces to appear from the surrounding landers and buildings.

‘We do not expect you to,’ said Danageo. He whispered something else into the comm-sceptre and the defence force soldiers turned and filed away into the palaces. ‘You cannot expect us not to take precaution, however. Past encounters with the Dark Angels have been less than favourable for our people.’

Astelan was looking directly at the comptroller, head slightly tilted to one side in thought. The sooner the Fallen was back on the gunship and returning to the Penitent Warrior, the easier Sapphon could breathe.

‘Understandable,’ said the Master of Sanctity, stepping past Asmodai and the Fallen to lead the Dark Angels group. ‘Please convey us to your astropaths and we will disturb you for no longer than necessary.’

REASONS TO HATE

The chamber of the astropaths was a hemispherical arena with a floor gently sloping down to the sarcophagi where the psykers performed their work. Crystal arrays hung from the ceiling like chandeliers, connected to each other with bare, sagging cables that flickered with multicoloured energy. Every astropath was capable of sending signals out into the aether, and receiving the communications of others; the amplifying machinery of the choir-hall served to increase that ability a thousandfold.

Simply stepping into the chamber sent a frisson of unease through Asmodai. The warp was essential, this much he knew. It allowed the ships of the Emperor to travel from world to world within weeks rather than lifetimes. Without astrotelepathy those worlds would be even more isolated, tiny enclaves of humanity, each a besieged gem in the darkness of the galaxy. Warp communication was erratic but it was all that held the Imperium together. Without it the Dark Angels and the other Space Marine Chapters would be next to useless. A whole wing of the Rock was given over to the Librarium of the Chapter to sift through the overlapping, contradictory signals of the warp, seeking telltale signs of alien invasion, listening for muffled cries for aid, interpreting dream-prophecies for hints of calamities yet to pass.

All the same, it was the warp that had corrupted the Fallen. Asmodai did not know the details of how, only that the warp was home to daemons and the infernal powers that spawn them. Contact with the warp was ever a danger, a temptation.

There was more to Asmodai’s distaste for the empyrean than simple intellectual distrust. His was a primal, personal antipathy. At times like these the Interrogator-Chaplain felt his most vulnerable – in the company of psykers, at the moment of transition when a starship breached unreality, on the edge of sleep whilst in the warp. At those junctures when his soul was most exposed he would have glimpses of Malvine Rhemell.

It would come with a moment of paralysis, just like now. A shock to the nervous system as an ever-present threat and a half-glimpsed face leering in insane triumph. A billion voices shrieking. And then, a flicker within a flicker, a terrible microsecond of absolute horror as Asmodai saw not the face of the Fallen but his own, reflected back at him, distorted and terrible.

TRAITOR!

Always the accusations of the dead, an after-echo ringing in the ears of the Chaplain.

He had told no one about these experiences. Instead, as now, he raised up steel walls of pure will, erecting a fortress of hate and fury to defend himself against encroaching doubt. It lasted perhaps a second, nothing more, yet it felt like an hour of torment.

Traitor!

His purpose was just, his cause pure, his duty unsullied.

Traitor.

And the voices died away, the face of the traitor faded, and all that remained were the rage and the revulsion that kept him sane.

Asmodai blinked once, dismissing the last of the phantasm that had assailed him, and watched the others descending the steps towards the astropaths, led by the comptroller.

There were seven astropaths in the hall, each held upright in the open meshwork of a psi-booster. They were arranged about the edge of a circle inscribed at the heart of the hall’s dark stone floor, marked much like the wardings Harahel had created for his ritual, though more substantial. The psykers looked asleep with their eyes open; blind orbs, clouded with white from the soul-binding ritual that protected them from daemonic interference. Their lips moved, some in synchrony, some speaking at odds, their murmuring creating an overlapping chatter.

Each astropath was attended by a servitor-scribe, haggard half-machines that noted down everything that passed the lips of their appointed psyker. Sheaves of these transcripts were taken away by messenger serfs, who wore blinkered, heavy helms to protect against repeated exposure to the crawling warp power that caused the sigils on the walls and floor to gleam.

Asmodai followed a few steps behind, his eyes never leaving Astelan. The Chaplain’s instincts screamed that this was a terrible idea, but he refrained from taking action. Sapphon called him uncompromising and dogmatic, as though that was some kind of insult. Asmodai did not take it as such. Ten thousand years was a long time to perfect an art and he would not be so disparaging of so many lessons hard-learned. Allowing a Fallen access to astrotelepathy was an error of potentially calamitous proportions, and not to stop this imprudence took every fibre of Asmodai’s self-control – though his brothers doubted such a thing existed.

Sapphon spoke to the comptroller, who called forth a group of attendants who had been waiting in a small shielded enclosure beyond the astropaths. They disengaged one of the psykers from her transmission rig and brought her to the group. To Asmodai she had a curious look of youth and age at the same time. She stood straight and strong, and her hands were smooth and supple. Her face, though, was lined and her eye sockets grey and sunken, the vitality leeched from her by close exposure to the psychic magnificence of the Emperor.

‘This is Lady Nadia Mischenko, one of our finest astropaths,’ said Danageo. ‘She is choir-mistress of this facility.’

‘Our gratitude,’ said Sapphon. ‘This will not take too long.’

The comptroller did not catch the implication of the Chaplain’s words and remained with the group.

‘Not for your ears,’ said Astelan.

‘You may wait outside,’ added Sapphon.

Danageo frowned at this but did not argue. When he had departed, Sapphon sent the Deathwing escort to guard the doors and watch over the attendants. Ezekiel also moved away to one side of the chamber, where he stood with hands clasped and eyes closed. Sapphon asked Lady Mischenko to give them a moment and when she had withdrawn he turned to the Fallen.

‘Our Chief Librarian will be monitoring the broadcast,’ said Sapphon. ‘If he detects anything untoward he will block the transmission and you will be executed.’

‘In front of so many witnesses?’ replied Astelan. ‘A difficult event to explain away.’

‘A concern you will not share,’ said Asmodai. ‘We have ways of turning aside scrutiny.’

‘I see.’ The Fallen looked over at Ezekiel. ‘How am I to know what your witch deems improper?’

‘Do not burden yourself with such worries,’ said Sapphon. ‘Simply send your message and the task will be complete.’

‘And once my part in the bargain is done, what will you do with me? How can you assure me that you will not simply kill me out of hand once the deed is finished?’

‘If your end comes so quickly, be thankful,’ said Asmodai. ‘I would have it last far longer.’

‘Your just fate will not come so soon,’ said Sapphon. ‘Your usefulness does not end with the simple broadcast of message. If we receive reply we will need you to decode it. If Anovel actually comes to Tharsis, and I am not convinced that he will, we require you to make representation that will lure him fully into the trap. You are an experienced starship captain, Astelan. You know that until we have Anovel’s ship approaching orbit he will be free to slip away again. Your function as bait gives you a stay of execution at least until the other traitor has been delivered into our hands.’

‘Convincing arguments,’ said Astelan. He raised his hands to his helm, and Asmodai reacted quickly.

‘You were told to leave your helmet in place,’ said the Chaplain, bolt pistol raised.

‘Anovel will want to see my face,’ said Astelan, moving his hands away from his head. ‘None of the astropaths will recognise me, I promise you.’

‘Such promises are empty,’ said Asmodai, but the Fallen was probably correct in his assertion. The Chaplain lowered his pistol. ‘You may proceed.’

The Fallen unclamped his helm with a hiss of escaping air and hung it onto his belt. Receiving a nod of approval from Sapphon, he approached Lady Mischenko. The astropath nodded her understanding several times as Astelan quietly explained his message. She beckoned for the Fallen to accompany her and returned to the cradle of her psi-booster. As she stepped back into the machine a web of crystal wires embraced her thin form, creating a glittering cocoon from waist to neck.

Asmodai watched the proceedings carefully, looking for any sign of deceit from Astelan. As Mischenko stared with dead eyes the Fallen spoke at length, gesturing on occasion to emphasise some point or other. The Chaplain could see Mischenko’s lips moving, keeping pace with Astelan’s voice so that it seemed she spoke with his deep tones. Light glimmered along the psychic network, disappearing into the amplifiers. Asmodai imagined the coded message being flung out from Tharsis into the void, settling in the warp like scraps of paper dumped onto the torrent of a fast-flowing river. At the heart of the chamber they could feel the pulse of barely-controlled psychic power, although he did not suffer his usual nightmarish intrusion. Instead he was dimly aware of signs and shapes, of symbols and figures plucked from the thoughts of Astelan and dispersed through the mind of Lady Mischenko.

‘It is done,’ she said huskily, her complexion more pallid than before as she stepped out of the psychic meshwork. ‘I have shared the signal-marks with the others so that should we receive reply we will recognise the intended recipient.’

‘What of the message?’ said Sapphon. ‘Did it mean anything to you?’

‘Nothing,’ the astropath said with a shake of the head. She pulled up the hood of her robe and beckoned to her attendants. ‘Please excuse me, but it was a long and complex broadcast. I need to rest.’

‘We are done here,’ said Sapphon.

‘A moment,’ said Asmodai. He walked over to the servitor-scribe attending Mischenko’s position and snatched up the last few pages the half-man had written.

‘A wise precaution,’ said Sapphon. He looked at Astelan and pointed to the helm at his belt. ‘Time for you to become Brother… Belath, was it not? From where did you pluck such a name?’

The Fallen’s expression became a twisted smile.

‘A battle-brother from long ago,’ said the Fallen. ‘It seemed apt for the occasion.’

Ezekiel joined them as Astelan replaced his helmet. The Librarian gave a slight shake of the head.

‘I detected no treachery, and what I received of the message seemed genuine,’ the Librarian reported. His eyes blazed for a moment as he stared at Astelan, who jerked suddenly and stumbled. The glow of Ezekiel’s eyes intensified and the Fallen dropped to one knee, hands clutching the sides of his head. The psychic fire dimmed and the Librarian looked away. ‘Yes, I am sure that nothing was concealed that would warn of our presence or intent.’

‘Damn you, witch,’ Astelan moaned, slowly straightening. ‘Was that necessary?’

‘We will return to the Penitent Warrior,’ announced Sapphon. ‘I am sure the comptroller will inform us of any developments.’

‘How long do we remain here?’ said Asmodai. Enough time had been wasted on this distraction and he was eager to return to the Rock.

‘I do not know,’ admitted Sapphon. The Chaplain looked at Astelan. ‘How long do you think we should grant you before we declare the attempt failed?’

‘Thirty days,’ said the Fallen. ‘If I am right, Anovel will have stayed within a few hundred light years of this system and Port Imperial, especially if he has been to Ulthor. Thirty days is plenty enough time for a message to be heard and reply sent.’

‘An honest assessment,’ said Sapphon, sounding surprised. ‘Thirty days for your vindication.’

‘If Anovel is alive, and listening, and believes me,’ the Fallen added. He turned his gaze on Asmodai. There was no way to know his expression beneath the mask of his black helm. ‘I do not hold out much hope.’

Asmodai said nothing. For fifteen years Astelan had evaded his just punishment, waiting upon the return of Boreas. Now Boreas had succumbed to the lies of the Fallen and it was only a matter of time before Asmodai was granted his desire. When this nonsense was finished Sapphon would have no choice but to hand control of Astelan’s interrogation to Asmodai. Not only would he earn a third black pearl for his crozius arcanum – one for each Fallen that repented by his hand – but he would derive a large amount of personal satisfaction from the inevitable conclusion to this affair. Astelan begging for forgiveness, denouncing his falsehoods and admitting his treacheries would be ample reward for the frustrations inflicted upon Asmodai in recent weeks. He would prove wrong the critics within the Inner Circle and show that uncompromising attention to duty and tradition would see the Dark Angels returned to their full glory.

He could wait thirty days.

SUSPENSION

Time ceased to have meaning for Telemenus. Like all Space Marines his enhanced physiology had many means to combat the physical trauma he had suffered during the confrontation with the daemon. Chief amongst these was the sus-an membrane that allowed his body to fall into a biostasis, reducing vital functions to an almost zero-state. During those times he was utterly unaware of his surroundings or the passage of time.

He woke to find himself hooked up to a life support system similar to the one found in his armour. The sprawling pipework and coiled cables of the machine interfaced with the nodes and sockets fitted into the subdermal black carapace that had been installed as the last transition from Scout to full battle-brother. Rather than auto-senses and stabilising systems, the implants instead allowed a cogitator to regulate his breathing, blood flow and nervous system – functions that had been seriously impaired by the daemon’s attack.

Apothecary Temraen was adjusting something on the machine, his white robes sullied with flecks of blood and a yellowish stain from some other vital fluid. He turned as he noticed Telemenus stir.

‘Adrenal boost to snap you out of the suspended state, brother,’ explained the Apothecary. ‘Emergency surgery is complete but there are some extra procedures I need to perform and prolonged sus-an operation would be detrimental at this stage.’

Telemenus murmured something in reply. He was not quite sure what. It seemed to satisfy Temraen, who nodded thoughtfully.

‘It is unlikely, but once you have been returned to the Rock the full facilities of the armoury and apothecarion will be turned towards your physical rehabilitation. Extensive augmetics and bionics are still a possibility. Even with every effort it is unlikely that you will regain full combat status.’

A dense fog permeated Telemenus’s thoughts making it impossible to concentrate for more than a few seconds. He nodded as the Apothecary told him he would be applying a sedative in preparation for the coming surgery.

After that Telemenus drifted in and out of various states of consciousness. Sometimes Brother Sapphon came to talk to him, on other occasions it was Brother Ezekiel. Brother Temraen was a frequent visitor.

More often, Telemenus spent his time in the company of the Emperor, who had become a suffused golden glow that lingered on the edges of the chamber.

‘They will not let me fight again,’ Telemenus said during one such encounter.

‘You are too broken,’ the Emperor replied.

‘If I cannot fight, what is the point of my existence?’

‘You might yet go into battle. Mechanical restoration will allow you to be a pilot or a driver, or perhaps a gunner in a Predator or Land Raider. Only in death does duty end.’

Telemenus laughed. It seemed strange to hear the mantra from the Emperor Himself.

‘I am the embodiment of that principle, Telemenus,’ the Emperor said sternly. His essence moved from the corner of the ceiling to settle upon the pulmonary monitor beside the bunk, making the ticking box glow with a golden aura. ‘Grievous were my wounds but my duty to mankind would not allow me to relinquish this mortal vessel. Ten thousand years I have endured, persisting in this realm to guide my people to their destiny.’

‘You are far greater than I,’ said Telemenus, humbled by this revelation. ‘But I will aspire to honour your sacrifice.’

‘You more than any shall come to know me,’ the Emperor continued. ‘This half-waking life, sustained by the Golden Throne, every moment a struggle along the precipice of oblivion. Do you feel my grief, Telemenus?’

‘I feel it,’ whispered the Space Marine, as the sense of loss the Emperor had suffered welled up within him.

‘Feel what?’ asked Brother Sapphon. ‘What are you looking at?’

Telemenus turned his eyes from the metal box of the monitor and focused on the Chaplain standing at the foot of the bed. It seemed odd every time Telemenus looked that way, to see the sheet laying flat where his hips and legs should be. He wanted to wriggle his toes to make the sheet move, perplexed by the lack of response.

‘The Emperor’s sacrifice,’ he whispered. ‘I share it.’

Sapphon smiled but there was more sadness than joy in the expression.

‘Of course you do,’ said the Chaplain, without hint of condescension.

‘What will become of me?’ Telemenus asked.

‘I do not know, brother,’ Sapphon admitted. ‘Much depends on what happens here.’

‘Where are we? Are we returning to the Rock?’

‘Not yet, we still have a mission to perform.’

‘The longer we stay here, the more my body will deteriorate. I think I remember Brother Temraen telling me that.’

‘Yes, I am sorry, but that is unavoidable.’ Sapphon sighed and stepped closer, moving along the right side of the bed to lay a hand on Telemenus’s chest. ‘We must be here at least another fifteen days. You remember how I told you of the Fallen?’

‘How could I forget?’ Telemenus grimaced at the memory of the traitors.

‘One is coming here, to Tharsis. When we have captured him, we will return to the Chapter and you will receive the attention you require. The treatment you deserve.’

‘That is good. It will be worth returning with a victory.’

‘The best kind,’ said Sapphon, withdrawing his hand. He looked away for a moment, towards the chamber door.

‘I am sorry for causing you distraction at this important time,’ said Telemenus.

‘No, it is I that am sorry, that my duties elsewhere limit the time I can spend with you. It is a noble sacrifice you made, fighting for your brothers.’

‘It was stupid!’ Telemenus’s anger at himself came in a rush as he recalled the circumstances of his injury. ‘I should not have been so ignorant of the danger. And Daellon… How is my battle-brother? Did he survive?’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Sapphon, brow creased with concern. ‘He has visited you several times, as have others of the company. Do you not remember?’

Telemenus tried, but he could not picture his brother’s face at all, nor recollect seeing anybody else. He shook his head in frustration. His memory was meant to be perfect.

‘Calm yourself, brother, such agitation will vex your wounds,’ said Sapphon.

‘My head was uninjured yet my mind is so addled,’ Telemenus said with a snarl. ‘My body can be repaired, but…’

‘A side effect of the contagion that tried to infect you, that is all,’ Sapphon spoke quietly and calmly, and placed a hand on each of Telemenus’s shoulders, holding him still as he tried to sit up. ‘It will pass.’

‘He is lying, of course,’ said the Emperor. The auric light was filling the room. Sapphon had disappeared, though how long ago was uncertain.

‘How do you know?’ Telemenus asked, before he realised how redundant the question was. ‘You are the Emperor, of course you would know. Why would he lie to me?’

‘To protect you. The same reason he and others like him have been lying to you since you were first chosen to become an aspirant.’

‘That has troubled me. If we had not disobeyed orders and encountered the Fallen warlock, would I have ever known?’

‘Did you ever ask the right questions?’ The Emperor had always brought warmth with Him before but now a strange chill pervaded the medicae cell.

‘They would have lied to me regardless. Would it be so disastrous if the battle-brothers knew?’

‘Only you can answer that question, Telemenus. You were a battle-brother once. You had doubts and suspicions. What would have happened if you had been told?’

‘If the cause is just I do not understand why such a thing must be kept secret. I would have fought just as hard and with as much conviction and courage as before. The Deathwing know the truth and they are counted amongst the bravest and most loyal warriors of the Chapter.’

‘Perhaps, like them, you are special. Your strength of mind means that you are capable of knowing the truth of what happened ten thousand years ago.’

‘Sergeant Arbalan told me that I was unremarkable.’

‘Do you really believe him?’

‘No.’

‘Who do you address?’ Telemenus wondered why the Emperor’s voice had changed, and then realised he had been spoken to not by the Master of Mankind but by Brother Ezekiel. The Librarian was accompanied by Apothecary Temraen. Both looked concerned.

Ezekiel repeated the question. It was obvious that the ghostly golden aura hovering around the light fittings was not visible to the others. Telemenus thought about his answer for a moment. It occurred to him that it was not every Space Marine who received direct audience with the Emperor. It marked him out as having a greater fate, confirming what he had suspected for some time. Were they ready for the truth? He decided that they would not understand, not yet.

‘Myself,’ said Telemenus. Ezekiel was one of the worst. He could look into the souls of others and must know what deception lay in the hearts of the Chaplains. ‘It helps to keep my mind active.’

‘I see,’ said Ezekiel, though his body language expressed dissatisfaction with this answer. ‘I am going to probe your mind to ensure no… remnant of the infection remains.’

‘Physically you are stable,’ Temraen added. Telemenus thought the clarification unnecessary until he realised what the Apothecary had not said. If Telemenus was physically stable, they judged him mentally unstable? He had been wise not to reveal the Emperor’s presence; such a thing would have been interpreted badly.

‘I feel good in myself,’ said Telemenus. The door opened and Sapphon entered. To have all three of his guardians – medical, spiritual and psychic – in the room at the same time unsettled Telemenus. ‘I am coming to terms with what happened to me and what service I might perform in the future.’

‘Is he cogent?’ the Chaplain asked, looking between Telemenus and Temraen.

‘Fully aware,’ replied the Apothecary.

‘Good.’ Sapphon approached and the other two Space Marines gave him room to stand beside the bunk. He glanced at Ezekiel and received a nod in return. ‘Telemenus, it is very important that you are honest with me. I need you to answer some questions. Brother Ezekiel is going to scan the surface of your mind to make sure that you have brought nothing of Ulthor with you.’

‘Of Ulthor?’ Telemenus thought about this for a moment before realisation dawned. ‘Something daemonic?’

‘Yes.’ Sapphon was being very earnest, almost too sincere. ‘You have been saying some strange things while you are asleep.’

‘It is not uncommon whilst the catalepsean node is in effect following physical trauma,’ Temraen said hurriedly. Telemenus realised he had been the subject of debate between the Apothecary and Chaplain. Evidently Sapphon had won his argument. ‘Coupled with intermittent use of the sus-an membrane, periods of non-lucidity whilst appearing competent are not without precedent.’

‘I am not afraid, brother,’ said Telemenus, giving Temraen what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘There is nothing inside me, but it would be better to allay Brother Sapphon’s fears.’

‘Good, then we are ready to begin.’ The Chaplain checked once more with Ezekiel. The Librarian stared intently at Telemenus with his dark eye, motes of psychic energy flickering in his irises. The Space Marine felt the psychic touch just behind his eyes, and for a moment it was as though someone else was looking out through them. The thought alarmed him.

‘That is my presence,’ Ezekiel said softly, ‘do not be alarmed.’

Swallowing hard, Telemenus tried to relax.

‘What do you remember of Ulthor?’

‘Everything,’ Telemenus answered. He closed his eyes and brought forth the memory; shared it with Ezekiel, every aspect and feeling. The blade of the daemon’s pick drove into his shoulder and unleashed its deadly contagion. He felt the rust peeling off against his innards even as organs burst and bones shattered. In minute, agonising detail he relived the blood welling up through into punctured gullet and the sensation of flesh and armour exploding outwards as the point of the pick head ruptured through his back.

‘Enough,’ muttered Ezekiel through gritted teeth. ‘Afterwards. Think of afterwards.’

There was very little to recall. Snippets of scenes, brief glimpses of being carried alongside Brother Sapphon by his fellow Terminators. More had come back to him since, processed and neatly packaged by his subconscious while his body and conscious mind had rested. The feeling of the force-teleportation, not quite understanding what was happening. And then he waking up with Ezekiel again. The memory came full circle, uniting the Librarian he remembered with the one meshed with his mind at that moment.

‘What is your name?’

Sapphon’s question came as a surprise, so caught up had Telemenus been with the reconstruction of his near-death. The Chaplain’s tone was curt, official.

‘Brother Telemenus, First Company, the Dark Angels of the Adeptus Astartes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Aboard the strike cruiser Penitent Warrior, in the Tharsis system.’

‘Who is in the room with you?’ Sapphon dropped his voice and Telemenus could feel Ezekiel’s othersense tentatively moving through his thoughts.

‘Brother Sapphon, Brother Ezekiel and Brother Temraen.’ Telemenus kept his gaze fixed on the Librarian, focusing on the sense of connection rather than the flicker of gold that shone like a halo around the psyker’s head.

‘Recite the fifteenth verse of the Catechism of Fortitude.’

‘There are only twelve verses,’ Telemenus replied without hesitation. The Space Marine glanced at Sapphon who had been leaning forward, hands on the side of the bed, and half-smiled. ‘You should know that, Brother-Chaplain.’

‘I should, and I do,’ the Chaplain said, standing straight. He did not smile back but his face was more relaxed.

‘I detect no further taint,’ Ezekiel declared. Telemenus let out a gasp as the psyker pulled back his presence. ‘Thank you, Telemenus, for allaying our fears.’

‘The gratitude is mine,’ he said. The golden shimmer of the Emperor’s manifestation slid across the room to illuminate a shelf of surgical implements. Telemenus kept his gaze on Sapphon. ‘Your concern for my well-being is heartening.’

‘With your permission, I will continue,’ said Temraen, reaching for a syringe filled with a thick red liquid.

‘Of course,’ said Sapphon.

The Apothecary fitted the needle of the injector to an intravenous feed on the side of the life support machine.

‘Neuron degeneration is a distinct possibility,’ said Temraen, checking some of the readings of the machine’s output screens. ‘This elixir will suppress your normal brain activity and boost the effect of the sus-an membrane. All cellular function will become virtually static. The next time you are awake you will be at the Tower of Angels.’

‘You are putting me into a coma?’ said Telemenus, forcing himself to keep the alarm from his demeanour. He knew that in such a state he would not be graced with the Emperor’s presence. He could see the golden shine hovering over the bed where his knees would have been had he still possessed legs.

The Apothecary was already pushing the plunger on the syringe as he replied and Telemenus did not hear what was said.

‘Peace, Telemenus,’ the Emperor told him, the golden aura enveloping everything that remained of the Space Marine’s body, flooding him with warmth.

‘Only in death…’ Telemenus began, and then he knew no more.

EXPECTATION

Every hour that passed seemed to drag but all too soon for Sapphon twenty days had gone by without any sign of Astelan’s message reaching its intended target. The curious matter with Brother Telemenus had been a welcome distraction to Sapphon, and the Chaplain had spent much time in the Reclusiam forcing himself to remain calm and alert, chanting hymnals and reciting litanies as a means of staving off the moments of regret and worry.

Both strike cruisers and their companies were kept at full alert, in case Anovel responded in person without first sending word of his impending arrival, and there was a tension felt by everybody aboard. Discipline remained high despite the inaction and tedium; the battle-brothers were able to lose themselves in the daily routine of drills and rituals. Sapphon trained and prayed with them when he could, but often Asmodai was in attendance and the flagrant hostility from his fellow Chaplain was threatening discord.

For many warriors the time before battle was spent in contemplation of mortality but it was not impending injury or death that occupied Sapphon’s thoughts. He welcomed the prospect of battle, for that would mean his ruse had been successful. What kept a cold knuckle of dread in his gut was the very likely event that thirty days would pass without anything untoward happening at all.

As much as he tried not to linger on the prospect, time and again the Chaplain’s thoughts returned to the dire consequences of failure. Sapphon decided to share his concerns with Sammael, intercepting the Ravenwing commander as he arrived on the Penitent Warrior for the daily command council. As Sammael left the landing bay where his gunship had landed Sapphon joined the Second Company’s Grand Master.

‘Little to report, I fear,’ said Sapphon after the customary exchange of greeting. ‘Asmodai may yet prove the wiser head.’

‘Never that, whatever happens,’ said Sammael. They started walking towards the closest conveyor, boots ringing along the deck in the otherwise empty bowels of the ship. ‘Being righteous does not make one wise.’

‘I would expect no other attitude from the Grand Master of the Ravenwing. We both desire the end of the Hunt, not merely its prosecution.’

‘It was not always so,’ confessed Sammael, glancing at the Chaplain. ‘It used to concern me, the idea that one day the Hunt might end. What would be the purpose of the Ravenwing with no more prey to chase? What would become of me?’

‘But that does not bother you now?’

They came to the doors of a broad conveyor carriage. Sammael activated the call rune and a distant clatter of chains and gears sounded from the shaft beyond.

‘I have achieved a spiritual equilibrium, I would say. My whole concern is to capture the Fallen. To think past that duty is a distraction, and risks moving aim from the present target.’

‘You think we have approached the situation with Anovel in the wrong fashion?’ Sapphon had hoped Sammael would be an ally on this matter but it seemed he had been wrong. ‘Have I wasted the time of all of us in this false errand?’

‘Not at all,’ said Sammael. He removed his helm with a hiss of escaping air and smiled at Sapphon. ‘It is secure in the knowledge that there are minds such as yours working towards an end that brings me peace. Sometimes we become too caught up in the Hunt, in the moment of running the quarry to ground, that we forget that this was not our first purpose.’

With a loud squeal of brakes and a thump the conveyor car arrived. Sammael prodded the keypad to open the doors, which whined apart. Sapphon put his hand in front of the Master of the Ravenwing, preventing him from entering.

‘You should not be so quick to speak such sentiment in front of Asmodai,’ Sapphon warned.

‘It is a thought I have kept to myself,’ Sammael assured him. ‘But it is one that was placed in my mind by a Chaplain, even so.’

Sapphon took his arm away as Sammael stepped forwards, allowing the Space Marine into the plasteel-lined box of the conveyor.

‘A Chaplain? Malcifer, you mean,’ said the Master of Sanctity, following Sammael. The door closed with more grinding of gears and a clang.

‘No, not Malcifer. He is freer of spirit than many of your calling on matters of discipline, a necessity amongst the Ravenwing, but he is as orthodox as Asmodai in other beliefs.’

Sapphon absorbed this, trying to think of who amongst the Chaplaincy might have seeded such thoughts with Sammael.

‘It was the last testimony of Boreas,’ Sammael said. He keyed in the code for the upper command deck where the ship’s counsel chamber was located. ‘The exact words escape me, but I remember listening to his final recording, in that place where he and the others had died, and they set in me chains of thought I had not before considered.’

‘As was his intent, I suspect,’ said Sapphon. He had listened to Boreas’s account of the demise of the Piscina garrison many times and was still undecided whether Boreas had remained true to his position as Chaplain or had turned renegade. ‘It would be easier to take Boreas’s enlightenment with more favour if one could eliminate the suspicion of Astelan’s involvement.’

‘And that same suspicion falls upon you now, brother,’ Sammael reminded Sapphon. ‘Are you sure this is our plan and not the machinations of the Fallen?’

‘Yes,’ Sapphon lied. Sammael was known for initiative and innovation but it would serve no purpose to have the Grand Master of the Ravenwing doubting the validity of their current strategy.

‘Boreas claimed that we had come to define ourselves by the Hunt, and I refuse to allow that to be true.’ Sammael looked directly at the Chaplain. ‘The Fallen do not define the Dark Angels. Many are our accomplishments and victories across the Imperium. The Hunt does not diminish the value of those campaigns and achievements.’

‘You are right.’ The conveyor shuddered to a halt. ‘Keep faith with our purpose and we shall be absolved in time.’

Sapphon stepped out into the corridor, but this time it was Sammael that checked him, placing a hand on his arm.

‘There was something else that Boreas claimed,’ the Grand Master said quietly. ‘He told us “There is no light and dark, only the shades of twilight in between.” It is a revelation to me that a Master of Sanctity would be the one not of light but of grey uncertainty.’

‘What would you prefer? That all of the Chapter walk the precipice between truth and doubt?’

Sammael did not answer and they continued to the council chamber without further comment. Belial and Asmodai were already waiting for them. The other Chaplain looked at Sapphon with suspicion as he entered a step behind Sammael, but said nothing.

‘There has been a development,’ said the Grand Master of the Deathwing.

Unnoticed before, Ezekiel stepped forward to the table as Sapphon seated himself.

‘I have detected a ship exiting the warp,’ announced the Librarian.

‘When?’ demanded Sapphon. ‘Why do you tell me this only now?’

‘It is not my role to act as your personal informant, brother.’ Ezekiel rarely raised his voice or spoke harshly, but this simple statement was enough remonstration to cause Sapphon to bow his head in apology. ‘I address this command council as one. As it is, not more than an hour ago was I able to confirm the tremors in the warp that herald a translation into real space. A large one, my experience tells me, though not quite as significant as a battleship.’

‘Alone?’ said Sammael.

‘For the moment. There are other bow waves approaching, ripples of arrivals yet to come I think.’

‘We did not expect Anovel to arrive alone,’ said Belial. ‘It is not so strange that he had a small flotilla with him.’

‘What is strange is his lack of communication warning of his impending arrival,’ said Asmodai. ‘He approaches with stealth.’

‘Or has made good speed and outpaced his astropathic reply,’ countered Sapphon. ‘To arrive so soon indicates that he was not so far away.’

‘And that does not give you concern, brother?’ said Asmodai. ‘This entire situation reeks of complicity between Astelan and Anovel.’

‘We must confirm that this is indeed the Fallen,’ said Belial. ‘If so, we will strike as swiftly as we can and take him captive.’

‘And how do we enact such a miracle?’ said Sapphon. ‘The moment he detects any intent against him he will flee. We have to lure him further in-system and then he will be vulnerable. Until then we must hide the presence of two strike cruisers and bring him to orbit over Tharsis.’

‘It is you that expects a miracle,’ said Asmodai. ‘I do not think our prey will blindly wander in to such unknown territory.’

‘Which is why we must use Astelan again,’ said Sapphon. He waited for the inevitable outburst from Asmodai, but none was forthcoming. The Chaplain was frowning deeply, as was Belial, but voiced no objection. Surprised, it was a moment before Sapphon could continue. ‘Astelan must send word from the surface that all is ready for Anovel’s arrival. The traitor must be welcomed with open arms and given safe passage to the inner system.’

He looked at Asmodai, expecting the derision to begin. Instead the Master of Repentance nodded.

‘That would seem prudent,’ said Asmodai. ‘I will travel with the prisoner to the surface and the strike cruisers should withdraw into the blind spot behind one of Tharsis’s moons.’

‘I am not leaving you alone with Astelan,’ said Sapphon.

‘Then I will go,’ said Belial. He shot Sapphon a challenging look. ‘We will take a force of Terminators as additional security. Unless you think I harbour some agenda also?’

‘No,’ Sapphon conceded. ‘I believe that what you propose is adequate.’

‘I concur, with a caveat,’ said Sammael. ‘We will withdraw to orbit on the opposite side of Tharsis for the moment, but remain on station to respond if needed. The Implacable Justice can outpace any other ship in the sector, as long as Anovel does not have too far a head start. Bring him a half a dozen days away from the safe translation belt and we’ll be able to catch him.’

‘Consensus?’ said Belial, looking at each of the officers in turn. They nodded their agreement. ‘So be it. Sapphon will speak to Astelan. We will lay our trap.’

COMPLICATIONS

Another four days passed during which Astelan was escorted to quarters within the Imperial commander’s palace on Tharsis. From there the Fallen sent transmission to the newly arrived ship, an ex-Imperial Navy heavy cruiser it seemed, requesting identification. It took another two days for the reply to come back, confirming by vox-channel that the commander of the ship was indeed Anovel.

Astelan granted the ship safe passage to orbit, but twelve hours later Anovel’s ship was still in the outer reaches of the system and had come to a halt. Astelan’s representations to Anovel went unheeded until a short message was received announcing that Anovel was awaiting the remainder of an accompanying flotilla.

Over the course of the next six days Ezekiel reported the ships he had felt approaching the warp breaking through into the Tharsis system. Many were small warships and transports, barely large enough for warp travel. Some were cruiser-class, reminiscent of the ships the Ravenwing had encountered at Port Imperial. Every few hours it seemed that another enemy vessel arrived until there were fourteen in total assembling in small groups around the edges of the star system.

Belial convened a vid-council; Sapphon joined from the Penitent Warrior and Sammael took part aboard the Implacable Justice. Asmodai’s absence was explained by Belial’s opening address.

‘Brother Asmodai believes Astelan knew of the size of Anovel’s force and deliberately brought us here as part of an ambush.’

‘Where is Asmodai now?’ demanded Sapphon.

‘He is… addressing these issues with the prisoner.’

‘Call him off, brother. If Astelan chooses to cease cooperation now Asmodai will bring about the fate he suspects. We need time to marshal a response to this development and only Astelan can buy us that time.’

‘By continued masquerade?’ Belial grimaced. ‘Words are poor replacement for gun decks, and we simply do not have enough to match this force.’

‘Words can lure this fleet within range of Tharsis’s orbital and ground defences,’ said Sapphon. ‘No number of guns can force that.’

‘We cannot face this fleet in open space, so our options are either to depart now or take station within the orbital defences,’ said Sammael.

‘Or a third option,’ Sapphon said. ‘The moment one of Anovel’s fleet detects a strike cruiser in the system our prey will know our intent. Tharsis is well-defended and I see no reason why he would prosecute an attack he did not expect rather than simply turn and leave. If we use the blind spots created by Tharsis’s moons to cover ourselves from the enemy sensor arrays we can keep our presence hidden.’

‘Your supposition ignores another possibility,’ said Belial. ‘If Anovel came to Tharsis expecting a world to dominate he might decide to take by force that which he thought was offered. Even with the system defences it is not certain we could prevent him attacking. If what you say is true, by revealing our presence and forcing the enemy to reconsider we could prevent an attack from ever starting.’

Sapphon could not refute the Grand Master’s reasoning. An immediate show of force, and the threat that other Dark Angels vessels might be close at hand, would almost certainly prevent any offensive action by the traitor fleet. It would also completely destroy any chance of capturing the Fallen.

‘It is a simple choice we face,’ said Sammael. ‘We must weigh the risk to Tharsis against the gains to be made by capturing Anovel.’

‘I know from report of Thyestes that you are not above such considerations, brother,’ Belial said, referring to the Ravenwing leader’s use of that world’s Imperial commander as bait in a similar trap.

‘Such exploit did not end so favourably,’ Sammael confessed.

‘I disagree,’ said Sapphon. ‘Though sacrifice was made, Methelas now inhabits cell at the Tower of Angels. The plan was a success, and so we will gain victory here.’

‘I will bring the remaining Deathwing to the surface, to counter any landing attempt,’ said Belial.

‘And what of the Imperial commander and other authorities of Tharsis?’ said Sammael. ‘The Adeptus Arbites, Administratum and others will be concerned by our arrival. Deployment of troops would excite suspicion further.’

‘I am not a novitiate in such matters,’ growled Belial. ‘My tongue might not wag so well as that of Brother Sapphon but I will state a reasonable case to the Imperial commander.’

‘What of Asmodai?’ Sammael asked.

‘He is absent from conclave, his opinion does not matter,’ said Sapphon. ‘Brother Belial, you must stop him from inflicting more harm to our cause.’

‘He is stubborn and not without right,’ said the Deathwing leader.

‘I have not known you to baulk at task simply because it threatens challenge.’

‘Save such mind-games for the Fallen, Sapphon,’ said Belial. ‘But I will turn effort to this task also.’

‘Much will depend upon Astelan, are we sure that we wish this?’ said Sammael.

‘A doubt, brother?’ said Sapphon. ‘Already we have placed much of our fate in his hands. It would seem odd for him to betray trust now that we have the advantage. Asmodai stands ready with threat of execution. If Astelan wished to make some move for freedom I feel the time has passed.’

‘A moment of cautious reason,’ answered Sammael. ‘If we are to fall to folly, let us be aware of the risks.’

‘I have been long aware of such concern,’ said the Master of Sanctity. ‘Nothing has changed to dissuade me from this course.’

‘Let it be done, as we have agreed,’ said Belial. ‘Move the strike cruisers out of possible detection and we shall see if we can lure the enemy into range.’

And as it was ordered, so it was done.

WARMONGER

The new palaces of the Imperial commander, whilst functional and sparse in aesthetic, had been well-equipped by the Adeptus Mechanicus. The vox-network and scanning systems were almost the equal of a fortress-monastery, although the forces at Tharsis’s disposal were lacking. The central command dome was familiar in layout – it had once been the bridge of a decommissioned starship. Orbital augurs and manned interplanetary relay stations ensured a steady flow of data to building-sized cogitator banks that filled the underbelly of the palace. Nearly three dozen servitors and as many officers of the planetary defence force and system fleet kept track of the incoming intelligence, updating holo-maps, passing data-slates back and forth and transmitting logistical updates to the various space, orbital and surface installations and forces.

Since the arrival of the traitor fleet every scanner, surveyor and eyeball had been stretched to the limit analysing their strength and approach, feeding this information through matriculating prophet programmes, using Logistarix and Lexmechanics from the Adeptus Mechanicus to determine likely courses of action and probabilities. Immense data-counting machines spat out proposed counter-manoeuvres, corollary actions and emergent protocols to the militia commanders and fleet liaisons who then submitted their reports, recommendations and orders to the Imperial commander’s war council.

Belial and Asmodai monitored the whole thing with passing interest, their primary responsibility for the time being to keep watch on Astelan. Only once the Deathwing and Ravenwing were in a position ready to commit to action would they take a more vocal role in the proceedings.

The Fallen seemed to be very much enjoying his role as chief strategic advisor, and there was no doubting his natural and trained capabilities. He marshalled the heavily gunned defence monitors, intra-system ships and orbital platforms with the ease of one accustomed to command. For their part the local militia and system defence officers were happy to defer to the Space Marine’s judgement.

With an experienced eye, Asmodai could see what Astelan had been doing. Outlying ships had given way before the approach of the incoming ships, collecting in flotillas at strategically important locations, shadowing the other vessels without doing so in any obvious manner. The Chaplain suspected that Anovel was not fooled by appearances, but the arrivals had made no effort to engage or otherwise interfere with the mustering of the fleet. On the face of things they had the advantage not only of numbers but firepower; the two strike cruisers standing in-system from Tharsis would be enough, combined with the advantages of surprise and orbital defences, to tip the balance against the traitors when the time came.

‘This might work,’ Asmodai said to Belial, begrudging every word.

‘Of course it will,’ said Astelan. Standing a few metres away. ‘Subterfuge is a very effective weapon and I have used it many times before.’

‘I do not plan to start making recitations and hanging out the celebration banners just yet,’ replied the First Company Grand Master. He looked at the immense hololithic display at the centre of the chamber. At its heart was a rotating representation of Tharsis and the space around out to two hundred thousand kilometres. Defence stations and ground silos were marked in blue sigils, as was the Imperial commander’s palace. Sub-projectors showed schematics of the capital city around the palace as well as other nearby system sectors where the defence fleet was gathered. ‘The next few minutes will be revealing.’

‘Indeed,’ said Astelan.

The foremost ships of the enemy fleet, two light cruisers, were almost within high orbit, slowing to take up position. A course correction a few hours earlier had taken them closer to the northern polar region, while other elements of the incoming flotilla had broken off to the south.

Astelan growled, something not to his liking, and approached the display to inspect it more closely. Asmodai followed like a shadow.

‘Something amiss?’ asked Belial.

‘Perhaps,’ said Astelan. Red light flickered from his black gauntlet as his hand passed into the hololith, pointing to a cluster of ships a few thousand kilometres behind the light cruisers. ‘This group is keeping very close together for some reason.’

‘Bad pilots?’ suggested Belial. ‘We are not dealing with Naval-trained officers, I expect. A lacklustre attention to formation protocol is understandable.’

‘No, that is not it,’ said Astelan. He manipulated the controls of a sub-display, trying to focus on the group of ships. There were four, cruiser class, all within a few hundred cubic kilometres. At Astelan’s bidding the image switched into reverse, winding back half a day. He set the vid-display into motion again. ‘See, they came together just outside the scan range of our orbital platforms.’

‘What does it mean?’ said Asmodai.

‘It means we are going to be betrayed,’ Astelan said quietly. He glanced at the other command staff and then erased the sub-display he had highlighted.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Belial.

‘I have seen this before. At extreme range, the energy signature of several ships can be used to obscure their numbers.’ As he spoke he indicated various features of the display. ‘There is a competent commander in charge of this fleet. The lead elements are already moving into position to exploit the Thurlmann magnetopause, whilst the main force is on a timed intersect course to enter orbit directly above us, and a secondary wing, these three frigate-class vessels here, are manoeuvring for static orbit over the equatorial defence stations.’

‘Thurlmann? What are you talking about?’ said Belial. ‘I see standard fleet dispersal for orbital berth separation, nothing more threatening.’

‘Castagor Thurlmann, fleet primus commander of the Iron Hands,’ Astelan said with a lengthy sigh. He looked at them and shook his head. ‘So much has been forgotten. The polar magnetosphere of a world interferes with the arrays of orbital surveyors and augury stations, making the poles a blind spot. Of course, there is little on the poles of most planets to attack, and the effect is equally disruptive to ships in orbit, preventing any targeting, so the deficiency is usually negligible. Castagor Thurlmann devised an approach pattern that allowed a ship to hit the boundary of the magnetosphere in such a way that its void shields and navigational fields would effectively create a minor vortex through the magnetosheath.’

Astelan stopped, his explanation obviously complete. Asmodai was no wiser to the Fallen’s concern than he was thirty seconds earlier, but was not going to betray his ignorance. He waited for Belial to comment.

‘That negates the scanner-blocking effect?’ the Grand Master ventured.

‘Yes!’ Astelan expelled an exasperated breath. ‘These two flanking forces are on a Thurlmann intersect pattern. They’ll breach the magneto-shielding effect and will have about five minutes of effective firing without reply.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Asmodai, intrigued by the possibility and appalled that he knew of no such phenomenon. He looked at Belial, but the Grand Master said nothing to contradict the Fallen’s appraisal of the situation.

‘I spent over a century attacking worlds in the Emperor’s name, fighting alongside the finest strategic minds and tacticians in the Imperium.’ Astelan spoke slowly, his tone patronising and infuriating, but Asmodai tempered his anger. There was a time and a place to unleash the rage, but thanks to Sapphon’s weakness and Astelan’s manipulations Asmodai found himself in a position where neither was appropriate. ‘I know what a fleet converging to assault formation looks like. More so, it confirms again that Anovel must be present. If you do not remember such manoeuvres, it is unlikely anyone who does not share a similar… history to me could conduct them.’

‘Do nothing,’ Asmodai snapped. He motioned for Belial to accompany him as he stepped away, out of earshot of Astelan and the Tharsian officers.

‘You do not trust him,’ said the Deathwing commander.

‘Do you?’

‘His explanation is plausible. I must confess that I am ignorant of the detail, but his interpretation may be correct. A fleet approaches – it is difficult to tell whether their intent is hostile or otherwise.’

‘What of this ship cluster masking its numbers?’

‘I cannot see what they would hide when the rest of the fleet is so obvious to detect,’ said Belial. ‘We have already identified the source of the earlier transmission as a grand cruiser, at the centre of the main detachment. If Anovel is aboard, it must be the flagship. What else would be worth concealing?’

‘How can we believe anything he says?’ Asmodai glared at Astelan, the look unseen behind his helm. ‘He is a treacherous snake. Every act here could be intended to deflect our ire while weakening our defences. See how we are already at a disadvantage? Our ships are out of range and we rely upon his word to decipher the enemy’s movements.’

‘We could remove him from command,’ said Belial. He shook his head, countering his own words. ‘No, that makes no sense either. He must know that the moment his c– ‘

‘Incoming transmission from approaching fleet!’

The call from one of the communications technicians cut across the debate. Asmodai hurried back to Astelan, who had been watching the Chaplain and Belial.

‘We should open fire,’ said the Fallen.

‘A warning to your comrade, perhaps?’ snapped Asmodai. ‘A signal just before he places his head upon the axeman’s block?’

‘A pre-emptive strike, you fool!’ Astelan’s vehemence shocked Asmodai for a moment. He quickly regained his equilibrium, realising that the Fallen might be trying to knock his judgement off balance with forced and hasty decisions.

‘No,’ said Asmodai.

‘What of the transmission?’ said Astelan.

‘No, you do not have any further contact with the enemy,’ Asmodai said flatly. ‘Any attempt to establish communication and I will kill you.’

Astelan thumped a hand against the hololith generator in frustration, denting the metal edging and causing the image to flicker for a moment. The Fallen turned towards the Tharsian attendants.

‘Monitor group Vesalas,’ Astelan called out. The ship liaison officer turned at the mention of his proxy command. Astelan interacted with the strategic schematic, which appeared on one of the tactical displays in front of the local officer. ‘I want an immediate narrow-augur scan of this target group.’

The officer acknowledged the order and set to the controls of his station.

‘What are you doing?’ Asmodai demanded.

‘Taking a better look,’ the Fallen replied. Even with the modulation of his helm’s external address system his scorn was obvious. ‘I have been keeping the Vesalas squadron just out of direct scan range. Time to move them in. I want to know what Anovel is trying to hide.’

The next few minutes passed in tense silence as the alerted flotilla of system monitors moved closer and actively scanned the vessels that had roused Astelan’s suspicion. Asmodai was expecting any moment the announcement that the enemy fleet had broken formation or changed course; anything that would betray their knowledge of what was happening.

‘Feed to the command display,’ the Fallen ordered when the liaison officer announced that the scan results had been received. On the main hololith the bulk of the enemy fleet was altering course, now heading directly for Tharsis, at increasing speed.

‘What are you looking for?’ said Belial.

Astelan did not answer. The data-cluster from the monitors appeared as a series of overlapping energy waves, superimposed over a schematic of their gravity displacement and energy output. As he looked, Asmodai saw something that did not match the other patterns; a discrepancy in displacement that was too large to be powered by the energy signatures.

‘An anomaly,’ said the Chaplain. He tapped in a control sequence to separate the interweaving lines. ‘What does it mean?’

‘I know this…’ Astelan leaned closer, as if to study the hololith in more detail. ‘I have seen this before.’

‘What is it?’ Belial demanded. The Tharsians could hear the exchange between the Space Marines and many were looking to them with worried expressions.

‘Throne of Terra!’ exclaimed Astelan, straightening. He turned to the command officers. ‘The Terminus Est! All stations, all battle groups, attack priority. Engage the enemy, full attack. Open fire, for the Emperor’s sake, open fire!’

‘Belay that!’ roared Asmodai, drawing his pistol. ‘Do not fire!’

‘We have to defend ourselves,’ hissed Astelan. ‘They mean to attack. That is Calas Typhon’s ship. I would know it anywhere. Emperor knows, I fought alongside it.’

‘I have only your word for that,’ said Asmodai.

Astelan leaned forward until his chin was just above Asmodai’s hand, the bolt pistol pointing at his throat.

‘Pull the trigger if you do not believe me,’ said the Fallen.

It was impossible to see his expression but the lenses of his helm were directly looking at Asmodai, daring him, forcing him to make a decision. The Chaplain’s finger eased onto the trigger of his pistol.

It was so tempting, to squeeze once and end this despicable affair right there and then. Just a simple muscular motion, a chemical reaction and then Astelan would be no more of a problem.

‘Is this how it was, traitor, when you gave the order to kill the Lion?’ Asmodai’s voice was just loud enough for the Fallen to hear, no louder. ‘Is this how you destroyed our primarch?’

‘Yes, remarkably similar,’ said Astelan. ‘I regret nothing.’

Belial’s hand fell onto the pistol, gently pushing it away before Asmodai could react.

‘I believe him, brother,’ said the Grand Master. Asmodai nodded and let his arm fall to his side as he turned to the vox-attendants.

‘Open fire!’ the Chaplain ordered.

BATTLE BEGINS

Guided by attack patterns created by the Dark Angels, the Tharsis defence fleet responded quickly to the call to arms. Slow but heavily-gunned monitors accelerated towards the incoming fleet, placing themselves between the approaching traitors and orbit around Tharsis. Surface batteries – defence lasers and immense cannons – fired at the ships attempting to make polar orbit, driving off the light cruisers. Orbital space stations spewed squadrons of fighters ready to intercept any potential torpedo launch while flights of bombers assembled beneath the guns of defence platforms in preparation for attacks against the arriving starships.

The traitors responded to the escalation by dividing their main fleet. A third of the ships, mostly frigate-class and destroyers, peeled away from the advance to tackle the monitors. The heavy cruiser flagship and its attendant escorts made full speed for orbit, loosing several salvos of torpedoes to clear its path to Tharsis. In their wake the Terminus Est was revealed as the cruiser squadron masking the energy signature of the huge battle-barge split, taking up supporting stations a few thousand kilometres from the Death Guard vessel.

Aboard the Penitent Warrior Sapphon could discern very little of what was going on, other than a swift spike in communications traffic and massive bursts of radiation and energy betraying ship weapons firing.

‘Shall we respond, Brother-Chaplain?’ asked Lasla Chirpet, the senior officer of the bridge attendants.

‘Not yet,’ Sapphon replied. ‘Establish a narrow-beam channel with the Implacable Justice.’

It would take a minute or two for the communications officer to make the almost invisible laser transmission to the other strike cruiser. Sapphon studied the blurred mess of the main sensor display. In order to keep their presence undetected the two Dark Angels ships were operating on minimal scanning, using only close range navigational augurs to ensure they did not crash. With their reactors almost idling, gun batteries dormant and flight bays locked, it would take almost an hour for the ships to come up to full preparedness, and nearly half that time to manoeuvre to combat speed.

‘Grand Master Sammael,’ reported the comms serf.

Sammael’s voice came through clearly, but there was no picture – a tight-band vox-link over a few hundred kilometres would keep the ships undetected.

‘Who opened fire first?’ asked Sammael.

‘I could not tell,’ said Sapphon. ‘It matters not for the moment. I do not think it is yet time to spring the trap. Anovel’s flagship has not fully committed yet.’

‘If we allow them any closer they will be able to start landing troops,’ Sammael replied. ‘It seems they intend to assault Tharsis.’

‘Let them,’ said Sapphon. ‘They will be greeted by Belial and his Deathwing, not to mention a fully mobilised planetary defence force.’

‘There is also the matter of the battle-barge, brother. I do not recognise the pattern but it is enormous, and comms tell me that it is issuing ancient Death Guard identifiers. After events at Thyestes and Ulthor we must expect it to be carrying a full complement of several companies. If they deploy, the First Company will need support.’

‘The moment we reveal ourselves our last advantage is spent,’ said Sapphon. ‘We cannot risk alerting Anovel to our presence. It will take at least thirty minutes for forces to make planetfall once orbit had been gained. I suggest we slowly bring up reactors to nominal threshold and stand-by in readiness.’

‘To what end? If we strike now we can still catch the heavy cruiser as it tries to make orbit.’

‘And what when we have to board the traitor’s flagship with its full complement? Better to let them begin to attack and deplete their defence before they understand the true threat.’

The vox hissed for a few seconds, leaving Sapphon wondering whether Sammael was displeased with this course of action and was going to intervene regardless. The Grand Master responded eventually.

‘It is a big risk, brother. We have no means of communicating with Belial and Asmodai without betraying our presence.’

‘They will understand our strategy,’ Sapphon said, hoping he was right. ‘Our silence for the moment communicates intent more clearly than words.’

‘I suppose that is the case,’ said Sammael. ‘Still, I would not wish it to be thought we stood aside while our brothers were needlessly in peril.’

‘Nothing we have done here is needless, brother. Remember that.’

‘As you say, brother. By the Lion, we will bide our time for the moment. When we strike, we must be swift and sure of our aim.’

‘Another cause for patience, Sammael. Anovel will likely lead the attack. On the surface your Ravenwing can hunt him down far better than aboard a starship.’

‘Let us hope that Belial does not catch him first, as you say. Preparing gradual reactor charge. Thirty minutes. Transmission end.’

DROP WARNING

‘Finally!’

It seemed to Annael that Sabrael’s exclamation summed up the feelings of the entire company. For watch after watch Grand Master Sammael had drilled them, covering drop protocol, inter-squadron formations, joint aerial tactics and everything else that made the Ravenwing the most responsive, coordinated force in the whole Chapter. It had been clear that they were preparing for something but nobody had been sure why they had been waiting in orbit over Tharsis on full alert. The scenario had become even more baffling when the two strike cruisers had broken orbit and moved further in-system. It had concerned the Ravenwing veterans, appearing to be a move that indicated a fleet engagement rather than ground assault. It had looked likely that the Deathwing would receive the battle honours rather than the Second Company.

The blare of sirens that indicated drop preparation sounded again, urging the Dark Angels to their bikes, aircraft and Land Speeders. Annael had been in the aft firing galleries, practising with his bolt pistol alongside the other Black Knights. Now they strode towards the armoury bays with purpose, even enthusiasm, the long wait until battle almost over.

‘Any confirmation on the mission, brother?’ Calatus asked Tybalain.

‘Not yet,’ replied the Huntmaster. ‘We are moving back into drop range at full speed. Full company-strength combat deployment will follow.’

‘On open ground?’ Nerean asked hopefully. ‘It would be good not to have another city fight. I want open stretches and sweeping attacks to fire the blood.’

‘Unknown,’ Tybalain said. They reached the bay doors and the Huntmaster stopped, holding up a hand to halt them. He unhooked his helm from his belt and looked at them sternly, his gaze lingering on Annael and Sabrael. ‘This may be the culmination of the current campaign. The end of the Hunt.’

Excitement grew in Annael at the thought. It was quickly tempered by the Huntmaster’s next words.

‘Remember our purpose.’ Tybalain glanced down the corridor at the other Ravenwing squadrons assembling in the bays further forward. His voice was quiet and steady. ‘We locate the traitor and bring in the Deathwing for his extraction. Our job is not only to run down the quarry but also to cordon off the area from the rest of the company. They do not know the full nature of the faithless men we hunt and we have a responsibility to defend that ignorance. The target will be referred to only as Primus. The call-signal to the Deathwing will be “Hammerfall”. When the target is found you will restrict all communication to squad-vox. Before then, watch what you say on the company channel. A loose tongue now could still bring disaster.’

‘Understood,’ said Annael. The others chorused their affirmatives.

Tybalain was not finished though. His next words were directed solely at Annael and Sabrael.

‘Initiative and surprise are key weapons in the arsenal of the Ravenwing, but you will remain in formation at all times and you will respond to my orders without hesitation.’ The Huntmaster stared hard at Sabrael. ‘Honour is earned by the completion of the mission. All other considerations are worthless. Kill tallies are meaningless if the target escapes. Discipline is honour. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Aye, brother-sergeant,’ said Sabrael.

‘Understood,’ Annael said again, inclining his head in respect. ‘Duty comes first.’

Contented, Tybalain led them to their waiting steeds. Techmarines and their attendants fussed around the bikes, making last minute checks and laying pre-battle blessings upon the machine-spirits. The fog of oily incense and the rumble of ammunition carriers filled the bay. The sights, scents and sounds stirred Annael, his hearts beating a little faster as he mounted Black Shadow and started his own preparatory rituals.

‘To victory this time, faithful steed,’ he said quietly, activating the scanning interface.

‘Starboard drop cascade four,’ Tybalain told them over the comm.

The announcement heightened Annael’s excitement even further. No gunship deployment this time. A drop assault, lightning-fast and intense. He ran through the mantra of the Black Knights to steady himself. Find the target. Isolate the target. Seize the target. It seemed simple enough but in the heat of battle it could prove difficult to focus amongst the cut and thrust.

‘Vox-check,’ Tybalain said. The squadron sounded off in turn, the voices as clear in Annael’s ears as if they had been standing next to him, despite the growing thrum of engines and a deeper rumbling from the deck that signified the Implacable Justice accelerating hard, heading back into orbit over Tharsis.

‘Drop count initiated at forty-seven minutes on my mark,’ the Huntmaster continued the litany of the company’s pre-battle routine. ‘Embarkation in twelve minutes. Assimilate geotelemetry.’

Annael opened up the comm-receiver of Black Shadow and waited while a stream of data uploaded to the navigational cogitator. From the schematics that scrolled quickly across the bike’s display the primary battle zone seemed to be a close-built urban area.

‘What joy,’ Nerean muttered over the vox. ‘Another city fight.’

DISTRACTIONS

‘He is coming for me,’ Astelan said quietly.

Asmodai said nothing. He had nothing to say to the Fallen. Belial had left the command centre to hold a briefing with his Deathwing Knights, leaving Asmodai alone with Astelan. The Grand Master had made it clear that the outset of a battle was not the time for the Master of Repentance to pursue his vendetta against the Fallen and as much as it pained Asmodai he was inclined to agree. Despite all of the Chaplain’s misgivings, so far Anovel had been lured directly into the trap as planned.

‘He is advancing on a single front, pushing towards the palace,’ Astelan continued, pointing at the hololith display. ‘Standard practice, to remove the upper command first.’

‘You are not in command here,’ Asmodai reminded the Fallen. ‘I am.’

‘I sought to explain the success of our ploy, not to take credit,’ Astelan replied. ‘However, command or not, you would have to agree that I have played the part of bait exceptionally well. Anovel races to put his head into the noose. He sees me as the greatest threat to his ambitions.’

‘I do not have to agree to anything. Even without your presence, the Imperial commander’s palace would be the logical target for an initial assault. As well as removing all command functions such action would seize the most advantageous high ground.’

‘Yet there is an almost unseemly haste in the speed of his advance. As far as our foe is aware he will achieve orbital supremacy very soon. He can take the time to surround and attack the citadel from several fronts, but instead he chooses to make a lightning attack along a single axis.’

Studying the schematics, the flickering icons that updated the positions of the enemy troops every thirty seconds, Asmodai could see that Astelan spoke the truth.

‘Anovel makes little attempt to secure his flanks or a supply line back to the landing grounds of his drop-ships,’ Asmodai observed. ‘There is no obvious line of retreat. He plans to capture the palace or die in the attempt.’

‘It does appear that is the case. Perhaps Anovel is showing his strategic naiveté. He was, after all, only an Apothecary in the Legion. I am frankly amazed he managed to muster any kind of force at all.’

Something about Astelan’s words gave Asmodai a moment of pause. It barely mattered to him what rank or role a Fallen had filled during the Horus Heresy, only the degree of their involvement in the rebellion against the Lion. Battle-brothers and Scouts were sometimes guilty of far more heinous deeds than Chapter Masters and Paladins. According to Astelan’s testimony it had been Anovel’s task within the grand scheme to secure gene-seed for implantation into new recruits located by Astelan. Methelas, the Librarian, had been responsible for commissioning the pirates of Port Imperial as a fleet, and for securing the star base as a mobile fortress. Astelan was to provide the recruits and, presumably, train them.

‘You were to be the commander, were you not?’ the Chaplain said slowly. ‘Within your new regime, the rank of Chapter Master would be retained by you.’

‘It was my assumption, yes, but it seems Anovel had other plans.’

‘Yet by your testimony he is an inadequate command figure, but has shown surprising ability in mustering an offensive force capable of attacking Tharsis.’

‘As he throws himself at our defences, his shortcomings may be soon proven.’ Astelan walked around the strategic display. ‘He approaches from one of the most securely defended directions, taking the shortest route but perhaps encountering the most resistance.’

‘It is not Anovel’s battleplan,’ Asmodai said slowly, coming to a realisation. ‘Another guides his actions.’

‘But… Typhon!’ Astelan slapped a hand against the side of the hololith table, fuzzing the image for several seconds. ‘A superior commander, indeed. We have perhaps made a grave error.’

‘I believe that has been true since we left the Rock, but how is this present situation confirmation of such fact?’

‘This is not a treachery to the plan I created with Anovel and Methelas,’ said the Fallen, pacing further around the display in agitation. ‘This has become the design of Calas Typhon.’

‘He is cursed by another name these days,’ said Asmodai. ‘Amongst those who know, he is called Typhus.’

‘Typhon, Typhus, now is not the time for pedantry. We have been proceeding on a false assumption. I believed Anovel sought to oust me from my position so that he could claim Tharsis and my recruits for himself. This has nothing to do with that vision. Typhon seeks to conquer the world for himself and is expending Anovel’s warriors to do so. He is a bold commander but not a rash one. He saves his Death Guard to strike the final blow once Anovel’s twisted scum have bled the Tharsians.’

‘His warriors would make a sharper tip for the spear,’ said Asmodai, unconvinced by Astelan’s assessment.

‘But such tip might be blunted in the effort,’ Astelan replied. The Fallen tapped gauntleted fingers on the surface of the projection plate as he spoke. ‘It does not make sense to you, but you are not a renegade. I am, and I have dealt with these types of warriors. They do not fight out of grand ideal or loyalty to the Emperor. They are selfish and bound together only by mutual need. The Death Guard follow Typhon because they choose to for their own benefit. There is not one amongst them that would set foot in the breach first for the safety of the others, whereas you would happily die if it brought victory. They are not battle-brothers as you understand it.’

What Astelan claimed made sense, from the perspective of the warped mind of a traitor. Over and over on the torment rack Asmodai had laid bare the self-serving and shallow nature of the Fallen and the same lack of duty and character was likely to apply to other renegades.

‘Your deductions are logical, but to what end?’ said the Chaplain. ‘Anovel is still placed well for capture, no matter the motivations and objectives of our foes. How does that alter the final goal?’

‘It means that Typhon will not join the assault until he is convinced victory is possible. If you can defeat Anovel and blunt his attack Typhon is likely not to prosecute further invasion. Anovel knows this and expends every effort, and warrior, in the attempt to secure the aid of the Death Guard.’

Asmodai had only a few seconds to consider this before his train of thought was interrupted by a panicked shout from one of the sensor array officers.

‘We have two cruisers in low orbit locking weapons onto our location!’ the attendant warned.

‘Anovel does not need to storm the palace,’ Astelan said hurriedly. ‘Damn! He only needs to remove us as a threat. He advances quickly to storm the ruins, not to take control! We cannot stay here.’

‘You do not leave this chamber,’ snapped Asmodai, pulling free his pistol. ‘Do not treat with me as a fool.’

A thunderous crack reverberated across the chamber, blanking out the hololith and filling downs of screens with static. Asmodai felt a tremor run through the walls and floor of the command hall.

‘Direct lance strike!’ reported the sensor officer.

‘Two power fields knocked out,’ added one of the men at the damage control station. ‘Four banks remaining.’

‘Where is our counter-orbital fire?’ Astelan demanded, striding towards the communications platform.

‘Remain at your positions!’ Asmodai roared as he noticed several of the officers backing away from their commands, eyes turned towards the door. He raised his pistol. ‘I will kill any man that attempts to leave his post.’

Another blast of energy from the second cruiser slammed into the energy shields shimmering above the palace. Deep within the citadel generators overloaded, blacking out more of the tactical displays. The main lights flickered off, to be replaced by the orange glow from the emergency plasma reactor buried deep beneath the fortification. Brighter light bathed the defence officers as screens glimmered back into life.

‘Answer me!’ Astelan stormed up and down behind the planetary defence officers. ‘Why are we not firing back?’

‘Targeting solutions have been calculated and communicated,’ one officer reported. ‘Silos four, six and seven are responding. We will return fire before the enemy can recharge their lances.’

‘Too late,’ said Astelan. Asmodai saw what the Fallen had seen. Atmospheric sweeps picked up a storm of projectiles descending on the city.

‘Torpedoes,’ growled the Chaplain. Normally the huge missiles were only good for ship-to-ship combat, but Anovel – or Typhon – had modified his ships’ ordnance to make them suitable for ground attack.

‘Sound bombardment warning,’ Astelan commanded.

The next few minutes unfolded slowly. The defence lasers positioned around the capital opened fire, driving away the two cruisers. However, as Astelan had observed, this was too little and too late. The entire reason for defence silos and orbital gun platforms was to prevent such an attack. Asmodai had no idea how a gap so large had been allowed to develop and any recriminations were pointless for the moment. It seemed likely that it was the work of traitors within the Tharsian establishment – maybe even old sympathisers of Astelan – but there was no proof of a connection.

The incoming torpedoes separated into hundreds of cluster-warheads two kilometres up from the palace, concentrated on a few square kilometres.

The command centre was located on the southern side of the citadel, behind metres of plasteel and ferrocrete, but such armour was only good against land-based weaponry. The destructive might of a plasma torpedo would find these defences little obstacle.

Asmodai had a hasty vox-conversation with Belial. Fortunately the Deathwing units had already moved outside the palace, deployed to encircle the attacking force rather than meet it head-on. Belial had ordered the Imperial commander conducted to the secure bunkers beneath the palace but for other personnel there was little shelter.

Anovel’s forces were only three kilometres away. The timing of the orbital attack was near-perfect, and would leave the palace defenders with no opportunity to recover before the ground forces were moving to overrun their positions.

‘It is time to formulate a new strategy,’ said Astelan. ‘The citadel is compromised. If Anovel is capable of seizing the centre of the city we can be sure that Typhon and his Death Guard will join the assault. You have to stop the enemy from advancing and counter-attack now.’

‘That would suit your ends perfectly,’ said Asmodai. He pointed his pistol at Astelan, rage building at the thought that the Fallen could think him so stupid. ‘The chaos and confusion of battle would give you ample opportunity to slip away and there is no bond I can place upon you that I can trust. I have postponed this moment long enough.’

The defence force officers were streaming away from their positions, taking advantage of the confrontation between the Space Marines to seek better shelter or perhaps escape. Asmodai did not let his aim waver for a moment, knowing his foe would need only the tiniest opportunity to act.

‘I should have expected no honour from the likes of you,’ Astelan snapped. ‘I have delivered Anovel to you on a platter, but you are so twisted up in your paranoia and lies that you cannot believe for a moment that I might act in good faith.’

TRAITOR!

A moment of weakness spawns a lifetime of heresy, so the adage claimed. It burned Asmodai’s soul to think of the compromises he had already made; his skin crawled at the thought of further bargaining with Astelan.

‘No, I cannot. You are treacherous to the core, Merir Astelan. You have been given many years to see the error of your past and to confess your transgressions yet have shown no repentance for your acts against your primarch and your Emperor. I have no choice but–‘

The first of the torpedo warheads hit the remaining power fields, detonating with a bright star of plasma that shook the palace to its foundations.

In the seconds that followed, more and more missiles slammed into the citadel and its outlying towers, turning masonry to slurry, releasing shockwaves that toppled the towers of the Cathedral of the Emperor Restored and flattened the other buildings around the city centre. A rippling tide of superheated air washed over the main plaza turning cobbles to liquid, incinerating anyone and anything in the open. Thousands of Tharsians, defence force and civilians alike, were immolated over the course of the next thirty seconds, not even ashes remaining to mark their demise.

The metal vaulting holding up the roof of the command hall screeched and buckled under torrential impacts, finally giving way amidst an avalanche of shattered ferrocrete and semi-molten plasteel. As Asmodai looked up a block the size of a battle tank dropped towards the Chaplain.

Astelan slammed into the Master of Repentance, fist connecting with the side of Asmodai’s skull helm. A moment later the block hit the ground next to the Space Marines, shattering into hundreds of wicked shards. Asmodai was knocked back by the impact, separated from Astelan as dust billowed like smoke. A piece of ripped girder followed, careening off the Chaplain’s left shoulder. As he toppled to one knee he saw more boulders falling on his attacker, until Astelan disappeared from sight.

The deluge of rubble continued for almost a minute, during which time all Asmodai could do was dodge as best he could, shielding himself from the heaviest blocks as broken masonry fell like rain. Shredded power cables arced lightning across the hall and command consoles exploded, sending a refuge of red and blue sparks into the darkness.

Every fibre of Asmodai’s being knew that Astelan was not dead.

He surged out of the rubble pile, switching to thermal view in the darkness. The air gleamed with the afterglow of the plasma detonations, laying an ochre sheen across everything. Jagged edges of broken buttresses and pillars glowed radioactively in the Chaplain’s infrasight while jets of energy looked like coronal ejections from a star.

And there was no telltale glow from the power pack of a Space Marine’s war-plate.

Astelan was gone.

Stepping over the wreckage, Asmodai smiled to himself. The Fallen had finally revealed himself and there would be no more arguments, no more dissembling and schemes within schemes.

Astelan could run, but he could not hide. Asmodai activated his battleplate’s transponder recognition systems and a definitive return pinged back from three hundred metres away. Astelan was making good speed, already at one of the armoury garages, Asmodai surmised. Even amongst the destruction of the torpedo strike a groundcar or armoured transport would survive. Fate sometimes worked that way. It did not matter; the Dark Angels had swifter means.

He activated the command-vox.

‘This is Brother Asmodai, contact for Huntmaster Tybalain. New priority objective. Designate Target Beta. Locate prisoner on transponder encryption alpha-seven-four-gamma. Terminate immediately on contact. No overrule, this target must be eliminated.’

‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain,’ came Tybalain’s reply. ‘Target Beta will be eliminated on contact.’

Vengeance was at hand.

THE PRICE OF DUTY

Contrary to Nerean’s misgivings, the Black Knights did not find themselves sent into the heart of Streisgant. Instead the Black Knights drop pods deposited them within striking distance of the traitor landing fields outside the city.

Dozens of huge drop-ships were scattered across a swathe of agri-district, looking like squat keeps amongst cereal fields and flattened mega-orchards. Air defence turrets on the dropcraft streamed tracer fire into the cloudy sky, seeking out the flitting shapes of Tharsian attack planes and Ravenwing interceptors. Rocket pods belched their payloads into the city, levelling buildings to pave the way for the infantry advance while armoured transports rumbled from the bowels of the drop-ships, grinding thick-tyred wheels over burnt crops and splintered trees.

The first Ravenwing charge was heralded by the arrival of the Darkshrouds. Black shadow spread across the flat plain from the east, masking the approach of Sammael and the bulk of the company. Ground-attack batteries fired shells and laser into the encroaching bank of darkness, the random fire passing harmless over the swift bikes and Land Speeders closing under the cover of artificial night.

Tybalain and his squadron curved around on a flanking attack, leading the Black Knights towards columns of augmented soldiers surging into the city outskirts. Land Speeder Tornados supported the riders’ attack with heavy bolter and assault cannon fire while Typhoons blanketed the outlying streets with missile barrages.

The Black Knights pressed directly into the midst of the foe, using their enemies’ own numbers as a shield against incoming fire, bolters and plasma talons spitting death. Chem-boosted bodies and mechanical exoskeletons were no match for the fury and firepower of the Second Company as the Black Knights and skimmers carved a trail through the advancing infantry.

Stooping in to the attack from over low warehouses, jinking between huge grain silos, a trio of Land Speeders dived onto clanking troop carriers, slicing through armour with flares of multi-melta, ammunition and engine explosions turning the transports into crackling pyres for the men and women within.

Swerving through the banks of smoke, Black Shadow’s wheels juddering over rubble and corpses, Annael plunged into the thick of the foe with the rest of the squadron. He lashed out with his corvus hammer, cracking open crudely-welded exo-armour, pulverising flesh and bone. Leaving battered, scattered bodies in their wake the Black Knights burst out onto a side street, moving away before the enemy could muster any sort of counterattack.

Following the Huntmaster, they looped around, passing between close tenements to come at Anovel’s warriors again from another direction, once more carving a bloody path through the invaders before zooming away. Over the vox Annael followed the reports from the landing fields: the Ravenwing were taking a heavy toll on the rear of the traitor army, herding the survivors into the city where the militia were waiting in prepared positions.

‘Priority objective, brothers!’ Sabrael announced gleefully as they swept out onto a broad boulevard on their third attack run. He pointed with his hammer towards the centre of the city, where a lightly armoured half-track transport was ploughing its way towards the inner citadel. Vox-antenna and scanner dishes dotted the armoured cab, indicating some kind of command vehicle. Las-fire from pintle-weapons manned by warriors in its open compartment spewed into high-fronted assembly plants to either side, paving the way for several dozen armoured infantry advancing in its wake. The traitors used the wrecks of vehicles as cover as they moved further into the city.

‘Good eyes, Sabrael,’ said Tybalain. ‘We will circle around and come at the target from the right.’

Sabrael needed no more encouragement and surged a few metres ahead of the squadron, angling his steed down an alleyway barely wide enough for bike and rider. Tybalain led the others after him, brick walls rushing past Annael within the reach of an outstretched arm.

Braking hard, tyres squealing, they banked into a broad stretch of ferrocrete; some kind of marshalling yard overlooked by cranes and gantries.

‘Emperor’s mercy,’ whispered Calatus. ‘Look to the palace!’

Annael followed his battle-brother’s instruction in time to see a blur of projectiles hitting the crackling arc of the citadel’s power field. For an instant whiteness filled his vision before his auto-senses blocked out the flash of plasma. When they cleared a half a second later, his sight still dimmed almost to nothing, all Annael could see was a fireball rising high into the air above the city. The towers of the palace had become pinnacles of flame, raining down molten debris like volcanoes.

As one the squadron screeched to a halt to watch the unfolding spectacle. The upper parts of the palace – all that could be seen over the intervening buildings – had become pillars of ash shot through with rivulets of molten metal. Annael looked on in amazement as a pinnacle three hundred metres high crumpled like a burnt log, turning into a blossom of flame and cloud before disappearing from view.

‘We need to move to support,’ said Nerean.

‘Negative,’ snapped Tybalain. ‘We remain on-mission until new orders from the Grand Master. Continue the attack.’

‘The first vengeance will be our honour,’ Sabrael said as he accelerated away.

‘No mercy,’ Annael added, the shock of the orbital attack subsiding, replaced by an upwelling of hatred for the enemy that had unleashed such destruction. ‘We cleanse Tharsis of this filth.’

A blast from Tybalain’s plasma talon shattered the gate to the yard and they exited at speed, swerving around falling remnants of burning metal onto a curving street that joined the main thoroughfare just ahead of the command vehicle’s current position.

‘My steed lacks teeth to bring down such a beast,’ said Sabrael, referring to the bolters fitted to the standard Ravenwing bike that had replaced the mount he had lost on Ulthor. ‘I shall draw their ire while you strike.’

Without waiting for confirmation or permission from Tybalain, Sabrael sped away down another side road, heading directly for the traitor tank.

‘Target tracks and weapon systems first,’ the Huntmaster told his squadron as they continued around the bend of the street. The lead elements of the command vehicle’s escort – lightly armoured scouts on foot – could be seen moving through the buildings ahead.

Tybalain had signalled for the Black Knights to spread out into attack formation when the vox crackled with a priority command transmission.

‘This is Brother Asmodai, contact for Huntmaster Tybalain. New priority objective. Designate Target Beta. Locate prisoner on transponder encryption alpha-seven-four-gamma. Terminate immediately on contact. No overrule, this target must be eliminated.’

‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain. Target Beta will be eliminated on contact.’ Tybalain switched back to the squad-vox to address his warriors. ‘Abort attack and set augurs for designated transponder signal.’

The Huntmaster slowed hard and banked his steed to the left.

‘Brothers, it will take but a matter of moments to destroy this foe.’ Sabrael was breathless with exhilaration. ‘We are in perfect position to strike.’

‘Negative!’ snarled Tybalain. ‘We have our orders. I will signal for a Dark Talon to make a strike against the target.’

Annael carried on as the other three Black Knights with him turned around their steeds and started heading away.

‘Annael, my brother, give me support. A delay of moments.’

It seemed a waste of an opportunity to turn away when they could inflict a serious blow to the enemy advance. The transponder signal of the Target Beta was clear on the augur relay, almost halfway across the city. It would take some time to catch up with the new objective, a minute or two’s digression would make little difference.

‘Honour is earned by the completion of the mission. All other considerations are worthless. Kill tallies are meaningless if the target escapes. Discipline is honour. Do I make myself clear?’

The words of Tybalain came back to Annael and he remembered the oaths he had sworn, on becoming a Dark Angel, on his investiture to the Ravenwing and in completing the Seventh Rite of the Raven. He was a Black Knight and he had a purpose above and beyond simply military accomplishment.

Other words came back to him, spoken by Malcifer. He felt the corvus hammer heavy in his grasp.

‘In taking up these weapons you are accepting a binding oath to the Chapter and the Emperor. You will swear that you will uphold the lore of the Black Knights of Caliban. You will offer up your lives in protection of the rites and knowledge of the Order. As Black Knights of the Ravenwing you shall be the eyes and ears of your Grand Master not only on the battlefield but amongst your brethren. You shall guard against heresy and rebellion with every fibre and be prepared to lay down not only your life but your honour in the prosecution of our ancient pursuit.’

He had a sacred mission to attend.

‘No, brother, we have to go,’ said Annael. He slowed and turned his bike after the others. ‘The Hunt comes first.’

The bark of bolters reverberated along the streets, swiftly followed by the snap of las-weapons and chatter of autoguns.

‘Too late, brothers, they have seen me,’ announced Sabrael. ‘Committing to the attack! Lend me your ire!’

It wrenched at Annael’s heart to slip away, doing nothing. For a moment he wanted to slew his steed around and ride to Sabrael’s aid, but the instant passed and he carried on after Tybalain. The increasing din of the firefight followed him down the street.

‘Brothers! We h–’ Sabrael was cut off and a loud detonation reverberated down the empty street. In the seconds that followed the din of battle quietened.

‘Brother-sergeant,’ said Annael, thoughts whirling with disbelief. It seemed impossible that Sabrael could have succumbed. There did not seem anything in the galaxy capable of killing such a warrior. ‘Our brother might not be dead. Sabrael’s gene-seed, the machine-spirit of his steed… The Blade of Corswain. Are we to abandon them?’

‘The Hunt, Brother Annael,’ came Tybalain’s stern reply. ‘That is our only concern. These other things we will attend in time.’

Annael glanced back but could see nothing of friend or enemy, only desolate road and buildings. He turned his attention back to the augur return of Target Beta’s transponder. The marker blip was moving away, leaving the city. Annael focused his frustration and anger onto the dot of red on the scanner display.

Sabrael’s name had been added to the list of those that needed to be avenged and Annael would see retribution exacted.

TARGET ALPHA

The purges and persecution committed by Astelan’s sacred bands and the retribution of the Dark Angels had not left much standing of old Streisgant, the capital of Tharsis. In the past fifteen years the city, and much of the world, had been built anew; prefabricated hab-blocks and ferrocrete roadstrip punctuated by grandiose Administratum tithe buildings, Mechanicus temples and local militia force barracks and garages. The central square was dominated on one side by the outlying fortifications of the Imperial commander’s palace and by the Cathedral of the Emperor Restored opposite, facing each other across a red brick plaza almost half a kilometre broad.

Though not in the way he had intended, Astelan’s brutal regime had wrought a huge change on Tharsis and brought new life and energy to the stagnating planet. On the fringes of wilderness space, overlooked by the Eye of Terror – a distant but malignant red blot in the sky day and night – Tharsis had been on the outskirts of the Imperium, troubled by warp storms and difficult to reach. Following the intervention of the Dark Angels, and their removal of any proof of Astelan’s origins, the Imperium had responded in a manner of almost unprecedented haste in comparison to much of the galaxy-spanning empire’s activities. In fifteen years Tharsis had been rebuilt from the cratered remains of a civil war-wracked ruin to a functioning world once more sending its tithes of ore, produce and men to serve the needs of their overlords on distant Terra.

Now the Dark Angels had brought war back to Tharsis and Streisgant burned again. The sky above the city was choked with columns of smoke from hundreds of fires set by shells and energy beams unleashed by the starships in orbit. Dozens of drop-ships, the size of city blocks, had already crashed down into the marshalling yards and open spaces of the capital’s outskirts, disgorging hundreds of soldiers augmented by the twisted bionical and chemical practices of Anovel and his allies.

Though the traitors possessed orbital supremacy, the defenders of Tharsis claimed the air; fighter trails criss-crossed the cloudy skies as interceptors blazed with autocannons and despatched missiles at another wave of descending drop-ships. Ground-attack craft with reverse delta wings swept over the buildings occupied by Anovel’s army, hovering on huge turbines as they pounded away with multilasers and rocket pods. From silos arranged across the city streams of defence laser fire erupted into orbit while the resounding boom of artillery rumbled across the city, heralding the scream of descending shells and tremors of detonations on the traitor landing fields.

Despite every advantage of the Tharsians, the attackers made swift ground. In the block-to-block urban fighting the boosted bodies and stimm-induced speed of the renegades were of greater effect than big guns and armoured vehicles. In bloody close fighting and hand-to-hand combat the Tharsians stood no chance against augmented foes trained in Adeptus Astartes-style close combat.

The advance could have been halted at any moment by the intervention of the Deathwing squads and vehicles waiting near the inner citadel but Belial and Asmodai held their counter-attack. They needed to be sure of Anovel’s position before striking; an untimely attack would expose the presence of the Deathwing too early and give the Fallen an opportunity to escape.

That was the last thing Asmodai wanted. He waited with Belial in the ruins of a tower on the edge of the commander’s palace, following updates of the fighting over the local vox-network. There were also reports from the Ravenwing, who were driving the rear echelons of Anovel’s army further into the city and making hit-and-run attacks against their landing sites.

‘Hundreds of the Emperor’s servants are dying because we desire to capture one man. Do you think it was right to bring war to Tharsis?’ said Belial.

‘Yes,’ replied Asmodai.

‘So do I.’

They continued to watch the unfolding battle in silence.

It was easy for Asmodai to justify the unknowing sacrifice of so many in such a secret cause. He had seen first-hand the damage that one Fallen could inflict. A corner of his helm-display was taken up with scattered vid-images being transmitted back from Tharsian recon units. Seeing the bastardised warrior-mutants Anovel had despatched into the city, their unthinking zealotry and insane heedlessness of casualties, was another reminder of why the Fallen were so abhorrent.

The lowest regions of Cetis Albus’s hive-moon Sigma were an infernal warren of half-collapsed mine workings and barely stable air ducts. The tunnel-rat defenders knew every crawlspace, disused tunnel and half-finished delving and employed such knowledge to great advantage.

The Dark Angels faced a near-constant series of ambuscades and diversionary attacks, but Sergeant Elijah would not be swayed from the advance to secure flanks or rear.

‘The only path to victory,’ he told Brother Asmodai, ‘is to chop the head from the serpent. When the body is left to thrash without guidance it shall be quelled.’

Brother Asmodai could see the sense of this approach. It was a standard decapitation strike, to disrupt enemy command and control. It seemed the natural solution. Sergeant Ishmael and nearly two-thirds of the company had already succumbed to the relentless numbers of the Ceti Albus rebels. To prolong the war of attrition would see the Dark Angels all dead within days, no matter that they were far superior man-for-man.

It was a source of some amazement to Brother Asmodai that any leader other than the Emperor could inspire such devotion as the rebel commander had instilled in the people of hive-moon Sigma. Youngsters no more than twelve Terran years fought alongside grey-haired grandmothers. Improvised weapons, converted rock drills and las-picks were little match for bolters and power armour but still the populace were willing to hurl themselves again and again at the Space Marines. Tens of thousands were already dead, but that was just a drop in the ocean of the hive’s population.

Such tenacity was also key to the Dark Angels successes, pressing on through the slaughter without mercy or hesitation. It had brought them to the brink of victory, just a few hundred metres from the enemy stronghold. The defenders became more and more desperate, and better-equipped. Heavy lifting gear almost equal in strength to Adeptus Astartes war-plate had been turned into battle suits with spinning chainblades, plasma burners and energy-wreathed mattocks. Tunnel-borers with melta-tipped drill heads speared into the Dark Angels, their drivers trapped in the cabs behind welded armour plates and bars. Teams with las-cutters buried themselves beneath rubble and grit, ready to burst forth to unleash blasts from their short-ranged tools, cracking open ceramite like eggshell before being hewn down by their foes.

And still Sergeant Elijah was adamant in his purpose; an example that Brother Asmodai followed without question. Even as more and more of the battle-brothers struggled forwards under increasingly suicidal and devastating attack, Asmodai was at Elijah’s shoulder every step of the way until they finally breached the inner sanctum.

And then that was the moment Brother Asmodai faltered.

The enemy rabble-rouser, the demagogue that had turned half a billion people against the Emperor, confronted his attackers.

He was clad in ancient power armour, decorated with the sigils and crests of the ancient Legiones Astartes. This alone would not have caused Brother Asmodai a moment’s pause. He had fought and killed traitor Space Marines before.

What stilled Brother Asmodai’s hearts for a moment, the shock that numbed brain and hands alike, was the fact that Malvine Rhemell was clearly a Dark Angel.

The rebel commander did not hesitate. While Asmodai stared in disbelief, Rhemell sliced apart Sergeant Elijah with a gleaming powerblade. Brother Asmodai brought up his bolter as reaction started to overcome shock, but not soon enough to stop the former Dark Angel plunging his blue-crackling sword through the battle-brother’s thigh.

Falling, Brother Asmodai was helpless, his leg collapsing under his weight. Rhemell loomed over him, eyes gloating, mouth opened in a vicious grin.

Rhemell let him live.

In that moment of total power, the renegade Dark Angel stared down contemptuously at Brother Asmodai and shamed him; to spare the Space Marine was to prove that he was no threat.

More Dark Angels pounded through the breach, but by then Malvine Rhemell had retreated, heading through an archway lined with mining charges. The explosives brought down the roof, but for one second more Brother Asmodai looked right at the traitor, who turned and lifted his sword in mocking salute moments before tonnes of ferrocrete, rock and plasteel cut off the pursuing Space Marines.

Not another Fallen would ever escape Asmodai, that had been his vow. It was more than principle. Asmodai was well aware that the event, and the traumatic fight back to the surface of the hive-moon that he alone had survived, had scarred his mind far more than his body. He possessed enough self-awareness to know his unforgiving nature and relentless, even psychotic attitude were the result of that catastrophic encounter.

But there was more to Asmodai’s belligerence than revenge for being made to feel helpless. After his escape Malvine Rhemell had set the plasma reactors of the hive-moon to overload before departing, incinerating millions in the subsequent detonation.

The actions of Astelan and the countless deaths of others, either directly at the hands of the Fallen or as a consequence of their treachery, was proof enough that they posed a clear and significant danger not only to the Dark Angels but to all of the Emperor’s servants.

Perhaps Asmodai was mad, but he was convinced there was a method to his madness.

It was thus with no small amount of satisfaction that Asmodai received a message from one of the Ravenwing Nephilim fighters patrolling over the city. Target Alpha had been sighted leading the attack against the western flanks of the governor’s palace, no more than a kilometre from Asmodai and Belial’s current position. The renegade seemed to be pressing for the breach made by the earlier bombardment, confirming Astelan’s earlier assessment.

‘We have him now,’ said Belial, having heard the same report. The vox crackled as the Grand Master switched to the company-wide channel. ‘All forces attack! Sensorium upload with Target Alpha data. Converge and capture.’

The two of them followed Belial’s squad of Deathwing Knights up the boarding ramp of the Land Raider Crusader Lion’s Fury. The massive assault tank’s power plant growled into life and with tracks churning across shattered ferrocrete the war machine burst past the ruined curtain wall of the palace and onto the roadway leading west.

Belial stood at the command console located near the front of the compartment while Asmodai looked past the Grand Master at the cluster of digital displays. Green sigils that marked the positions of the Deathwing arrowed towards a red smear of the traitor forces, converging as one on the flashing rune that designated Target Alpha; Ravenwing overflights and scattered comments from the force’s vox-casts confirmed Anovel’s position on a regular basis.

Friend and foe alike were scattered by the charge of the Deathwing. Their Land Raiders were impervious to any weapon possessed by Anovel’s ground forces and they forged along the streets towards their objective with autocannon shells ringing ineffectually against their hulls while plasma bursts sprayed harmlessly along the heat-shields of thick ceramite plates.

From the external vid-periscope feeds Asmodai saw hab-blocks with shattered windows and firestorm-scorched fascias speeding past. Looking at the rear view monitors he saw that the higher portions of the palace had disappeared, leaving only the spindle of the upper spire remaining as a glass stalagmite five hundred metres high.

Closing on Anovel’s position, they ran into the forwards elements of the traitor assault. Warriors with adapted zero-g construction suits stood their ground behind a barricade of broken vehicles a hundred metres ahead. Flashes of las-fire sparked past and glanced without effect from the Crusader’s slanted armour. A missile rushed from the enemy position and hit the track guard on the right side, showering sparks and shrapnel but causing no real damage.

‘No delays,’ Belial told the driver. ‘Press on.’

The massive tank smashed into the upturned groundcars and burning troop carriers at full speed, slamming past the tangle of metal and plastek without any loss of impetus. The burning wrecks were thrown into the augmented traitors, turning them to slicks of blood and twisted metal frames, shattered glass slicing through flesh and arteries.

The hurricane bolter systems in the sponsons burst into life as the Lion’s Fury rumbled on, twenty-four boltguns spewing explosive-tipped rounds into the survivors.

‘Target Alpha has withdrawn to a defensive position,’ Belial told the other Space Marines. ‘Lower storey of a food dispensary. Local air units are suppressing upper floors with strafing runs. Prepare for frag assault entry.’

Belial stood up and the four Deathwing Knights gathered around him as he moved to the forward assault ramp. From a side street another Land Raider cruised into view alongside the Lion’s Fury. Its lascannons stabbed beams into the buildings ahead while heavy bolters unleashed a torrent of fire along the road. The Crusader’s hull thrummed with noise as its main weapon system opened fire, adding salvoes of assault cannon fire to the barrage, annihilating anything moving between the bullet-pocked buildings. On the tac-display Asmodai could see another three Dark Angels squads arriving in Land Raiders from a parallel position.

‘Target Alpha is to be captured. Mark targets before firing. All other targets to be eliminated.’

‘We still have Tharsians in the area,’ came a report from one of the sergeants. ‘Orders, Grand Master?’

Belial looked at Asmodai. The Chaplain made a cutting motion across his throat.

‘Total cleanse,’ announced the Grand Master.

The driver swerved the Lion’s Fury to the right, away from the target building, and then turned hard left. The vehicle’s engines reached a new pitch of power as it accelerated across the broad avenue. The front of the Land Raider smashed through the wall of the dispensary as though it was made of children’s building blocks, scattering hunks of masonry and jagged splinters.

Coming to a halt, the Land Raider discharged its frag storm launchers. The ground floor of the dispensary was filled with razor-sharp shards of red-hot metal, scything through the enemy warriors that had formed a perimeter around a stairwell at the centre of the ground floor hallway. Hurricane bolter fire chattered ceaselessly as the assault ramp dropped down.

Belial was the first out, his Deathwing Knights on his heel, their fire unerringly finding targets amongst the smoke and dust, guided by their interlinked sensorium. Asmodai followed a few steps behind and allowed the Chapter’s elite to do what they existed to do.

Now and then he snapped off a shot with his bolt pistol but as more Deathwing squads converged from other directions, the number of targets swiftly dwindled away. Augmented and chemically-boosted foes lay scattered like rag dolls amongst the debris, bodies punctured by bolt-rounds, torn apart by assault cannon shells and incinerated by heavy flamers. Promethium still burned, slicked across the hard ferrocrete floor, burning overturned tables and chairs, turning meat counters and synth-bean stands to charred piles.

‘Downstairs,’ Belial announced. ‘Sub-level.’

As the bionic warriors had outmatched the local milita, in turn they were outclassed and outgunned by the Dark Angels First Company. Blinded to their plight by stimms and lies, not a single man or woman amongst Anovel’s guard tried to surrender. In the close quarters of the basement store rooms they were hacked down by power swords and lightning claws, pummelled with power fists and crushed by thunder hammers.

In a crate-filled cellar they ran Anovel to ground. Asmodai was there the moment the last of the traitorous bodyguards were cut in half by the Sword of Silence wielded by Belial. The Fallen’s once-white armour was much stained, the paint little but flecks on the grey and brown ceramite, metal tarnished, old symbols of loyalty crudely defaced.

The desperate traitor snatched up a power maul from one of his dead warriors and launched himself at Belial. A Deathwing Knight intercepted him, his two-handed mace clubbing the Fallen to the ground with one blow, cracking open armour. Belial moved swiftly, directing a kick into the side of the downed Space Marine’s helm.

Dazed, Anovel’s struggles were instinctual as Asmodai tore off the Fallen’s helm. He gestured to Apothecary Temraen, who flicked a dagger-like point from the narthecium built into his right vambrace. Temraen steadied Anovel’s head and drove the point of the injector into the Fallen’s neck, administering a sedative dose that would have killed any lesser man.

Eyes rolling up, Anovel slumped and a trail of drool spilled from his gaping mouth, the acidic saliva hissing gently as it spattered on the floor.

‘Target Alpha is secure,’ Asmodai announced. The words gave him a sense of achievement that bordered on ecstasy.

‘This place is not secure,’ said Belial. ‘Tharsian forces are still in the vicinity even if the enemy are broken.’

‘Signal the Penitent Warrior to stand in for teleport withdrawal. We will move to the palace and await their arrival.’

Belial seemed hesitant.

‘Brother Sapphon reports that the Terminus Est is not yet committing to orbit,’ said the Grand Master of the Deathwing. ‘It would seem the fiend Typhus is not prepared to risk his warriors.’

‘We will deal with him in due course,’ said Asmodai. ‘Anovel was our primary objective. We must secure the prisoner first. You will provide escort back to the palaces.’

‘It seems poor bargain to exchange a world for one warrior,’ said Belial. ‘The Hunt is not the sole duty of the Chapter, brother. Your honour guard will be sufficient to provide security and protection for your withdrawal.’

‘A single squad? What do you intend to do with the rest of the company, brother?’

‘I intend to win the war for Tharsis.’

TELEPORT ASSAULT

‘Lord Sapphon, we have been detecting a narrow band transmission from the enemy flagship,’ reported Lasla Chirpet. The deck-captain saluted with fist on chest and handed a datapad to the Chaplain. ‘It has been pulsing on and off for the last twenty minutes. The origin is definitely the heavy cruiser but we cannot locate the destination.’

‘I am sure that the flagship is sending all kinds of signals,’ said Sapphon.

‘Yes, Lord Sapphon, but this one is too intermittent to be any kind of vox-channel. I would suggest a locator beacon of some kind, but not very powerful.’

‘A teleport lock attempt?’

‘I cannot say from this range, lord.’

Sapphon analysed the readings on the datapad and came to the same conclusion: too weak for a command-vox. There had to be some other purpose.

‘If we move closer can we trace the signal to the surface?’ he asked Lasla. The officer shook his head.

‘Too much residual scatter from weapons fire and other transmissions, lord.’

The traitor heavy cruiser had moved out of direct orbit over Streisgant, driven off by anti-orbital fire. In its place the Penitent Warrior was preparing to enter low orbit over the city to teleport Asmodai and his prisoner. That was clearly Sapphon’s priority but the enemy signal nagged at him.

The unknown of the darkness beckoned.

Sapphon inwardly cursed his curiosity but he could not ignore it.

‘Set intercept course for the enemy flagship,’ he announced. Lasla met the command with a look of shock.

‘The teleport action, lord?’

‘Suspended.’

‘Your will is my command, lord, but we are a strike cruiser and they are a heavy cruiser. We are outgunned.’

‘I do not intend to destroy them, deck-captain. I need you to bring down their void shields and take us close enough for a teleport attack. If we cannot trace the signal we must go to the source.’

‘As you command, Lord Sapphon.’ Lasla hurried away, snapping orders to the navigation and command crews.

‘Comms, connect channel to Brother Asmodai, route through my vox.’

It took almost a minute until Asmodai’s voice crackled in Sapphon’s ear.

‘Are you ready to bring us aboard, brother?’ asked the Chaplain.

‘Not yet. There is a situation developing.’

Sapphon explained his discovery and his planned course of action. Unsurprisingly it was not to Asmodai’s liking.

‘Enemy forces are currently surrounding the commander’s palace, brother. If the Terminus Est commits its forces we may not be able to hold here. It is imperative that you bring us back aboard immediately!’

‘Have you recovered Astelan?’ Sapphon said, knowing that Asmodai would be burning with shame at the Fallen’s escape.

‘Tybalain and his squadron are chasing him down, brother. It is only a matter of time before he is in our custody once more.’

‘Not if this signal is intended for him. Perhaps you were right and he has been in concert with Anovel for all this time, or perhaps he has found a way of making contact since he eluded you. Either way, it is possible that the transmission is to guide him to a means of leaving Tharsis. Do you wish to simply swap one prisoner for another?’

Static hissed and Sapphon imagined the anguish of the decision wracking Asmodai. It did not really matter what his Brother-Chaplain felt about the matter, they would follow Sapphon’s plan. However, it would be better if Asmodai and his warriors were prepared for a lengthier wait until extraction.

‘Your plan has merit,’ Asmodai said at last. The admission was made with some effort, that much was clear from the Chaplain’s tone. ‘You are right to pursue this possibility.’

‘Then we are agreed, brother. I will update you as soon as I can. Transmission end.’

Sapphon turned his attention to the rotating hololith strategic display depicting the orbital situation. The enemy flagship was being harried by two squadrons of small intra-system escorts that had manoeuvred into its aft region away from the main guns. Two cruisers were turning to drive off these harassing attacks but would have to take a circuitous route unless they wanted to dare a ring of gun and missile platforms that had survived the initial assault.

The Penitent Warrior burst through the cordon of system monitors pursuing the enemy flagship, arrowing directly towards the heavy cruiser. As they closed the range on the ponderous enemy the prow bombardment cannon, normally used for surface attack, opened fire. The ship shuddered every ninety seconds with each titanic shell launched at the traitor flagship.

On the main display Sapphon watched as the plasma warheads detonated against the void shields of the heavy cruiser, splashing white against a shimmering curve of blue and purple. More flares of plasma erupted along the length of the target ship; arrestor thrusters firing to speed its turn towards the incoming attack. A dorsal turret swung towards the strike cruiser, stabbing a beam of lance energy towards the Space Marine vessel. The display momentarily fogged with static and alarms sounded.

‘Void shields intercepted the brunt of the attack,’ announced Lasla. ‘Alter three points to starboard and bring port batteries to bear.’

The bombardment cannon alone would not be enough to punch through the layers of void shields protecting the flagship, and that meant the Penitent Warrior was forced to slow to bring her main gun decks into the attack, exposing the ship to counter-fire. For the next few minutes only the enemy lance turrets could fire, scouring lasers along the length of the strike cruiser, rippling along the void shields with plumes of dispersing gas and energy. The regular pounding of the forward cannon was like the beating of a drum, every thunderous outburst met with a corresponding flare of power from the enemy ship’s defence shields.

Missiles and shells streaked from the Penitent Warrior’s main gun decks as Lasla ordered a full broadside. The firmament lit up as the strike cruiser unleashed the full fury of its batteries. Void shields coruscated with plasma and shell impacts, sparkling and spraying across the display in actinic waves as the generators fought to shunt the incoming energy and mass of the attack into the warp.

‘Enemy target lock,’ announced a servitor at the scanner banks.

‘Incoming fire,’ Lasla warned, grabbing the edge of a console to support his wiry frame. Sapphon locked his power armour as deck after deck of the heavy cruiser’s guns opened fire, illuminating dozens of buttresses and galleries along the length of the ship.

The fusillade slammed into the Penitent Warrior’s void shields. Warning klaxons blared and red lamps lit up across a handful of consoles. The main lights dimmed as power was siphoned to the void shield generators and the vid- and navigational displays pulsed and whirled as the ship’s sensors overloaded with the outpouring of refracted laser and radiation splash.

‘Void shield generator overloaded, enemy void shields also down,’ Lasla announced breathlessly. ‘All damage control crews responding.’

‘Brothers,’ Sapphon turned to his bodyguards. Caulderain had been watching the main display intently but turned and saluted at Sapphon’s word. ‘We go to the teleportarium.’

The Terminators fell in beside the Chaplain as he exited the bridge. Sapphon briefed them on the mission as they headed to the teleportation hall a few decks beneath the command chamber, whilst monitoring Lasla’s reports over the command channel.

The Penitent Warrior was relatively unscathed but with both ships vulnerable it was only a matter of time before the heavier guns of the enemy flagship started to tell. With the cruiser’s void shields down the Terminators could teleport directly into the enemy bridge, but they would only be able to remain for a handful of minutes.

‘Registering energy output on enemy void shields, lord,’ Lasla told Sapphon as the Chaplain led his warriors onto the marble-like pads of the teleportation ring. ‘Estimate between four and seven minutes before their generators are recharged.’

‘Which is it? Four or seven minutes?’ snapped Caulderain. ‘The margin of error is too broad.’

‘It does not matter,’ said Sapphon before Lasla could reply. ‘Four minutes should be all we need. We strike fast, access the comm-network and then teleport back. That is the mission, nothing else.’

He looked at the tech-adept manning the teleporter controls and raised a fist in command. The red-robed serf acknowledged the order and bent over his console. Red forks of energy arced between the teleporter coils, turning the pale armour of the Deathwing crimson in their glare.

The Penitent Warrior trembled as a mighty barrage of fire slammed into the strike cruiser’s upper decks.

‘If we have a ship to come bac–’ Decemius’s quip was lost as warp energy suffused the teleporter.

An instant of dislocation and existential emptiness gnawed at the heart and soul of the Chaplain.

Sapphon opened fire before his conscious mind had recovered from the jarring effects of teleportation. His bolt pistol ripped open the torso of a bionically-altered woman standing next to the command throne of the flagship bridge. Around him the Deathwing honour guard blazed with storm bolters, cutting down the shocked command crew.

Most of the officers were augmented in some fashion like the soldiers on the world below; bionic harnesses, piston-driven exoskeletons supported stimm-contorted bodies. Bolts sparked from lacquered armour plates and metal rods, punched into sallow flesh and unnaturally bulging muscles. Dark blood and viscous hydraulic fluid sprayed across the deck.

‘Secure the comms-panel,’ the Chaplain snapped, turning his fire towards the main doors as he heard the pneumatic mechanism hiss open. Two men carrying bulky las-blasters were sent tumbling, missing their heads. ‘Fidellus, Satrael – overwatch.’

At their leader’s command the two Terminators moved to the doorway; Fidellus with his thunder hammer and storm shield, Satrael carrying an assault cannon. The rip of the heavy weapon firing announced the presence of more enemies outside the bridge.

‘Signal source located,’ said Caulderain. Blood spatters dribbled down the comm-panel screens as he prodded at runes, trying to identify the purpose of the transmission. ‘Some kind of beacon pulse, but not strong enough for a teleporter lock.’

‘Where?’ Sapphon demanded, joining the sergeant. ‘Where is the receiver?’

‘Decoding now, Brother-Chaplain.’

The crackle of Fidellus’s thunder hammer indicated that at least a few enemies had survived the ongoing bursts of fire from Satrael and had reached the bridge doors.

‘Status!’ snapped Sapphon. They were not here for a prolonged fight. It would be a matter of minutes, perhaps two or three at the most, before the traitor ship’s engine crew restored one of their void shield generators. As soon as that happened, the Deathwing squad would be cut off from their homing signal, unable to teleport back.

‘Enemy numbers increasing. Estimate fifty dead, that number again incoming,’ reported Fidellus. ‘No heavy weapons yet.’

‘There you are,’ announced Caulderain. He turned to Sapphon. ‘I have the coordinates.’

Sapphon looked at the line of numbers on the main vox-bank display.

‘Outside the city?’ said the Chaplain. ‘That makes no sense.’

‘I remember those coordinates,’ said Caulderain. ‘That is the site of the old governor’s palace – the fortress where we first captured Astelan.’

‘Tybalain’s squadron is already en route,’ said Sapphon. ‘Use the ship’s channel to broadcast an update to their mission. Tell them what we have found.’

‘What have we found?’ asked Caulderain. ‘If Brother Asmodai has Target Alpha in custody, who is the signal intended for?’

‘A good question, brother. The Ravenwing will provide the answer.’

With the transmission sent, Sapphon ordered the squad to destroy as many of the ship controls as possible. With storm bolter and power fist they spent thirty seconds smashing and ripping apart every console, screen, runepad and cable. Under the cover of Satrael’s assault cannon they convened close to the main doors.

‘Sapphon to Penitent Warrior. Sending signal lock.’ Sapphon checked his chronometer. Four and half minutes had passed since they had arrived. ‘Bring us back!’

EPILOGUE

HUNTER AND HUNTED

The transponder signal was a blinking rune in the middle of Black Shadow’s navigational display, directly ahead of Annael and two kilometres away. The hab-lined plazas and wide boulevards of the city centre had given way to factories and depots clustered around the highways and magrail termini serving the capital’s starport a few kilometres to the west.

Looking ahead, Annael saw a stretch of ramshackle ruins, several square kilometres of towers and broken walls sprawling to either side of the cracked ferrocrete road. It was an incongruous sight after the freshly raised blocks and newly laid roads of the city. Past the plasteel and ironworks of manufactories and power plants a flat expanse of bare ferrocrete surrounded the tumbled citadel.

Approaching from this direction it had seemed unfamiliar, but looking at the coordinates on the bike screen he suddenly realised that this was where he had dropped onto Tharsis with the Fifth Company fifteen years ago.

Back then it had simply been Objective Prime, though those the Dark Angels had liberated from its dungeons and execution galleries had called it something else: Slaughterkeep. The name struck a chord even now and brought back a flood of memory.

Tracer fire from staggered gun emplacements tore the night sky while airbursts lit the underside of the low clouds. Storming down the ramp of the drop pod, Annael watched as a pulse of lance fire spat down from the heavens, turning an armoured spire into vapour and slag in moments. The bass thunder of battle cannon fire from circling Thunderhawks drummed out the war beat in time to the pounding of his hearts.

Land Raider and Predator tanks had already formed a beachhead half a kilometre from the drop site. Lascannon and autocannon fire spewed from the tanks towards the ramparts of the outer curtain wall, slicing and smashing at gun slits and sandbagged artillery positions. A constant storm of las-fire streamed from firing galleries and a ring of bunkers surrounding the citadel, answered by the flickering bolts of the attacking Dark Angels.

Sergeant Rameus shouted a warning and directed the squad to the left where dozens of enemy soldiers dashed from trenchworks under the cover of staccato heavy stubber fire and the boom of mortar bomb detonations. Squad Hadrael were fifty metres ahead, advancing into the teeth of the enemy fire, las-blasts and shrapnel ringing from their armour. Beside them stomped the massive form of Brother Tarallean, the hulking Dreadnought supporting his smaller companions with blistering fusillades of plasma fire and heavy bolter-rounds.

Annael was right next to Sergeant Rameus when they reached the trenchline. As he plunged down into the trench he came face-to-face with the defenders of Tharsis. They seemed terribly young, most of them no more than teenagers. The face of each was marked by ritual scarring, a crude device in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings covering nose, cheeks and forehead. Annael fired, the dark green, slab-like carapace armour of his target little defence against the explosive bolt, which punched into the soldier’s shoulder before detonating, sending his arm spinning into the trench wall.

There was a lot of screaming, something Annael was used to, but this time it was fury and hatred, not fear. The men manning the trench hurled themselves at the Dark Angels, shrieking and bellowing. There was something berserk about them and Annael recognised the telltale signs of combat-stimms: bloodshot eyes, corded veins and tendons in the neck, mouths foaming with saliva.

He cut them down with his bolter until the press of bodies grew so thick he had to use his combat knife, hacking and stabbing his way along the trench with the sergeant while the rest of the squad advanced along the lip above firing further ahead. Those that fell but still lived were trampled underfoot, their dying breaths spent in howls of rage and frustration.

Seeing the broken remnants of that evil place brought a sense of satisfaction to Annael. Its empty windows and shattered domes had been left here as a testament to the horrors that had been unleashed; both a memorial to those that had fallen and a tribute to those that had brought deliverance. At the time he had never known who had been responsible for the death squads and slave camps. It had not seemed important once the battle had been won. He had assumed the enemy commander, the renegade that had led the planet in revolt against the Imperium, had been slain in the fighting, or executed when captured. Suddenly he was not so sure.

‘Brother Tybalain, you were a Black Knight when we stormed Slaughterkeep, were you not?’

‘I was,’ said the squadron leader, his tone suggesting that like Annael he was reminded of the battle. ‘What of it?’

‘Was it one of the Fallen that led the rebellion?’

Tybalain did not reply immediately and Annael wondered if he had overstepped a mark with the question.

‘Yes, it was,’ the Huntmaster said after several seconds. ‘He is called Astelan. The same renegade that we hunt now.’

‘As I thought,’ said Annael. The news did not surprise him, and that in itself was a revelation. He accepted the admission of this secret as normal and it did not offend him. The answer begged other questions – why Astelan had survived and how had he come to be on Tharsis again chief among them – but Annael knew that this was not the time to voice them. Many mysteries from his past that he had not thought to question he saw in the fresh light of recent disclosures and hoped would be made clear in due course: battles on the brink of victory abandoned; missions despatching his squad or company away from the fighting; contradictory manoeuvres and other hints that a hidden purpose had been fulfilled but not disclosed.

‘When we find him, we kill him this time, yes?’ said Nerean.

‘Those are Brother Asmodai’s orders,’ said Tybalain. ‘He was both specific and vehement in his command.’

‘Good,’ said Annael.

The outer works as Annael remembered them had been flattened, the curtain walls levelled, leaving only the broken spires and ramparts of the central citadel. The lock on the transponder was pulsing strongly, almost exactly overlapping the grid data transferred by Brother Sapphon. The two had to be connected; it was too much of a coincidence that the signal from orbit had been directed at the same place their quarry had gone to ground.

‘Dismount,’ Tybalain ordered as they passed between the shattered towers of a gatehouse into a high-walled courtyard. Annael remembered the blossoms of explosions as the inner gates had been destroyed by Vindicator siege tanks.

They followed the Huntmaster on foot, armed with pistols and corvus hammers. The ruins were utterly silent save for the crunch of grit underfoot, totally unlike the mayhem and cacophony Annael had experienced when he had last trod these corridors.

Calatus had a hand-held auspex and guided them through the long passages, past guard rooms and empty armouries. They advanced along galleries lined with murderholes, the stone and plaster of the walls still bearing bolt craters, bullet holes and las-marks. The Deathwing had led the assault at this stage, Annael recalled. At the time it had seemed tactically prudent, given the fighting conditions. Now he knew there had been a more significant but hidden motive for their deployment.

He hoped that the trail they followed would not lead into the sub-levels, to the cells and execution chambers. Annael had experienced many things, and until the horrors of Ulthor the victims of Slaughterkeep had been the worst. He expected aliens to be disgusting, but the barbarity that humans had heaped upon fellow humans had strained his faith to its limit.

‘Through that archway,’ Calatus announced, waving them to a cloister on the left.

As soon as he stepped out beneath the open sky, Annael saw the glint of light on black paint and knew their prey was still another step ahead of them. Pieces of armour were piled against one of the columns around the edge of the cloister, exactly on the spot where the transponder signal originated.

‘Spread out, he must still be here somewhere,’ said Tybalain. ‘He had no more than thirty minutes advantage against us and taking off his battleplate would have used most of that time.’

Annael headed back inside, confident that their quarry had not eluded them yet. It was clear that Astelan had come here for a rendezvous, perhaps hoping to be teleported or otherwise conducted up the renegade flagship in orbit. Brother Sapphon’s attack had cut off that escape route and the Fallen had been forced to discard his armour to confuse his pursuers.

It would be a short-lived freedom. Annael was certain that the renegade would not escape again and it would feel good to be responsible for bringing the tyrant of Tharsis to justice. Whatever had earned Astelan a reprieve from death would not save him this time.

Occupied by this thought, Annael reacted a half-second too late as a shadow moved in a doorway to his right. A warrior clad in nothing but the under-harness of power armour sprang at Annael, clubbing a boulder of broken masonry against the side of the Dark Angel’s helm. The blow was just enough to knock him back a step, giving his assailant time to duck Annael’s instinctive swing of his corvus hammer.

It was just the move his opponent had expected. As the stone block crashed again into the snout of his helm Annael registered the hardened layer of a black carapace beneath his foe’s skin and knew he faced the Fallen, Astelan.

Annael’s armour gave him a massive strength advantage but it slowed him just a fraction enough to give additional speed to his foe, and Astelan used it well. Dropping the broken piece of ferrocrete, the renegade seized the Dark Angel’s bolt pistol as Annael raised it to fire. The Fallen deftly twisted it from his grip, cracking ceramite and finger bones to do so. Annael blotted out the pain and swung his injured hand at Astelan’s head, but missed again by a narrow margin.

The bark of the bolt pistol sounded loud in the confines of the passageway. A moment later Annael’s left knee exploded with pain, the bolt showering out muscle and cartilage along with pieces of the joint seal behind his kneepad. As his leg gave way he swung his hammer, knowing that the merest touch of the disruption field would be enough to down his unarmoured foe, even if he was a Space Marine.

The corvus hammer cleaved only air and Annael toppled with a shout of frustration. He managed to stall his descent with his broken hand, rolling forwards. A bolt ruptured the tiled floor where his head would have been.

The Fallen was aiming his pistol for the killing shot. Out of the corner of his eye, Annael saw another black-armoured figure arriving behind the near-naked form of Astelan. A pair of muzzle flares lit the dim passageway and two shots rang out.

Astelan spun as the side of his head exploded into bone and blood. A trail of bolt propellant scorched past Annael’s cheek, leaving a welt on his helm from nose to ear. The bolt detonated on the Ravenwing warrior’s backpack, shredding splinters of ceramite into the neck seal.

The Fallen collapsed to all fours, still alive, but only just. He tried to turn towards his attacker. The bolt pistol slipped from his grasp and a moment later Astelan slumped forward; unconscious or dead, Annael did not know.

‘A timely intervention, br…’ Annael’s thanks trailed off as he looked at his rescuer. Though his armour was black he did not bear the sigils of the Ravenwing. He had a bolt pistol in hand and a plasma pistol at his belt, and there was a longsword scabbarded at his waist.

‘Do not be disheartened by this turn of events, your foe had many more years of practise killing Space Marines,’ said the stranger. The black-armoured warrior looked down at Astelan’s unmoving body and his tone turned grim. ‘As have I.’

The sound of the others arriving caused the warrior to turn, dropping the pistols to the ground as he did so. He raised his hands in surrender as Tybalain and Nerean advanced, their weapons levelled. Annael glanced over his shoulder at the scrape of a boot on tile, to see Calatus closing in from behind him.

‘The sword as well,’ Tybalain demanded, stopping a few metres away. ‘Disarm yourself.’

‘I cannot do that,’ said the stranger. ‘I swore an oath to carry this blade until my death.’

‘Refuse and your oath will soon be fulfilled,’ said the Huntmaster.

‘Do not be so swift to pass such final judgement. Your masters would be much happier if I remain with breath in my lungs.’ The unnamed warrior gestured at Astelan. ‘They have chosen dangerous allies of late. I feared you would not find me. They will want to hear what I have to say.’

‘You claim you are known to them? You intended to be found?’ Tybalain sounded uncertain. Annael had thought such a thing impossible. ‘What is your name?’

‘You may address me by my title,’ said the Space Marine. ‘Lord Cypher.’

ALL MUST END

They hid their fears well. They were Space Marines, trained and gengineered to fear nothing, yet Harahel could sense the discomfort of his companions. Psychic powers, matters of the warp, from astropaths to Navigators to the Imperial Tarot, were forces beyond understanding for them, and there was no amount of Chapter orthodoxy or mental conditioning that could completely eradicate that dread of the unknown and the unnatural.

Their fears were laid bare to his othersense, as plain to the Dark Angels Librarian as their physical features. To his psychic awareness everything was visible, infused by immaterial energy from the warp. Some scholars in the ancient past had believed the warp was a separate realm, existing alongside, but divided from, the material universe. They had not been psykers. They did not see the power of the warp, the empyrean of dreams and emotions, leaking back into reality through even the dullest mind. It was little more than a smudge of power, but its presence was enough for Harahel to see into the souls of the others gathering in the brightly lit chamber.

Even as the glow of the candles highlighted the faces of the assembled Dark Angels officers, so the miniscule trickle of soul power gave curves and edges to their thoughts. The patterns were ever-changing, as moods varied and concern rose and fell, but Harahel could see the shapes within and discern their meaning.

Sammael, Grand Master of the Ravenwing, was the calmest of them. Or perhaps calm was not the right word. He was the most prepared, for he had seen Harahel perform these divinations at least a dozen times previously. Excitement touched on the underlying nervousness; they were close to capturing one of the Fallen, and as Master of the Hunt Sammael could feel success edging into view. His thoughts were the brightest too, glittering and golden. Perhaps too bright with optimism to survive much longer in his current role, but foolhardiness was frequently the deadly stalker of the Masters of the Second Company.

Harahel carefully stepped to the centre of the room, taking care not to disturb the hexagrammic wardings he had drawn onto the decking. The principal alignments were denoted by candles at the points of a twelve-pointed star enclosed within a circle, in turn encompassing a hexagonal device with runes he had marked in molten lead. He sat directly under the candelabrum – made of meteoric iron from the remnants of destroyed Caliban – in a large, plain chair.

As he lowered himself he considered Grand Master Belial, commander of the First Company, leader of the Deathwing. Belial’s thoughts were sharp and precise, controlled to the point of obsession, like masonry carefully chipped and smoothed by a lifetime of experience, rather than something organic and grown like the others. The Deathwing commander’s thoughts barely changed as he stood with arms folded, surveying the others in the room with a wary stare.

Harahel was not surprised to see that the most closed thoughts of all belonged to Asmodai, the Master of Repentance. His mind was a steel shell of utter conviction. Only the tiniest glimmer of his soul shone through the defences, brutally and efficiently stifled by centuries of practice and a natural closed-mindedness that Harahel found remarkable. Had the Emperor encountered Asmodai ten thousand years ago when he was perfecting the gene-seed of the Dark Angels, it was possible that all Space Marines might have ended up with such single-minded zealotry.

That free thought was still possible for the Adeptus Astartes was evident from the roiling display of Sapphon’s emotions. They pulsed green and blue and red, almost at random, the sign of an active, creative mind at work. Sapphon’s soul was well protected, like the others, but his thoughts were quite readable. Currently the Master of Sanctity was thinking it strange that such a ceremony should be conducted in the light, when so many of the Dark Angels’ inner mysteries took place in darkened chambers.

While Harahel’s mind-sight regarded his companions, his regular senses took in other features of the room: the scent of the candles mixed with a hint of oil and a touch of rust; the heat of the other Space Marines and the flickering flames that lit them; the creak and murmur of the starship’s bulkheads and decks; the undercurrent of the plasma engines throbbing through the vessel from aft to prow.

He allowed it all to become one, merging physical and psychic as he closed his eyes. As his eyelids descended, the two worlds – the real universe and the warp-echoes – became as one in his thoughts, so that even though he no longer looked upon the chamber with his physical sight he was well aware of what transpired around him.

Harahel placed his hands in his lap and allowed the psychic power to flow. He could sense the apprehension of the others increase as they noticed flickering light from beneath his eyelids. The Librarian rested his head against the back of his chair and exhaled smoothly, pushing away the last of the trepidation he had felt when he had proposed the ceremony. Any warp-delving was risky, and in this place, so close to the Eye of Terror, the risks were greater than usual. But Harahel was strong and had trained for three hundred years. He was ready.

The Librarian was about to release his mind into the warp, but disturbances close at hand held him back. The thoughts of the others, so disparate, so at odds, made this initial navigation harder. Harahel needed to smooth their troubled emotions before he could perform the transition.

Sapphon was considering the nature of psykers and daemons, wondering if the reason they were so terrible was because they interacted directly with unconscious senses of the soul. He was not far from the truth, as Harahel saw such things, but now was not the time for such speculations. Thinking about the warp and its inhabitants stirred the stuff of the empyrean in a cyclic effect, so that it gained power even from idle speculation.

‘Do not fear for my soul, Brother Sapphon,’ Harahel said quietly. ‘Every hour you spend reciting the hymnals and catechisms of the Chapter, I spend hardening my spirit against temptation and possession.’

At the mention of such things Asmodai, standing to Sapphon’s right, shifted his weight, perturbed. The steel of his mind became a dagger, flames of righteousness flaring along its length, directed towards the Librarian. A single thought blazed so strong the psyker could not avoid it: If Harahel shows the slightest sign of possession I shall kill him.

A smile crept onto Harahel’s lips.

‘Please, Brother Asmodai, draw your pistol if it would make you feel more comfortable. I assure you, the wards are intact. The only person at risk is me.’

Regardless of the assurance offered by the Librarian, Asmodai drew his bolt pistol and aimed it at Harahel’s head.

‘Do not be too quick to use your weapon, brother, for there may be strange occurrences that are simply part of my delving into the warp.’

‘You seek to send your soul to a world upon the edge of the Eye of Terror,’ said Asmodai, his aim unwavering. ‘I will take any precaution I feel necessary.’

‘As you see fit, brother. Now I must beg silence, and to assist me it would be beneficial if you all focused on a particular thing, to stop the turbulence caused by your disparate thoughts as I enter the immaterium.’

‘The Canticles of Nazeus?’ suggested Sapphon. He received a nod in reply.

The Master of Sanctity began the invocation and the others joined in after a few seconds. Their combined voices rose and fell as they chanted, the sound shaped by the chamber, fading into the distance as Harahel prepared again to let go of his conscious thoughts. The Librarian was silent and still, withdrawing from his body, entering a trance so that his soul, or a portion of it, might lift his thoughts from their physical vessel to the turbulent eddies of the immaterium.

The chanting, the focus on the hymnal to the exclusion of other thoughts, stilled the ripples and echoes that had been disturbing Harahel’s concentration.

‘Sanctus Imperator protectorum,’ the Librarian whispered. ‘Be free.’

There was a feeling of detachment as his spirit lifted away from his mortal form. Always he was connected to the warp and the physical, a conduit for the unreal to enter the real, but with practised precision Harahel slipped away from himself like a ship departing its mooring.

Heat, light, sound, all worldly sensation dropped away from his awareness. Instead the weft and weave of the empyrean, the warp-sound and psychic thrum that he usually relegated to background noise became central to his universe. The real faded and the unreal solidified, still connected but transposed within his mind.

All around the Librarian was the tumult of the warp, but here, in the immediate space around him, was a calm pool, soothed by the devotional intoned by his brethren. They knew nothing of the effect it had, but the benefit remained.

Harahel tugged himself free of his body, loosing part of his consciousness onto the waves of the empyrean, allowing the pressure of the warp to carry him a short distance from the mortal host of his mind. He turned, not literally but in focus, to see his body sitting in the chair, surrounded by the wards and his battle-brothers. A trail like a golden cable snaked back to his body, tethering soul to flesh. It too was a construct of many years’ training, allowing him to find his way back to his mortal shell.

Pulling back, Harahel watched the starship dropping away, deck by deck, until he saw it from outside, floating like a bubble on a stream, encased within the shimmer of its Geller field. A pulsing, irregular and powerful, drew his attention away from the warship and he focused on the source.

Distance was physically meaningless in the warp, but his brain could not cope with a dimensionless state, no matter his training. It was impossible to shape thoughts without a sense of up and down, near and far, in and out.

The pulsing came from somewhere close by, in galactic terms at least. A storm swirled on the edge of Harahel’s perception, both sucking in all things like a vortex whilst simultaneously spewing forth tides and currents of warp power.

The Eye of Terror.

The greatest warp storm in the galaxy, so huge it covered dozens of light years of real space, an overlap between realms where material and immaterial were interchangeable. In the real universe it was perceived as a pulsing purple or red orb in the heavens, but from the warp the Eye of Terror looked less like an abyssal gulf and more like a deep window onto stars and planets, nebulae and comets that all glittered with energy.

The Eye of Terror fluctuated constantly, and in its heaving Harahel could see that which existed between worlds, neither warp nor real, giving glimpses of the realms of the Chaos Gods. Such sights would drive lesser men insane, unable to interpret the swirling energies and tempestuous eddies. The training of the Librarius allowed Harahel to impose order onto the disorder, in a limited fashion, contorting his senses to imagine towering iron fortresses, tides of crystal waves, gleaming mirrorscapes and rotting forests.

He was dimly aware of his body reacting back on the starship. Out of instinct he narrated his journey, passing on what he experienced to the others. It required no more effort of thought than to keep his hearts beating and his lungs filling, a genuine stream of consciousness.

‘Boundaries falling, walls breaking, the tumble of worlds and civilisations,’ muttered Harahel, his lips barely moving. His eyes continued to move, as though in recognition or mockery of the warp-visions conjured by his othersense.

The power of the Eye of Terror was all-consuming. The Librarian felt it drawing him, pulling him into the maelstrom at its heart with irresistible force. Harahel was nothing but a mote on a raging ocean and his golden tether spooled out behind him like a lifeline connected to a warrior ejected into the vacuum of space.

Faster and faster he was pulled towards the inevitable crushing forces that raged through the Eye of Terror, and though Harahel diverted every thought and effort to fighting the inward tide there was nothing to stop his descent to the bottom of the opening pit of darkness.

He tried to make the tether go tight, to turn it into a golden rod that would hold him in place, but the force from the Eye of Terror was too strong. He felt the attention of intelligences vaster than any living creature, save perhaps the Emperor Himself. They momentarily regarded him in the same way one might notice a fleck of dust settling nearby. Harahel feared for a moment that one of those malign consciousnesses might reach out and examine the speck in more detail, or perhaps flick it away without a thought, but the sensation passed and he remained alone and adrift on the flooding power of the warp storm.

Ulthor was located upon the very edge of this insane landscape, and to learn more Harahel knew he would have to venture into the unpredictable fronds of energy that licked about the outskirts of the Eye of Terror. His mental tether, the golden thread of his life, held firm, but he had no way to navigate. He had been turned inside-out, upside-down and back-to-front, and was so caught in the raging torrents that characterised the Eye of Terror that he was no longer sure how he could forge his way back to the others.

And then he glimpsed a solitary silver star.

He knew exactly what it was, and let his soul reach out towards it, latching on to its light as a drowning man seizes upon the lifebelt thrown to him. As he let the silver gleam fall upon him, Harahel was invigorated, filled by strength and warmth and a sense of belonging. The glow from the star melted through the raw Chaos, turning aside storm and wave, calming the warp around the Librarian even as it calmed his racing thoughts.

The beacon held true against all the buffeting of the Eye of Terror, strong and unwavering even here near the heart of the pulsing flow of energy. More than a beacon, it was a rock upon which to settle for a moment, a bridge to cross, a fortress against the madness and uncertainty.

The Astronomican.

The Guiding Light.

The Soul of the Emperor.

Harahel murmured his relief.

‘The barrier sweeps aside, revealing the light beyond, the silvery path.’

Empowered by the grace of the Emperor’s light, Harahel turned his attention to locating the world of Ulthor, hidden within the fronds of warp energy leaking from the Eye of Terror. He drew upon his psychic strength to manifest a form within the warp, as a daemon might create a false vessel in real space. Fuelled by the light of the Astronomican, Harahel appeared as a knight of silver and white fire, blazing with the cold purity of his cause. In his hands he held a blade of dark green edged with pale flames, the crosspiece fashioned with splayed wings to match the Chapter symbol emblazoned on the chest plate of his immaterial armour. A cloak of deep blue hung from his shoulders, the colour of the Librarius.

Back on the Dark Angels ship, the Librarian’s body straightened on the chair, his power armour whining with movement, limbs trembling slightly as his muscles became rigid for a moment. He relaxed again, frown softening, mouth opening with a gasp.

Fully formed, Harahel’s immaterial avatar delved into the rifts of the warp, racing for the fringes of the Eye of Terror. The silver light of the Astronomican was left glittering in his wake.

Time flowed in curves and circles, passing and not passing in relation to real space, so it might have been a fraction of a moment or a thousand years before Harahel caught sight of that which he sought. On the very edges of the Eye of Terror stood a huge edifice, part crumbling cliff face, part immense stone tower, cracked and overgrown. A palpable miasma of decay surrounded the decrepit structure, a dark cloud that stained the warp and real universe in equal measure.

As the cloud parted for an instant, split by some random eddy of the warp, Harahel saw that the crumbling, monolithic keep was itself dwarfed by a far greater expanse. It was nothing more than an outhouse to a truly dread-inspiring mansion with a thousand broken-glass windows and countless sagging, cracked roofs. The tower of Ulthor lay in the shadow of the titanic manse, enveloped whole by the darkness and corruption spilling from great rifts and blasted holes in the structure of the mightier building. Harahel flinched, taken aback by the monstrous apparition, but the vision passed, swallowed by the warp currents a moment later, leaving Ulthor standing like a bony, upthrust finger surrounded by yellowing mists.

Still the silver star of the Astronomican shone overhead.

‘On the border it stands, neither here nor there, real and yet unreal. Claimed but still free, the world of decay, a blossom in the dead garden. Upon the brink of hope and despair it stands. Death and rebirth, the spiral of decline, until nothingness…’

His words brought reaction from the mortal realm, vague and distant.

‘He is losing his mind,’ he heard Asmodai say. ‘Or something is taking it!’

‘Hold your fire and your tongue,’ said Sammael. The Chaplain laid a hand on his companion’s bolt pistol. Asmodai’s annoyance at the Grand Master flared like a plume of fire in the warp, but it was met with ice formed from the determined thoughts of Sammael. ‘Do not think your reputation and rank greater than mine, Asmodai. Lower your weapon, Brother-Chaplain.’

‘I cross the border, unseen by the many eyes, and the garden wilts around me,’ whispered Harahel, unheeded by the others.

With reluctance, his ire dimming, Asmodai dropped the bolt pistol to his side. He glared at Sammael and returned his gaze to Harahel.

Harahel could feel the filth of Ulthor trying to leech his power from him. It was simple enough to siphon the rank warp energy into the hexagrammic wards, protecting his soul from corruption. On the starship, the air began to fill with shadows outside the hemisphere created by the warding signs.

Harahel moved his warp-self closer to Ulthor. He found that he could not approach the tower directly, but was forced to alight in a vast overgrown garden that clustered about the broken rocks at the bottom of the immense cliff.

As he explored, the Librarian allowed what he encountered to filter through his thoughts, shaping the shadows and light into representations of his warpsight. He could project visual images, but these were a flat caricature of what he felt coursing through his warp-self.

The garden was grown upon a foundation of misery and hopelessness. The twisted, stunted trees delved deep into the soil of despair, drawing up sustenance from broken dreams and shattered hope. As Harahel’s feet sank into the mire he could feel the leeching effect trying to suck away his resolution, but he was able to resist the melancholy draining, the ground hardening beneath his tread as white fire burned the tainted mulch.

The air was thick with buzzing flies and the boles of the trees were rampant with many-legged creatures of all descriptions. They jumped about the sagging branches and leaves and regarded the intruder with glittering, multi-faceted eyes. Fungal growths vomited spores as Harahel passed, while microbes consumed everything with slow decay.

A fog of sadness laid droplets upon the foliage like the tears of the lost and abandoned. The sultry rustle of the leaves was filled with murmuring laments, of loves past and opportunities squandered. From the mulch underfoot jutted stones that would trip the unwary, jagged rocks upon which ambition was broken and pride bruised. Low-hanging vines moved like serpents, ready to catch the unwary in the grip of self-pity. Arachnids with pale and bloated bodies spun webs of self-doubt between the tree limbs, the souls of the damned writhing within, wrapped more and more with loathing and despair as they struggled against the vile threads.

But not all was dismal. There were bright fronds and blossoms of rainbow hue hiding in the gloom. Caterpillars with striking tiger stripes and neon hairs gambolled amongst ruddy petals and nestled in leopard-spot cocoons, from which burst forth bulbous moths with death’s head wings.

Here and there a chink in the canopy allowed a precious ray of light to fall upon the forest floor. In the fitful gleam of this nourishment, fragile flowers of hope pushed their way clear of the rotting carpet of insect corpses and leaves.

Yet the garish colours and joyous patterns could not hide the true nature of this place. By such phantasmal attractions were the unwary lured into despair.

The moment of freshness and clarity following recovery from a long sickness.

The joy of seeing a loved one after prolonged absence.

The swell of pride and fulfilment at the birth of a child.

These were snares of the emotions, moments of weakness to be exploited, for only those truly accepting of the eternal pain of existence and the inevitable corruption within were proofed against the heartbreak of disappointment and setback.

Not in endless drudgery, the thankless toil of everyday existence, was the Lord of Decay present, for in monotony was a base sort of comfort. It was the high notes, the tantalising promise of better, the scattered moments of elation, that were the cruellest weapons, for they set the mundane and pointless into stark contrast and plunged the soul into true despair. For every speck of light and colour, the forest and shadows seemed all the darker and more forbidding.

A masquerade of glittering jewels hid the dark truth that all things faltered and failed, a facade of happiness and fulfilment erected by the ego of all sentient creatures to persuade them there was a meaning within the interminable pointless cycle.

Slowly, across aeons of time, the decay grew stronger. Entropy picked apart all that existed, turning civilisations to dust and suns to clouds of cooling gas. Nothing could escape the grip of the immortal destroyer: time. Life became death and, in turn, death became life. Everything was sustained by this simple cycle of existence.

The Librarian let his companions see what he could see, showing them drooping leaves turned by autumn to russet and gold, mist streaming between the trunks tinged with green and black, a diseased smog. In the distance an immense edifice soared above the woods, indistinct, giant and grotesque.

Something was approaching. He heard buzzing from a distance, which swiftly became an incessant droning converging from all directions. The shadows seemed to merge and deepen, thickening if that were possible, becoming tangible like a pool of oil. The noise drowned out the fluttering of dried leaves and the drip of foggy tears.

From everywhere, fat-bodied flies spilled from beneath the gloom of the decaying forest. The swarm engulfed Harahel in moments, pressing closer and closer until a layer of furry blackness covered him, constantly moving. They found gaps in his armour to settle on his skin, not biting, but squashing their bloated bodies into his flesh, oppressive through virtue of their numbers. They sought the visor of his helm, thickening on his face, pressing through to cover his eyes and blot out the light of the Astronomican.

He tried to sweep them away with his gauntleted hand, but they were too thick, too numerous. Like a drowning man thrashing at the waves, his blows moved slowly, the thickness of the swarm itself so dense that it was suffocating. Where he crushed them, vomit-yellow smears stained his armour, bubbling and blistering like acid. The droning was intolerable, making his head throb, burning his eardrums with its monotony.

Harahel flailed, gritting his teeth, but parting his lips simply allowed more of the flies to push in, skittering along his gums, trying to squeeze their soft bodies between his incisors. His nostrils were blocked by squirming insects forcing their way up into his sinuses, seeking the warm passages down into his lungs. The Librarian attempted to dislodge the swarm with the leaves hanging lank from drooping branches, crashing through the trees, almost tripping on the rocks of folly that appeared beneath his tread. Blood-like sap spattered his battleplate, sticky fluid seeping into the joints and hardening to a paralysing resin.

It was as though they were buzzing inside his head now. He could feel thousands of grotesque bodies pushing into his organs, crawling along nerves and arteries, clogging his lungs and heart.

This was how all things ended. Even the mighty Space Marines of the Adeptus Asartes. Even the Astronomican. Even the Emperor.

It was all so pointless to struggle. What if he were to prevail today? There would be another battle tomorrow. Each day brought fresh threats against mankind. The Space Marines were pitifully and ridiculously few. Fewer than one Space Marine per world in the Imperium. The forces of the Imperial Guard numbered in the countless billions, but their souls and hearts were weak and in time even that bulwark would crumble like a wall battered by the constant wind and rain. Courage would falter, and what then?

Why did it matter? To die today was no better and certainly no worse than dying tomorrow. That was the nature of the inevitable, the unavoidable. Orks could be slain, eldar craftworlds destroyed, tyranid fleets scattered, but there was no way to defeat time or death. It was folly and pride to believe that anything made a difference.

Harahel’s courage suffocated even as imaginary lungs were starved of breath. He felt the darkness consuming him. No, not consuming, welcoming. He had but one chance to rid himself of the curse of life. It was simple, to accept that the Lord of Decay was his master. In doing so he would become one with decay, its ally, not its victim. No matter how superhuman his mind and body, only acceptance of the ascendancy of the Master of the Dead Manse could save Harahel.

A distant voice, a connection to the real world, brought him back from the void of oblivion. He reached out with his thoughts, drawn back to his body by the contact.

‘Ulthor, brother,’ said Sammael, stepping closer to the Librarian. The black of his robes seemed to suck in what little light remained, leaving his face a pale mask floating in gloom. ‘Cast your mind to the world of Ulthor. It is close, brother.’

Sammael’s faith was like a cleansing touch, his brotherhood a source of infinite strength. Harahel did not fight for himself, for his eternal soul or his mortal body. He fought for his brethren in the Chapter. He fought for mankind. He fought for the Emperor.

In a moment, refreshed by the contact with his physical form, the Librarian found that the fly swarm had gone. Not dissipated, but burned away by silver flames crackling across his body, their daemon-essence absorbed, their power neutralised by a psychic surge, leaving nothing but wispy husks flying away on a strengthening breeze of his renewed will.

Though he had fended off the flies, Harahel knew his trials were far from over as he pressed on towards his goal. Storm clouds swirled and thickened overhead, the sky turning from grotesque yellow to black, as though bruised by the battering of some huge fist.

The rotten canopy of the dead forest swayed as the gales came, bringing with them a tumult of broken branches and tattered leaves that crashed against Harahel’s armour as he advanced into the tempest. Step by step he forged forward, jaw clamped tight with determination.

Back aboard the Dark Angels starship, Harahel’s body flinched and tensed again. His breathing came more quickly and his fingers moved from his lap to grip the arms of the chair.

With Sammael’s words driving him, he fixed on the shadowy tower atop the distant cliff, taking one slow step after another, leaning hard into the gale. The storm did not wholly obscure the light of the silver star. Harahel could see the paler gleam like a path in front of him, occasionally being blotted out as darkness swirled, sometimes turning into forked lightning that split open the storm and lit the road ahead.

Coming to the foot of the cliff, Harahel paused and looked up. From this perspective the edifice seemed almost endless, the city-tower out of sight, the heights of the cliff lost in the gloom of distance.

He reached up and took hold of a jutting rock. Pulling himself up, he found a foothold and raised himself off the ground. Harahel fixed his stare at the vaguest line that delineated clifftop from sky and climbed. His thoughts shaped the cliff face so that wherever he sought a handhold for fingers to grip or a niche for toes to set upon, there was always something there.

His was not the only will that guided the formation of the dark rock. Roots split the stones, jabbing like spears into his body and legs, scratching across his armour. Others writhed like tentacles, trying to grasp wrists and ankles, seeking to wrench him from his precipitous advance. The more he ascended, the more violently the cliff struggled against him, lashing whips of roots trying to dislodge him, to send him plummeting back to the hungry forest below.

Wasting no energy, not even to snarl or groan, Harahel pushed upwards, his thoughts enclosed behind a barrier of steel as his immaterial form was shielded by the silver of his armour. The labour was nothing, a test of will more than muscle, and no sooner had he come to this realisation he found himself grasping a fistful of rock to haul himself onto the cliff top.

It had seemed to him before that the tower of Ulthor had been almost upon the edge of the great drop, but he found that it had been a lie, a trick of hope rather than objective perspective. The tower had disappeared and in its place he saw an immense ebon-petalled flower.

‘The black rose, a thousand flies crawling on the petals. The stem bends but does not break, swayed by foetid winds carrying pollen of despair to the bright flowers of hope. A choking presence, cloying.’

He could see the tiny pollen grains pouring into the sky like the fume from a fire. If he focused he could see that each miniscule dot was in fact three globes attached to each other, and each of the globes was a grinning skull. The smog rose higher and higher, whirling about in a vortex of wind until it reached the storm clouds, where it drifted down across the whole of the foetid garden and the dead woods beyond.

Like black snow the pollen fell, and though he brought up a corner of his blue robe to cover his nose and mouth he could feel the tiny particles passing through the weave, settling about his tongue and throat.

He thought they might bring pain, but instead he felt numbness stretching from where they alighted on membrane and muscle. His jaw felt slack and his airways opened, allowing more and more of the black pollen beads into his body.

Individually, the tiny intruding specks were inconsequential, but as they grew in number Harahel felt them melting into his body, trying to become part of him. Like the flies before, the pollen set itself in his flesh, looking to become a seed, to send out roots into his thoughts.

He staggered, mesmerised by the apparition of the gigantic black rose. There was purity in its blackness, hidden colours and depths that he had never imagined existed. The pollen was not a poison, it was an elixir of truth, granting him the ability to see the universe as it really was. Through eyes stained grey he saw the atoms at the heart of suns perishing to produce heat and light. He saw the dust of dead novae collecting over the ages to form new worlds, new stars. In bacterial sludge he saw energy transferring from one state to another, never disappearing, simply finding new forms, infused with immortality.

The sludge expanded and grew, became higher life, sentient and self-knowing, and the innocence faded. The blossom began to wilt with the pain of knowledge. To see, to hear and feel was to deceive oneself. The mind existed only as a barrier to the reality that all was transient and nothing as permanent.

He wanted to help the flower, to sustain its beauty, but already he was guilty of the sin of knowing. Harahel’s resistance was a poison in the bosom of the earth, seeping into the roots of purity. It was his adherence to falsehood that was causing the bloom to sag, the petals falling away one by one, each loss accompanied by a wrenching pain in Harahel’s heart.

The Librarian gasped loudly and flung a hand to his face, covering his eyes, though they were still shut. The darkness around him was absolute, the vista of light-woven scenes playing about his head and turning like a kaleidoscope, coming in and out of focus.

For the first time since besting the cliff Harahel noticed the soft ground underfoot, welcoming and golden. He wanted to lie down, to be subsumed into the layer of fertile earth so that his essence could give life to new creatures. In accepting his role he would purge the toxins he had brought forth with his presence. His conversion to the truth would be nourishment, enriching the bloom of death that he desired so strongly. Sacrifice would water the roots, his blood and soul fertiliser to make the stem stand strong again, to push forth new flowers so that the great process of reproduction could spread the pollen of truth across the galaxy.

Though Harahel’s conscious thoughts wanted him to surrender, his instincts – his inner mind protected by centuries of ritual and practice – pushed him on towards his goal. Where the mind was weak, the soul remained strong. Though he could no longer see the silver star, he could still sense its presence, lighting his way to his objective. He followed it blindly, trusting to the Emperor to deliver him to his purpose.

He stumbled on, fighting the sensations, trying to stay awake. He was so tired. His legs were leaden, and he had long since given up trying to shield his face with his cloak. Every breath drew in a thousand more pollen globes. Harahel was almost at the last of his resistance, numbed and exhausted.

The Librarian turned as he fell, looking back the way he had come. Before his eyes closed forever he caught a glimpse of the silver star.

Forcing his eyes to remain open he allowed the light of the Emperor to stream into him. Its presence drove out the black pollen, purging arteries and veins, heart and lungs, guts, hands and feet.

As the pollution within him cleared, so too did the sky. The storm receded, revealing a beautiful azure heaven untroubled by cloud or wind. A silver sun touched him with warmth. The armour that was his second skin absorbed the strength of its rays, abating the numbness to fill him with fresh vigour.

The tower was close now and Harahel knew that it had been there all along, concealed by the glamour of the black rose. He could almost reach out and touch the moss-covered, pitted stone walls. Tendrils of plant life covered the crumbling brickwork, obscuring doorways and windows, twisting around the skeletons of those that had attempted to climb them before. The wind returned, now chill and laden with the scent of death. As the vines stirred, skulls chattered to the Librarian, their rictus warnings wordless but strangely comprehensible.

Only the foolish followed in the footsteps of those that had perished. Only the prideful dared to think themselves strong enough to overcome the obstacles that still lay ahead. Arrogance would be Harahel’s downfall. Better to return in failure than never return at all.

The snickering of the death’s heads fuelled the Librarian’s doubts. His companions would never know – could never comprehend – the risks he had taken already. It would serve no purpose to die here, ensnared by the evil of this broken keep. How could he protect humanity from beyond the grave?

Despite these misgivings weighing down every step, Harahel resolved to push on. It was the destiny of every Space Marine to ultimately offer up his life for mankind, and it was not for Harahel to decide that one day was better than another. This was the task at hand and he would apply himself to it with all his strength and will until he succeeded, or died.

All that remained was to traverse the mire that surrounded Ulthor like a moat. Bubbling tar pits and sucking marsh lay between him and his goal. Fronds of rushes stood out from the boggy ground, rattling in a dry wind. The noise of escaping gases and the movement of something sinuous and large beneath the surface caused Harahel to pause at the swamp’s edge.

There looked to be pathways through the mire, but the Librarian was not so easily fooled. He was beginning to get the measure of this place. The false hope was the foundation of everything that passed in this immaterial reflection of Ulthor. All that seemed achievable was simply a ruse created to drag the interloper further into the web of despair, drawn so far from their normal path that they could not find their way out again. The seemingly secure route would doubtless peter out, leaving him stranded, succumbing to isolation and despair.

Then he remembered where he was. He did not have to toil across the morass, he could simply extend his will and make it something else. Just as its light had resurrected his flagging strength, so now the heat of the silver star, guided by his power, baked the corrupted earth dry, turning marsh to packed dirt, tar to hardened puddles of blackness. The plants withered under the harsh light of Harahel’s power, drying and cracking beneath his psychic glare.

The energy of the writhing grasses and towering rushes seeped into the ground to escape the glare of the Librarian’s assault. Here the warp power swelled roots and tubers, which in turn leeched more nourishment from the dirt, continuing to grow to enormous proportion. Harahel could sense them bulging like seed pods, the latent power within pulsing and churning. As he scanned them with his mind he felt that he was being regarded by malign beings in return.

The roots started to move, burrowing towards Harahel, metamorphosing from vegetable matter to something else, something not quite animal but sentient and aware. White-bodied, feeling their way towards the Librarian by latching on to the scent of his soul, the loathsome slug-like beasts closed in.

‘A field of maggots, laid beneath the bosom of the world, full of vitality, waiting to burst forth. They hear me. The blind worms see me.’

Beads of sweat were running down the psyker’s physical brow and the light leaking from beneath his eyelids took on a rusty hue.

‘The warp is claiming him,’ he heard Asmodai snarl as the Chaplain shoved Sapphon aside to stand at the very edge of the psychic circle. ‘Something is burrowing into his mind.’

‘Do not break the field,’ warned Sapphon, taking a step closer. ‘We must trust to his assurances, brother.’

On the edge of awareness, Harahel noticed Asmodai dart a look at Sapphon that conveyed his contempt for the assurances of psykers more clearly than any words. The psyker flinched, feeling the lash of contempt striking his soul. Sammael moved up beside the Chaplain, eyes flashing with anger, but he did not lay a hand on Asmodai.

Breaking into a run, Harahel forged his way past the dead and dying blooms of the march-plants, heading towards the base of the Ulthor tower. His armoured boots left imprints in the dust that filled with grey ooze from below. The slime puddles took on a bulbous shape, turning grey from green, budding grasping hands and beady eyes. Clawed fingers and antlers sprouted from fist-sized daemonic minions. Snarling and giggling, they tumbled after Harahel, forming a carpet of vicious, grinning faces and red eyes.

The Librarian focused his powers ahead, trying to see into the tower that represented the world of Ulthor. Much was barred to his sight, encrusted with vile mould and lichen that blotted his thoughts, but he was able to pierce the foundations of the city, which stretched deep into the rotten earth.

He sensed mortal souls for the first time since leaving his companions, tainted by the touch of the Lord of Decay. In the roots sprawling from the city he saw icons and livery known to him, and warriors clad in ancient, decay-ridden suits of war-plate: the Death Guard. He sought more information, hoping to glimpse their dire primarch, the dread Mortarion, but there was no sign of the daemon-cursed leader of the Traitor Legion. Instead Harahel witnessed row upon row of ghastly sarcophagi housing bloated, pale warriors, while an endless line of young slaves were herded into dark cellars, trailing implants that twitched and sputtered with their own life.

The mites of decay were on his heels, scrabbling and grasping, threatening to trip him. Harahel knew he had to stay upright. If he fell he would be engulfed by the daemonic creatures, cut off from the silvery light that yet remained his guiding star.

Broken nails scratched at his armour and tugged at his cloak. Chitters and sniggers followed him, just a step behind. Harahel sensed the overwhelming nature of the foe behind him, but he could not stop himself from turning to see the extent of the threat.

The carpet of daemon-things stretched far and wide, in places forming hummocks as scores of the plague-mites scrambled over each other to get at him. He needed just a little more time to probe the secrets of Ulthor.

Drawing a silver blade, he carved a flaming furrow into the mass of daemons, bursting their bodies with concentrated waves of loathing and disgust. He formed his hatred for the creatures into bolts of fire that leapt from his eyes, and as he did so he stretched the rest of his thoughts into the tower, trying to hunt down its secrets.

‘The pods, all in a row, dangling from the tree of death like the hangman’s fruit.’ Harahel’s body was feverish now, skin ashen, limbs twitching like a palsy victim.

On the surface, gun towers and fortifications of rusted metal jutted from the ground like broken teeth. The fortress spread like a cancer, infused with the will of the Death Guard, raised by mortal servants and daemonic conjuration given form as shuffling mobs of mindless vassals. He pulsed a warning back to his companions in the only way he could.

‘Little skins of metal, peeling back, revealing the maggot within the womb. The thorns drip with blood, coiling about the city, snaring all that will enter.’

A ring of white fire exploded outwards from his knightly form, incinerating the decay-daemons by the thousands, leaving him in a charred circle, unmolested for a few moments. The curtain protecting the innards of the city parted. Harahel did not hesitate, but plunged in, throwing his soul into the breach to see what lay concealed behind the tower walls.

Something stirred in the heart of the city, swollen and monstrous, yet in its centre Harahel saw something else – a window back into the reality of the material universe. He thought he recognised the stars somehow, a vision of a system imprinted on his memory but one he had never visited in his long years of service. The shattered ruin of a world slowly orbited the star, a billion chunks of rock and vacuum-scoured ice. Now and then he glimpsed something impossible: the evidence of human artifice. The face of a statue, the broken remnants of a wall, a piece of power armour or bolter.

Harahel could not shake the feeling of familiarity as he spied the remnants of a window spinning through the ruin, the glass stained with green in the shape of a white wing.

This was the warp and he knew that what he saw was not real – not a physical place but an idea. These were symbols, not literal objects, but Harahel could not decipher their meaning. He tried to take in as much as possible, staring into the open abyss in the hope of seeing something that would decode the message.

This train of thought took him to another level of understanding. A message, perhaps? An astrotelepathic projection? If it was an astropath’s missive, it carried none of the usual markers and templates. But then, what was one to expect this close to the Eye of Terror? The message could be from ten thousand years in the past, or even the future, it was impossible to say.

Rather than trying to riddle the source, Harahel concentrated on absorbing all of the elements, so that he might deconstruct its meaning at leisure once he was back in his body.

It seemed to him that somehow the massive inhabitant of Ulthor was communicating with something else, outside the Eye of Terror. But that didn’t strike the Librarian as quite right. The hole opening up between the real and unreal was a conduit, formed of a mass, a singular entity.

The thing in Ulthor and whatever it was communicating with, or had communicated with, or would communicate with, were one and the same in some fashion.

Hidden deep amongst the asteroids was something else, a part of the beast that lurked in Ulthor. Just as the shining knight was Harahel’s presence in the warp, the daemon-thing of Ulthor had a guise in the real world. A perfect matt-grey sphere amidst a cluster of asteroids glinted against the starry void.

He saw prison bars falling away and felt a surge of release. Something longed to escape the warp. Something that had already imparted a piece of its essence into the material world but had been thwarted in the past. Was the time coming when it would escape completely? The thought filled Harahel with foreboding, a sinister sensation far deeper than simple horror. The scene foreshadowed an event of great importance, and he had been fortunate to have glimpsed this warning. His psychic sense was like a shrill alarm, telling him that great disaster was about to befall his brethren.

He knew this place but he could not bring himself to believe the truth of it. The time had come to leave, so that he could take what he had seen to the others. He had not been able to project the vision-within-a-vision, so he would have to tell them first-hand of the connection between Ulthor and the broken world.

The window closed as the city-beast sensed Harahel’s presence. Like a blast door closing, the vision disappeared, unreality slamming down into the Librarian’s psychic view. Lashing out with rage, Ulthor’s unnatural ruler summoned forth the daemons of despair and decay and within moments Harahel was surrounded by a horde of grotesque apparitions.

They fell upon him without a sound, and though he lashed out with his flaming blade, he was soon overwhelmed as more and more of the daemons piled onto him. For every cyclopean creature he cut down, two took its place. For every handful of bulbous mites he destroyed, a welter of fresh daemons surged into the breach. The ground itself, once obedient to his will, now rebelled. The mire started to bubble up around his feet again, becoming softer and softer with every passing heartbeat.

Finding himself up to his thighs in the marsh, Harahel’s movements were woefully hampered. He twisted to look at the Ulthor tower but couldn’t see it properly, as though it was somehow deliberately avoiding his gaze.

He looked up, hoping for a glimpse of the silver star, but nothing but black clouds filled the heavens. With a choked cry Harahel realised that he was cut off.

Outnumbered and engulfed, he was borne down to the ground, which opened up beneath him like a grave.

He felt maggots latching onto him, gnawing at his psychic body, burrowing and prying at his armour, peeling away his defences even as the other daemons battered and tore with their fists and claws and prised at the joints of his armour with rusted blades and broken horns.

Their touch withered him. Armour became rust and flaked away. Skin slewed from flesh, and flesh rotted to the bone. Bone became dust as the convulsing earth of the grave consumed him. Only the core of his soul remained, guarded by the precious silver light of the Emperor, an impenetrable shield of faith and determination forged over decades of inculcation into the defensive rites.

A worm slid into the remnants of a decaying eye, slipping along the optic nerve into the meat of his brain. Others followed, passing along neural pathways, slithering and sliding between synapses, seeking a route into his mind, taking control of the flesh.

They heard what he heard, saw what he saw. He had sought to spy on them, and now they looked to turn his own body against him, to wield it as a weapon against the Dark Angels.

‘The city, Harahel, what of the city?’ asked Sammael, eyes flicking between Asmodai and the Librarian. ‘Think of the city.’

Ulthor was just a memory now. It collapsed into nothing in his thoughts, flowing over him like a sandstorm, blowing away the last vestiges of his psychic construct. Yet it was also still there, impermeable, eternal, made not of brick and mortar but hopelessness and woe.

‘The majesty of decay, towering and fallen, standing solid upon the shifting sands.’

He reached out to the hidden silver star, a prayer in his thoughts, seeking the strength of the Emperor to free him from the grip of the foes leeching his will, tunnelling into his thoughts. Across the warp divide he could see back aboard the starship and felt something else looking through his eyes as more worms dug into his flesh.

He had to get back, but for the moment he was no longer in control.

Suddenly the Librarian stood up, knocking the chair to the ground. He noticed Sapphon feeling a moment of dread as Harahel opened his eyelids, revealing milky-white corpse eyes. A rope of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.

Harahel saw Asmodai raise his pistol and silently thanked the Emperor for the Chaplain’s unflinching dedication to duty. He wanted to tell Asmodai to shoot, but his lips were no longer his own, his tongue a limp slug rotting behind his teeth. He wanted to beg the Chaplain to fire, to end the life of his mortal form, to cut the golden thread that linked soul to physical body, a golden thread that was now the route of intrusion used by the daemons.

The worms were now burning at the silvery light of his last defences, etching a path like acid on metal, while their companions slinked down through sinew and vein, energising muscle and organ with warp energy. They were preparing the body for full possession, infusing it with their own power so that they could reshape it at a whim.

‘No!’ shouted Sammael, tackling Asmodai to the floor.

Harahel’s body was becoming a portal. Their control was not yet absolute. If he wanted to resist physically he had to extend his will from beyond the moat of pure energy that kept the daemons at bay. Better to die body and soul than surrender the physical and spend an eternity trapped inside his own thoughts, impotent and ashamed.

He allowed a sliver of his mind to extend back into the real universe, burning along the golden thread of his existence.

‘They are here!’ snarled Harahel.

Sapphon drew his pistol while Asmodai wrestled himself free from the grip of Sammael. The Master of Sanctity aimed at the Librarian’s left eye, knowing the shot would punch through into the pysker’s brain and slay him in an instant, cutting off the conduit for whatever was trying to use his soul as a bridge into the mortal world.

He was about to pull the trigger when Harahel collapsed with a shriek.

Harahel looked at Sapphon, trying to plead with his eyes, urging him to shoot as he had urged Asmodai to shoot,

There was nothing left. The daemons possessed his form to the innermost fibre and smallest atom. It was just a shell for their power, a puppet whose strings had been taken from the Librarian. He tried to wrest control again, opening up more of his thoughts to the psychic assault of the daemons in return for just a few seconds of corporeal influence.

Their response was instantaneous and agonising. Shards of vital pain coursed through Harahel, and he fainted, relinquishing even consciousness for a moment.

The Librarian lay still, face down. The light flowed back from his body to the candles and the strange shadows faded back to normal. The lead symbols of the floor had turned to indistinct blobs, sizzling, spitting and steaming as though on a hot plate.

Sanity and sensation returned, but it was with despair that Harahel saw what had happened. Only the most slender thread of energy connected him to his body, overwhelmed by formless slime and writhing maggots. He was a silent, inconsequential witness to his own actions.

Harahel pushed himself slowly to all fours and looked at his companions. Trickles of blood marked him from ears, nostrils and eyes, quickly drying and clotting on pallid skin. Sapphon looked into the Librarian’s eyes, dark brown with disappearing flecks of gold, and saw the warrior he knew looking back. Asmodai was not yet convinced, his pistol once again aimed at Harahel.

Harahel screamed, but the scream was voiceless. He could see the tiny flickers of warplight that were the souls of his brethren and he wanted to touch them. An instant of connection, a moment of intuition, to urge them to kill the thing that was waking before them.

He had no strength left. All that remained – his body, his thoughts, even his memories – now belonged to the daemonkin. The Librarian had no power to throw his warning into the mind of another, no energy to spark revulsion or suspicion with a glance.

‘What are the three Abjurations of Assiah?’ demanded the Chaplain.

The daemons plucked the knowledge from Harahel’s brain. His tutelage by the Chaplains, session after session in the Reclusiam alone and with the other initiates, flashed through his existence. He could not stop the words rising unbidden to his thoughts, and from there the daemons carried them to his lifeless lips.

‘Despise the mutant, abhor the heretic, loathe the alien,’ Harahel replied, voice hoarse.

Despair. It was total, enveloping Harahel with its darkness. The Lord of Decay had known this would happen from the moment Harahel had parted the veil of the warp and looked upon the entropic garden. It was folly, arrogance, to believe that anyone could escape the clutches of the immortal destroyer.

Not even a Librarian of the Adeptus Astartes, one of the most highly-trained psykers birthed by humanity, could resist the slow turning of the aeons. Naive pride had sent him into the empyrean realm, hoping to undo the plans of the Lord of Decay’s mortal followers. This had provided a gateway for the daemons, and through misguided intent Harahel had doomed his companions and the others aboard their starship. Lies would bring them into the warp and there they would be consumed.

If Harahel had possessed a body he would have convulsed with weeping, torn apart by the grief of what he had done. Total, all-devouring despair tore ribbons from his mind, casting out sanity like streamers of thought that dissipated on the waves of the empyrean.

‘And name the six principal Lords of the Keys,’ Asmodai insisted, the muzzle of his pistol following Harahel’s head as the Librarian righted the chair and, with much wincing and grunting, forced himself upright.

Again the daemons delved into his brain, bringing back the scent of freshly lacquered wood, the droning of Chaplaincy epistles, the growl of his masters prowling along the benches ready to exact retribution for one misspoken word, one heartbeat of hesitation in intonation.

Harahel lunged at a memory, frantically latching on to it, trying with all his strength to stop it surfacing but the daemons pried it from his grasp and traitorous lips spoke the words.

‘Nessiad, Direstes, Thereoux, Mannael, Dubeus and…’

With one last agonising effort Harahel reached out, blossoming like a flower, revealing everything to his core as he grasped the silver star, letting it burn through him. He could not destroy the daemons, but he could hold them at bay.

For what seemed like an eternity he drove them back, feeling their teeth and barbs tear at his soul. Every effort to purge himself inflicted more pain and misery upon body and spirit. In the real world less than a heartbeat passed, but for Harahel it was an immortal age of mind-shredding agony as he made himself a conduit for the power of the Emperor, turning his psychic-self into a pyre, the flames igniting the energy of the daemons.

They scrambled to fight him, to blot out the silver fire with their darkness, to expunge flame with grotesque slime. In the moment of conflict Harahel stopped fighting. Rather than striving to regain control, Harahel withdrew from himself, for an instant forcing the daemonic presence to reveal itself.

For a brief moment the silver fire consumed Harahel, cowing the daemons. He wrested control of his body.

The Librarian hesitated, a twitch in his eye. ‘And…’

Asmodai fired.

The bolt took off the side of Harahel’s skull, ripping through the intricate wiring of the psychic hood, spattering gore across the rune circle.

Harahel watched his body dying, the slow ebb of life from heart and lungs. He was satisfied. The daemons fled the falling corpse and the empty shell of his mortal self crashed to the deck.

For a moment more his soul lingered in the warp, surrounded by the vengeful, ravenous daemons. The Librarian felt no fear. Sanctuary was close at hand, for his mind was a fortress once more, if only for an instant. Not for him a mindless eternity awash upon the tides of the warp, a mote in the whorl of greater beings.

The silver fire of the Astronomican consumed the last of him, turning the last vestiges of his soul to a flicker of fire that was absorbed by the greater light.

And then Harahel was no more.

ACCEPT NO FAILURE

The tread of footfalls echoes from the broken buildings. In the distance artillery pounds other city districts, but close to the waterfront the fighting has moved on, the area secured by Belial and his Deathwing.

Hundreds of dead orks litter the streets, but the Commander of the First Company does not see them. He sees the human carcasses, left to the elements for far longer. Thousands, piled against buildings and walls like snowdrifts, emaciated, dead of hunger and trampling, the crowds that waited for megatrawlers that never returned. Killed by their own kind in food riots long before the orks had returned to the city.

He moves his gaze to his companion, Chaplain Asmodai. Nothing can be seen of the other Space Marine’s expression behind his skull-masked helm, but experience tells Belial that it will be a grim sneer of equal hate and disgust. Belial asks the question that has been nagging him ever since the Chapter returned to Piscina IV, several years after they had thought the orks defeated.

‘How could the Piscinans allow such a thing?’

‘They are only human.’ Asmodai’s assessment is as true as it is brief, but the Chaplain expands on his point. ‘They were weak. It was a mistake to leave the task of eradicating the orks to lesser warriors. They vacillated, became distracted, and did not finish the task at hand.’

‘You might cast such an accusation with a clear conscience, but I was here at the start. I am just as responsible for not ending the threat of the orks.’

‘I did not intend the criticism, but if you feel you should share similar blame I am happy for you to accept it.’

‘Then I shall take it as such. I am aware of any deficiencies in my past conduct, and make no attempt to avoid or excuse them. I am grateful that we have returned to Piscina so that I can rectify shortcomings in my leadership and personal performance. It is to my shame that the Beast escaped retribution to wreak such havoc upon the Emperor’s domains, but its spawn shall be eradicated.’

‘As they should have been at first encounter.’

The orks, their remains, lay scattered across the road, felled by my fury. I stood amongst the ruin left by pistol and powered blade, alone, my dark green armour splashed with the congealing blood of my foes.

Upon the left shoulder guard of my green battleplate I wore the symbol of the Dark Angels, which I prized as an award above all other merit. My right shoulder was marked with my personal heraldry – black to denote the time I had spent in the Ravenwing, slashed diagonally with a red band from lower left to upper right for the killing of Furion, an inverted blade above as the swordsman’s honour and the commander’s icon of the iron halo below.

Honours that I had earned in fierce battle, but none of those encounters had been more closely contested than the fight that had just ended.

Amongst the dismembered and decapitated bodies of the aliens lay the four companions of my guard, slain in the brutal combat, their plate rent apart by jagged axes and cruel power claws. I did not need to check the life signs signal to know that they were all dead. Even Dark Angels cannot survive being ripped apart in such barbaric fashion.

Everything seemed quiet, still, until a flurry of missiles from a Whirlwind screamed overhead and smashed into a warehouse a few hundred metres further down the roadway, obliterating an ork gun position on the roof. The other sounds of the war raging through Kadillus Harbour were distant, muted by the bank of dust and smoke that had spread across the city. Bolters reduced to a crackle, the roar of gunship engines tinny, the thump of shells no more than faint thuds.

The beating of my hearts seemed louder.

The crunch of a heavy tread, stone pulverised beneath a tremendous weight. It drew my attention to a dark gateway leading to one of the harbour administration buildings. Ghazghkull, the Beast, appeared out of the smoke and fire like a monster of myth. He was far larger than the fallen orks, almost twice my height and as broad as a Dreadnought.

All save his gruesome face was clad in thick plates of metal and wheezing pneumatics. The armour was daubed with thick layers of paint in black, with stripes of red and white check decoration. Smoke billowed from the exhaust stacks of the back-mounted engine powering the enormous exo-suit, black and stinking of burning oil. Joints whined and pistons juddered as Ghazghkull stepped into the light. Each footfall was like the slamming of a cell door in the depths of the Rock.

His left hand was encased in a huge claw with sword-long talons. The remnants of a Piscinan soldier – head, torso and one arm – dangled on the lower tine. The Beast’s right fist was a mass of gun barrels and ammunition magazines. I thought I saw the magnetic chamber of a plasma gun amongst the mess, looted in some past battle.

The eyes snared my gaze, or rather eye, for one of the Beast’s was bionic, held within a metal plate that covered half his cranium and face. The remaining eye seemed small, bright red, almost invisible beneath a green brow furrowed deep. I had expected to see hate, or anger, or perhaps surprise that I had survived the onslaught from his strongest minions. There was nothing, just the indifferent coldness of a predator seeing prey. I was nothing to the monster, no threat, as insignificant as an insect beneath an armoured boot, a pesky gnat to be swatted aside without effort.

I must confess this derision offended me and perhaps affected my judgement. I raised my sword in challenge, pointing the tip towards the huge ork. I wasted no words and opened fire.

A stream of guided bolts flared from my pistol. I carried seeker ammunition as standard, but my aim was as true as any Space Marine and every round struck the Beast in the chest. Detonations sparked across its breastplate in a shower of metal and paint.

Ghazghkull stopped with half a step, head cocked to one side, and looked down at the scratches and dents the bolts had made in the armoured plate. The ork returned his gaze to me and slowly shook his head, as if in disappointment.

Sheathing my sword, I reloaded and fired again as the Beast started towards me once more, every shot aimed for the exposed face and skull. Two rounds glanced from the jagged gorget that protected the Beast’s lower jaw. Another pair clanged from the bionic half of Ghazghkull’s head, leaving blackened welts on the metal but not penetrating. My fifth shot hit flesh, deflected from the bony cheek beneath and exploded beside the ork’s ear rather than beneath skin and muscle.

He seemed to laugh and grunted something at me in his own language.

A storm of fire from his gun engulfed me for a second, high calibre bullets whining past my head and slamming into my chest plastron and pauldrons. My displacer field activated, throwing me into the warp for the briefest instant. The world vanished and it seemed that an eternity passed in which the universe was born and died, and I became nothing more than a burning flake of ash in the aftermath of its destruction. Every sense told me I was already dead, blinded and deafened, frozen and yet boiling alive inside my armour.

It only lasted the tiniest fraction of a second in truth, but the transition saved my life, depositing me more than a dozen metres to the left and a few metres further from Ghazghkull. My head spun and my stomach felt like it had been turned inside out, but I had been delivered from the torrent of gunfire.

I emptied the rest of my pistol rounds at the Beast while he laboriously turned towards my new position. The bolts caught the ork around the head and face again, but inflicted little more damage than my first salvo. A lone scratch dribbled just beneath the Beast’s good eye but at last the glare that turned on me showed some emotion: anger.

Anger that I could use.

Something clanked and rattled inside the arm-mounted cannon while I reloaded again. I did not shoot. It would have been a waste of ammunition.

The Beast’s gun shrieked, spitting blasts of purple light at me. My displacer field activated again, throwing me a couple of metres directly forward with a wrench, still in the path of the ork’s fusillade. A blast tore through my left arm, scorching through the ceramite outer armour. Another struck the side of my helm with a blinding burst of light. I lost my vision and was reduced to relying on the input of my armour, reducing my sight to a monochrome series of vague blotches.

I holstered my bolt pistol as the warlord came at me and drew the plasma pistol from my belt. I waited for the whine of the generator to descend to the hum of a stable magnetic field, and fired. The ork was only three metres away, and the plasma ball slashed into the creature’s chest. It melted through the armour in an instant and punched into flesh beneath, a burst of cobalt fire that rippled out the neatly punctured breastplate. I have seen such shots kill Traitor legionaries outright.

The Beast bellowed as he staggered back, swaying violently from side to side. The scene cleared as my eyes recovered. The ork was hunched over, looking like he was retching.

I kept the pistol pointed at the warlord, waiting patiently for the ticking of the recharger to end and the power build-up to start again. The warlord heaved and shuddered, shoulders moving beneath the heavy armour. I have to admit that when I realised what was happening, my aim wandered for a millisecond.

The Beast really was laughing, harder than ever.

He waits at the door knowing that what he is about to do treads a fine line between assertion and disobedience. The seconds and minutes pass slowly until he hears the approach of another. Asmodai steps through a door in the bulkhead, like Belial divested of his armour for the moment and dressed in the robes of the Deathwing, patterned with the sigils and symbols that denote their stations. Belial nods his head in welcome, comforted by the fact that the Interrogator-Chaplain shares his view on the present matter. Unexpectedly, Asmodai speaks.

‘You are determined to pursue this with the Supreme Grand Master? Master Azrael and I have frequent disagreement, but your standing with our commander is exemplary.’

‘I did not accept the position of Grand Master of the Deathwing to be popular, Brother-Chaplain. I admit that the extremity of our cause might cause consternation, but the outcome warrants the risk to reputation.’

‘Very well.’

Belial activates the door terminal, announcing their presence. A few seconds pass before the door hisses open, revealing the chamber of Supreme Grand Master Azrael. For generations these rooms have hosted the commanders of the Dark Angels, and if legend is to be believed then before that they were used by the Lion himself. The walls are hung with banners showing the heraldry of successive Chapter Masters, Azrael’s taking pride of place above the chair and desk at the far end of the chamber.

He looks up, stern, and beckons the two petitioners to approach. His brow furrows, his gaze lingering more on Asmodai than Belial.

‘You understand that our campaign on Piscina is ongoing.’ The Supreme Grand Master focuses on Belial, who called for the audience, eyes as dark and hard as granite. ‘All three of us have duties elsewhere.’

‘I will be brief, Grand Master. I think that we waste valuable time and resources trying to reclaim Piscina Four from the ork infestation. With the Rock in orbit we possess the weaponry required to obliterate all life on the planet, and should do so before casualties amongst our ranks become excessive.’

‘I am surprised that out of all my warriors you are prepared to abandon Piscina Four without a battle. You have already strived so hard to guard this world for the Chapter and the Emperor, why give in to the counsel of despair now?’

‘No despair, Brother Azrael, only a long-delayed acceptance of the consequences of my failures many years ago. Had I succeeded in eliminating the ork threat properly at its arrival the current situation would not have developed. That I did not has allowed the orks to gain a grip on this world that no effort of the Chapter can prise away.’

‘I see.’

The Supreme Grand Master stands up and starts to pace back and forth behind his chair, one hand stroking his chin, the other lightly gripping the thick rope belt at his waist. Belial takes this as an opportunity to argue his case further and Azrael says nothing to stop him.

‘We cannot accomplish this task alone without ignoring other battles that require our intervention. The longer we spend on this lost world, the more danger to other planets of the Emperor. The Piscinans have been rendered useless as allies, would you have us wait until forces from the Imperium arrive to assist us?’

Asmodai shakes his head, thumping a fist into his other hand.

‘Impossible! All three of us know that the Fallen interfered with Piscina during the stewardship of Chaplain Boreas and his companions. We risk knowledge of their existence spreading beyond the world if outsiders become involved in the campaign.’

Azrael stops and turns towards the Chaplain, his hands moving to clasp each other behind his back. Talk of the Fallen, the Dark Angels that turned against the Lion and the Emperor during the Heresy, earns an even fiercer scowl from the Supreme Grand Master.

‘You suggest that I destroy the population of an entire world to keep secret the existence of the Fallen? An act that will earn us further investigation and suspicion, no doubt. Sometimes I think you desire a confrontation with the Imperium, Asmodai.’

‘There is precedent, Brother Azrael. And the presence of the orks presents far more justification than has sometimes been offered.’

‘If there is evidence of the Fallen to be removed, it will be removed. If I listened to your counsel, every world where even rumour of the Fallen is found would be left a lifeless wasteland.’

Asmodai has not mentioned previous petitions to call for exterminatus, and this revelation annoys Belial. He wonders for a moment if his desire to vanquish the orks is being used by the Chaplain. The Deathwing commander steps closer to his superior, feeling that the terms of the conversation have moved away from his initial purpose.

‘The Piscina System is tainted. We can no longer recruit from here with any confidence. If we become mired in a war against the greenskins we compound the failure of my earlier campaign.’

Azrael’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

‘Your campaign? Your failure? Did you not hold back the orks sufficiently to stop the world being overrun, and did not the entire Chapter under my command conduct the intended annihilation? You would embroil us in intrigue with the Imperium and throw away millions of lives because of your impossible quest for perfection?’

‘Apologies, Supreme Grand Master. Our failure. And it is not perfection I seek, it is simply an absence of error. Our warriors spend days in the Reclusiam pondering their failings and atoning for their deficiencies. Those of us of higher rank must hold to an even stricter code.’

‘The reasons are irrelevant. We cannot place ourselves in higher moral authority than the people we are sworn to protect. If there is atonement to be made, should it not be painful? Should it not involve sacrifice? You suggest the easy route, thinking there will be no repercussions, no regrets.’

There is truth to Azrael’s words that Belial cannot argue against, but equally he cannot hide his consternation at this refusal.

‘And I see from your expression that there is some other purpose for wishing swift conclusion to our war in Piscina.’

Directly confronted, Belial must confess his ulterior motive, knowing that there is selfishness behind his dismay but unable to deny the Supreme Grand Master. Belial sighs heavily.

‘There were reports of the Beast, sightings a few thousand light years from our current position. It would be a better use of our might to strike down the creature that dealt the fatal wound to Piscina rather than to remain here and mire ourselves with the scraps left behind.’

‘So it is to be revenge, is it?’

‘I would prefer you not cheapen my motives with such terminology, Supreme Grand Master. It is justice to punish those guilty of the crimes, is it not? The Beast ruined Piscina. We are simply putting the planet out of its misery.’

Azrael looks to speak but pauses, confounded by Belial’s argument. He sits down, steepling his hands to his chin as he rests his elbow on the report-strewn desk. He looks at Belial for some time and then moves his gaze to Asmodai, eyes narrowing slightly.

‘It is a bleak day when the Adeptus Astartes must weigh the life and death of a whole world, an entire culture that has supported and praised them for generations. You are both dismissed.’

‘Are you refusing my proposal, Supreme Grand Master? Am I to conclude that my plan does not find favour in your eyes? You will not conduct exterminatus?’

‘You have made sound arguments, brother. I will not decide the fate of a world in a moment.’

Ghazghkull straightened and broke into a run, covering the ground with strides surprisingly swift for the bulk of his armour. It took only an instant to calculate that the plasma pistol would not be recharged before the Beast was upon me. I was in no haste to meet the Beast in single combat, not while there were other courses of action open. I holstered my plasma weapon as I turned, and pulled out my bolt pistol as I broke into a run. I fired blind, on the move, dispensing a shot every second. The compact cogitators fitted into each bolt guided them towards the warlord. I heard the crack of their impacts but had no idea where they struck.

I headed for one of the abandoned warehouses, the front wall listing like a sinking ship, the roof pulverised by the earlier bombardment. My auto-senses switched to low visibility mode as I ducked beneath the cracked lintel of a secondary door into the darkness within.

Slowing, I leapt over piles of collapsed masonry and navigated past fallen beams, ducking and turning as dictated by the mangled debris. I paused and checked behind frequently, knowing that the ork could be upon me in moments. Ghazghkull was silhouetted against the main cargo doors, almost filling the gap.

I activated the vox and requested a gunship strike on my position. For an aiming point, I detached my homing device and dropped it to the floor. The ping of its comm-signal sounded clear as I moved away, heading towards the rear of the warehouse.

The Winged Retribution answered my request and I ordered the gunners level the whole building and then turn it into rubble. I was younger then, still occasionally prone to such imprecise melodrama.

Looking again, I saw that Ghazghkull was shouldering his way through the tangled wreckage, plaster and masonry dust falling thick as he heaved aside a broken wall. A glow from the bionic eye glinted from shattered window panes and fallen skylights. The tread of the warlord’s steps was muffled by the rubble underfoot, a soft crunch of settling gravel and crushed brick that I could use to determine his position even as I circled, my back to the enemy.

I needed him to come further into the building, to ensure there would be no escape. I stepped out in front of the Beast and fired the last two shots in my pistol. The bolts exploded against the ork’s engine pack, letting out a cloud of steam and spray of thick lubricant. His claw opened and shut several times as the Beast saw me and turned.

I backed away, holstering the pistol and drawing my plasma weapon. I checked the chrono-display and was satisfied that there would not be enough time for the Beast to get out of the warehouse before the gunship arrived.

I fired the plasma pistol, aiming not for the ork but for a metal girder above him, holding back the collapsed remnants of an upper floor. The shot parted a support, causing it to buckle in moments. With a creak, the tortured metal twisted and gave way. Several tonnes of plasboard and ferrocrete fell on the Beast. Not enough to knock the creature from his feet, but distracting, giving me time to break to the right, heading for an external door I had seen as I entered.

Once outside, I turned and headed back to the main harbour front where I had first encountered the Beast, granting me a clear view to the Thunderhawk’s attack run. Missiles streamed from its wings and heavy bolters let out a fusillade of fire. The nose-mounted lascannon sent stabs of white into the building and the fuselage battle cannon opened fire. The missile hit a second before the shells, detonating only after penetrating the warehouse wall and throwing up a plume of shattered bricks and plasteel. The battle cannon shell ripped into the interior, fire and smoke belching from the hole as it exploded within.

The Thunderhawk circled and continued to rain down vengeance with lascannon and shell. It turned broken brick to gravel, glass to glittering splinters and metal stanchions into molten droplets. A power inlet erupted into a plume of burning gas, sending a cloud of masonry shards into the sky. Small pieces of ferrocrete fell on my armour like rain and on the roadway around me. After continued punishment the warehouse collapsed, the last vestiges of its wall and roof reduced to several tons of rubble.

The pilot affirmed that the target was destroyed and I despatched the gunship back to the fighting, thinking that even if Ghazghkull had survived, the ork would be heavily injured and easy to finish off. A mistake, a moment of overconfidence I have regretted ever since.

I could still hear the ping of the personal transponder deep beneath the smoking remnants, its coordinates appearing in my visual display. Something shifted in the rubble. It might have been simply debris settling, but I was going to leave nothing to chance. I approached the ruin, plasma pistol at the ready.

He lies in the gloom, the shadows held back by the fitful light of a pale lamp in the bulkhead above his cot. Azrael has not yet replied to his proposal and four days have passed. Four days and four more missions in Kadillus Harbour and across the East Barrens. Four missions, hundreds of dead orks, and yet how many more await their death? Four missions, another dead brother of the First Company, another suit of Tactical Dreadnought armour consigned to the Techmarines for repairs that might take months if they can be completed at all. And nothing to say of the battle-brothers killed and wounded in the other companies. Belial and the Dark Angels could spend a year, five years, and still the purging of Kadillus would not be complete, and the world of Piscina IV would not be freed from the threat of the orks.

His thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the door terminal and a voice on the local comm.

‘It is Brother Ezekiel.’

Belial sits up and barks at the vocal pick-up mounted on the wall.

‘More light. Door open.’

The lights brighten and the door whines aside, revealing the Chief Librarian arrayed in his battleplate, his heraldry the blue of the Librarium. Belial is taken aback by the other Space Marine’s appearance as he moves towards the vox-catcher to warn the armoury of his arrival.

‘A mission? I received no warning.’

‘No, brother, I have just returned from battle. You can relax.’

‘I think not. Did the Supreme Grand Master apprise you of my proposal?’

‘He did, but another issue eclipses it for the moment. I bear a message that cannot be communicated across the vox network.’

Intrigued, Belial beckons for Ezekiel to enter and orders the door closed behind him. The Librarian casts a glance around the sparse quarters before continuing.

‘Sammael and the Ravenwing have returned. The Supreme Grand Master is to convene the Inner Circle as soon as they make orbit.’

‘And they have news? Of… the old enemy?’

‘It would appear to be the case. I have decoded certain messages within the transmission, which indicates that they have in their custody an individual of significance.’

‘One them alive?’

The thought heartens Belial, pushing aside his dark mood, but then the importance of Ezekiel’s news to his current situation becomes more clear.

‘The Deathwing are going to be redeployed, aren’t they? Perhaps the whole Chapter? That is why you have come here. That is why my proposal will not be addressed yet.’

‘I cannot say for sure what will happen, I came to you only as a courtesy, brother. It is likely that if information is gleaned from this new captive, an expedition will be launched. The Deathwing will, you are correct, be required to spearhead such an operation, in concert with the Ravenwing.’

‘So I am to leave Piscina again before my task is completed?’

‘That is not your decision to take. Brother-Sergeant Seraphiel, one of the Knights of the Old Order, has also sent word. He has been forced to elevate three of the battle-brothers to the status of Deathwing. You can access the full details on his engagement report.’

‘I see. Three more brothers to welcome to the damnation of the truth. I do not envy them the next few days. We shall see if they really have the mettle to become Deathwing.’

‘I must speak to Brother-Chaplain Sapphon. I will see you at the convening of the Inner Circle.’

Belial bids farewell to the Librarian with a nod and turns his attention to his network terminal. He spends some time reading the reports of Sergeant Seraphiel, one of the Inner Circle’s lesser ranked agents. At times it is useful for the Inner Circle to have eyes and ears in places where those of officer rank would arouse suspicion and quieten tongues.

Several more days pass, days of fighting orks and rebels, days of monotonous bloodshed, yet every encounter, every skirmish and battle is treated with equal importance by the Master of the First Company. He may wish the battle ended but not the smallest detail in tactics or execution escapes his attention. None that exceed expectation go without praise and none that fall short go without penance.

Belial notices his own distraction on occasion, thinking about his entreaty to Azrael or the meaning of the returned Ravenwing, but he tries his best to conquer the unease he feels. He would expect nothing less of those under his command, and certainly expects total focus from himself.

Eventually Sammael and his Second Company reach the Tower of Angels above Piscina and Azrael convenes the Inner Circle. Before he can attend, Belial has another matter to address, one more duty to execute: to welcome the newest inductees of the First Company.

He waits for them to arrive from their ship, an imposing figure of absolute authority as far as the battle-brothers are concerned, unaware as they are of the debates and dichotomies that cause him such anguish on occasion. His mind is filled with dark thoughts and his mood is grim.

Two of the newcomers, Brothers Menthius and Daellon, disembark swiftly from the Thunderhawk and come to attention in front of the Grand Master. Belial eyes them patiently, simultaneously disappointed by them and yet full of empathy.

He is disappointed because they have disobeyed orders and witnessed the Fallen first-hand. Sergeant Seraphiel could perhaps have organised their deaths to maintain the close secrecy around knowledge of the traitors, but he has seen promise in the warriors and has chosen to spare them.

Belial feels for them also because he knows what they do not, what they will learn soon. Myths and outright lies have been their diet up until now, and their next meal with be the raw truth, as unpalatable as grox tripe. He has known even the most mentally strong warriors lose their courage, their purpose and duty when they have learned that much of what they fight to protect is a lie.

The third, Telemenus, descends after another minute has passed, his gaze casually appraising Belial as if he was at a briefing or report. Telemenus falls into place without so much as a word of apology. Such disrespect, on meeting his new Grand Master for the first time, has to be confronted lest it lead to further laxity. Belial can see the latent arrogance that lingers behind their confident looks. They have been welcomed into the elite of the Chapter, why would they not be pleased with themselves?

Belial keeps his thoughts from his features as Telemenus comes to attention. The Grand Master touches his fingers to his belt, a moment of self-restraint, feeling the three large keys that are symbols of his Inner Circle duties, until his hand finds the pommel of the famed Sword of Silence, one of the three Heavenfall blades forged from meteoric stone in the Chapter’s ancient past. Belial allows his displeasure to show as he glares at Telemenus.

‘You are tardy.’

‘Brother Seraphiel had parting words for me, Grand Master.’

‘Did I ask for explanation?’

Taken aback by the question, Telemenus shakes his head in reply. Belial’s brow furrows deeply.

‘Speak when spoken to.’

Telemenus considers this. ‘No, Grand Master, you did not ask for explanation.’

The Thunderhawk’s engines build to a roar and as the gunship takes off dust and hot air wash over the First Company’s newest warriors. Telemenus’s eyes are locked on Belial, seeking approval perhaps, or fearing further condemnation. Belial shifts his gaze to Daellon, and then to Menthius. The latter is heavily bandaged, still recovering from the wounds suffered in their latest battle.

Each of them is a fine warrior, their records speak as much. Yet they have come to the Deathwing under a cloud, disobeying orders and coming face-to-face with the Fallen, forcing Brother Seraphiel’s hand. They will learn how to fight with Tactical Dreadnought armour and they will recite the litanies and rites of the First Company, but will they have the heart to do what has to be done, when the needs of the Hunt and the Chapter are at odds with the needs of the Imperium?

It is a question that cannot be answered, not hypothetically at least. They will either be capable or not, and only the experience of being placed in such a situation will provide the truth. It is the same unknowable quality that the Inner Circle demands of its members. Loyalty does not have to be unquestioning, despite the efforts and rants of Asmodai, but first and foremost it has to be to the Inner Circle and the Chapter. Belial has long harboured doubts about the direction the Chapter is heading and his desire to hunt down Ghazghkull is fuelled in no small part by a longing to engage in a straightforward, honourable act that has uncontested benefit. Too long he has been forced to tread a line between oaths to the Dark Angels and protection of the Imperium; it would be a blessing to achieve victory without any tarnish.

Belial realises he is putting Azrael in one of those difficult circumstances. The Supreme Grand Master must have considered, in private, the possibility of exterminatus, not just of Piscina but other worlds. While it remains private speculation, the tacit agreement not to discuss such a subject has held the status quo. Belial’s request has forced the issue into the open, demanding that Azrael take a view, and that in turn means that the others of the Inner Council will be forced to back or argue against the proposal. On a matter of such importance, a potential schism threatens, unwittingly instigated by Belial and encouraged by Asmodai. Whether Azrael refuses Belial’s plan or accepts it, there are likely to be unforeseen consequences. The thought sours his mood even further.

Belial has offered a solution, but ultimately it is not his choice. Does that make it easier for him to suggest wiping out millions of lives, the final responsibility belonging to Azrael? If the Supreme Grand Master had asked the same question of him, would Belial be so sure in his arguments knowing that the debate was of practical importance and not just one of principle?

Does one of these warriors standing before him have the same kind of focus and attention to duty that might one day see them elevated to the highest rank of the Dark Angels? Is Belial looking at a future Supreme Grand Master?

From what he sees, Belial doubts it, but there has never been a new addition to the Deathwing that did not initially disappoint him, even those that have later earned his respect and become heroes of the Chapter.

He stares at Menthius.

‘Have the Apothecaries cleared you for combat?’

Menthius starts to tremble and casts his gaze groundwards, earning a concerned glance from Telemenus. ‘No, Grand Master.’

‘If you cannot fight you cannot train.’ Belial crosses his arms, revealing the tattoos on his skin, from shoulder to elbow, lines of miniscule text. Belial notices Telemenus’s interest and steps in front of him, raising and flexing his massive bicep so that the Space Marine can see more clearly what is written there. There are more on his chest that Telemenus cannot see, almost hidden against the dark sub-dermal layer of Belial’s black carapace. They are the most important reminders, close to his heart.

They are lines from the Liturgies of Battle and other texts, scribed with a neat, rounded script by Belial himself. Some are repeated over and over, lessons to be heeded again and again, others written only once as solitary reminders of a moment’s oversight or error. Belial reads in Telemenus’s expression the curiosity that has brought him to the Deathwing, but the battle-brother at least has the good sense and discipline this time to hold his tongue.

Belial decides to indulge them, a morsel of information about their new master for them to savour but also a warning if they are clever enough to heed it.

‘Lessons not to be forgotten.’

The Grand Master turns away and starts towards the door, speaking without looking. ‘Brother Daellon, you will report to quarters and await further instruction. Brother Menthius, you will report to the apothecarion for further treatment. Brother Telemenus…’

Belial turns back, his gaze as hard as flint as he looks at his newest warrior.

‘Brother Telemenus, you will report to the Chaplains for two days penance and contemplation for the disrespect you have shown me. Use the time to reflect on the necessity of making apology when you keep a superior waiting. You may also like to think on the importance of first impressions. I will be watching you closely.’

The three Space Marines reply in unison, but Belial’s thoughts are already moving to other more pressing matters.

‘Yes, Grand Master.’

He leaves, the three battle-brothers fully expunged from his thoughts the moment he steps through the bulkhead. The Inner Circle awaits, and with them Belial’s and possibly Piscina’s future.

With a bellow, the Beast erupted from the hill of ferrocrete and brick, scattering debris like a detonating warhead. The ork’s armour was dented and broken in many places and blood trickled from his left leg, mixing with dark fluid that spilled from a severed hydraulic link. The warlord’s gun arm hung uselessly, trapped inside the broken exo-armour, and he had a slight limp as he dragged itself out of the rubble and started towards me.

Even wounded, the Beast looked a daunting prospect in hand-to-hand combat, but I could see no other option as the warlord ploughed through the remnants of the warehouse, bellowing challenges or threats, or perhaps both.

The whole ork invasion would lose impetus if the warlord was killed. The only way to be sure would be to drive my blade through his heart, slash open his throat, or perhaps decapitate him. I did not relish the prospect of a close quarters encounter, but if I withdrew now the Beast would confront some other element of the Dark Angels force or the Piscinan Free Militia, meaningless deaths that could be avoided if I stood strong.

And, I regret to say, its dismissive attitude at the outset of the encounter still nagged at me and I wanted Ghazghkull to know he had been bested by me in the moments before he died. Foolish sentiment, arrogance, that has not claimed me since.

The importance of this duty lent strength to my limbs as I raised the plasma pistol and fired, shooting as the warlord slid down a rubble pile a few metres away. The shot melted a spray of cables sticking out of the already-defunct gun, sending up a shower of sparks and molten metal, but there would be no second shot before we met in hand-to-hand combat.

There were no snarls or posturing, and I held my silence. I could read the simple intent to kill in the creature’s eyes, and the same was in my mind. I took up my blade in both hands as the greenskin broke into a charge, grunting with each tread, power claw raised for the first blow. I kept to the roadway, secure footing beneath my boots, and at the last moment stepped to the left and brought up the Sword of Silence.

My blade slashed across the Beast’s upraised arm, ringing from the lightning-wreathed power claw. Energy flared as I moved past, turning my wrist to send the tip of the sword whipping across the warlord’s knee. Pneumatic pipes parted, but the Beast was not hobbled yet.

Ghazghkull’s claw crashed down on my backpack. At the most needed moment the archaic technologies of the displacer field failed to activate. Warnings flashed as power systems failed, the reactor reduced to emergency output only by the blow. The displacer field was just a lump of useless wires and crystals encased within my breastplate.

Suddenly encumbered by the weight of my armour, I was slow to turn. The Beast was on me, punching me in the chest. The displacer field flared for a final time, to my surprise, hurling me ten metres to the left, but I lost my footing as I reappeared on the edge of the destroyed warehouse, my compromised battleplate unable to stabilise in time.

I fell to one knee, as though I was making supplication to that foul creature.

I was able to straighten just in time to dodge the next swing of the power claw as the Beast pressed home his attack with furious snarls and grumbles. My sword struck the gorget, cleaving through the painted metal but deflected from flesh and bone.

The Beast kicked, a hydraulically-assisted blow that hit me square in the groin, sending me back a couple of metres. More warnings blared as I crashed onto my already damaged backpack.

Ghazghkull loomed over me as shutdown icons blinked into view. My right arm was dead, the fibre bundles severed somewhere near the shoulder, sword gripped uselessly in my fist.

The power claw burned bright against the smoke-choked sky as the Beast lifted it high above his head, ready for the killing blow. I spat a curse. I do not remember the words. Childish, really, but I was bitterly disappointed and angry at the time.

By the light of the bulkhead lamp, Belial continues his work. The flesh-pen buzzes in his grip, thick fingers moving with surprising grace for their size. He applies the ink just below his left pectoral, in a space he has been saving for a very special act of penance and remembrance. A maxim from the Tactica Imperialis, which he was taught a few days after being inducted in the Scout Company.

He crafts each letter slowly, the vibration of the stylus, the pain of pierced flesh etching into his mind the lesson as much as it etches the form of the words into his skin. He takes his time, teeth gritted, thinking back to the debate of the Inner Circle.

Azrael has offered no answer to the question of utter extermination. Belial is to be sent on some wild mission at Sapphon’s behest, chasing a dubious lead tricked from the Fallen captured during Sammael’s latest excursion. To make matters worse, another Fallen, perhaps the most duplicitous and scheming of their kind, is to be taken on the mission as some kind of secret weapon.

It seems like folly, and Belial has spoken against the plan, as has Asmodai. Belial pauses in his work for a moment, wondering if there is any significance to the fact that he seems to be agreeing more and more with the hard-line Chaplain in recent years. Is Asmodai’s fanaticism to be Belial’s fate, or is it simply a matter of necessity to find a like-minded ally at present? The question brings a rare, wry smile to his lips as he ponders this and the nature of the tenet he is applying to his flesh.

He resumes the tattooing, the smile quickly replaced by a grimace. For a normal man the pain of such decoration would be expected, but to one with the body of a Space Marine the pain would not only be negligible, beneath notice. But there can be no penance without punishment, as Azrael correctly asserted, and so the ink that Belial uses to carve the lesson into his skin contains an acidic compound that gnaws at his flesh, making every stroke and flourish a localised agony.

The lesson does not end in moments, nor in minutes. The scars of the tattoo bear with them the remnant of that pain, so that the soreness is a reminder of the mistakes Belial has made, to be endured until his death. Too many mistakes, too many miscalculations, too many dead that need not have died, too many escaping death that should have been slain.

But for all the sins intentional and unintentional committed, the pain is not yet too much for him to bear.

My armour registered an odd increase in air pressure. A moment later exploding bolts flared across the body of the Beast, hundreds of rapid detonations. I turned my head and saw five Space Marines in Terminator armour bearing down on Ghazghkull, their storm bolters as relentless as their advance. Two of the Terminators broke from the squad, power fists gleaming as they charged the ork warlord, bodily smashing into the Beast to bear it away from my prone position.

The remaining three Deathwing veterans formed up around the task force commander, weapons at the ready. I recognised the heraldry of Sergeant Caulderain. The First Company squad leader looked down at me. The lenses of his helm reflected the flash and flare of the Beast’s power claw tearing into the other Terminators. I will never forget their sacrifice. Nor will I forget Sergeant Caulderain’s next words.

‘Beacon was on target. Company Master is secured, activate teleport.’

And then Kadillus Harbour disappeared.

I was alive, but so was the Beast. A shame I bear to this day.

Not this time, vengeance against the orks. The Hunt for the Fallen takes precedence. Belial understands this, even though it is inconvenient. He does not think Azrael will call for exterminatus, and the fighting on Piscina will be protracted. The reports of the Beast will be filed, and then the reports will stop and the victims of the monster’s rampage will be buried and Ghazghkull will move on and elude justice for another decade.

But Belial takes comfort from the advice he now inks into his flesh, to remain vexing until the day of his death. Today’s lesson is not one of condemnation but one of hope. It is even truer now than it was a few days before, when he had sought retribution against the Beast and its kind.

Another foe demands justice. A foe far older than the Beast and even more deserving of hate. The Hunt continues, and the Fallen will be rooted out from the darkness and brought into the light of examination. There is no higher cause, and for all the mental torment it causes Belial on occasion when more pressing, temporal matters occupy his thoughts, he knows in the deepest part of his heart that there is no more important calling than to expunge the ancient stain upon the honour of the Dark Angels.

He applies the last stroke of the flesh-pen, pulling in a sharp breath as he finishes. Setting aside the instrument, he stands up and raises his arms, stretching the skin of his torso, taking an odd pride in the flare of pain across his epidermis.

The pain subsides to a dull ache that will last for decades, enough to serve as a reminder. He reads the message he has written to himself again, nodding in thanks for the wisdom he learnt so long ago in the Tenth Company. He speaks the teaching out loud, making an oath out of the words, sworn to the harshest master he knew: himself.

‘Do not win the battle, win the war. Victory is counted not in days but generations.’

THE UNFORGIVEN

PART ONE

THARSIS

SURRENDER

‘You may address me by my title,’ said the Space Marine. ‘Lord Cypher.’

Annael pushed himself to his feet, pain flaring from his wounded knee. ‘Who?’ he asked as Calatus moved forward to help him stand. Annael laid his hand on his battle-brother’s shoulder and tentatively put some weight on the leg.

‘I am the Lord Cypher. I am here to see your leaders.’

‘You attacked us,’ said Huntmaster Tybalain. His bolt pistol was still levelled at the stranger, a power sword in his other hand. He glanced at the unarmoured Space Marine lying at Annael’s feet with half his head missing, and nodded to Nerean. ‘Is he alive?’

Nerean crouched beside the traitor’s corpse, but the stranger spoke first.

‘He is dead. Not even one of our kind can survive a wound like that.’

Tybalain said nothing and looked at Nerean. The Black Knight nodded his confirmation. ‘Stone cold dead, brothers.’

Annael looked at the cadaver and then to the Space Marine that had saved his life. Any gratitude he felt was overwhelmed by suspicion at the Space Marine’s unheralded appearance.

‘We should call in a Dark Talon to take this one away,’ he said, over the squad vox-frequency so as not to be heard by the captive. ‘He is clearly one of the Fallen.’

‘Why would he give up so easily?’ asked Nerean. ‘It is a trap of some kind, you can be sure of it.’

‘He still has his sword,’ said Annael. He studied the way the other Space Marine stood. There was an ease in his stance that betrayed a calm demeanour. He really did not seem at all concerned by his predicament, or else was able to disguise any misgivings. ‘This situation is not to my liking at all.’

‘Do you want to try to take the sword from him?’ said Calatus. ‘I fear we shall not do so without killing him, and the attempt would be costly all the same.’

‘He certainly dealt with Astelan in swift fashion,’ said Tybalain. ‘I feel no strong urge to test his competence directly. The name Cypher does not mean anything to you, but it is known to me, in a way. It is a codeword amongst the Fallen, and if we hear it we are to inform our superior immediately.’

‘Master Asmodai should learn of this first,’ said Calatus. ‘It was he that ordered Astelan to be executed. He will know what to do.’

None of the others voiced objection to this and Tybalain communicated what had happened to Chaplain Asmodai. While he did so, Annael kept a close watch on the prisoner. ‘Lord Cypher’ made no move, remaining as motionless as a statue. He did not even react when Calatus retrieved the plasma pistol and bolt pistol the stranger had relinquished. Annael looked at the plasma pistol, not recognising the design.

‘Old,’ said Calatus, turning the weapon left and right. The craftsmanship was exquisite, even to Annael’s untrained eye. ‘Very old.’

‘The Master of Repentance is not happy,’ Tybalain reported. He switched to external address. ‘We are to await the arrival of Master Asmodai here. You will not move or speak. If you attempt to escape you will be killed.’

Lord Cypher accepted this without a word or gesture, taking the Huntmaster’s instruction literally. Annael recovered the bolt pistol that had been taken from him, ashamed that he had been disarmed so easily. The pain in his left knee had dulled, but the wound in his pride at being shot by his own weapon was still raw. He tried putting weight on the leg again to distract himself from his embarrassment and found that he was able to stand, although slightly crookedly. Nerean inspected the damage to Annael’s helm and backpack from the traitor’s second shot and pronounced that all was well. The bolt had done nothing more than cosmetic harm.

Forty-five minutes passed more or less in silence until the sound of engines grew louder outside the ruins of the Slaughterkeep. A few minutes later Chaplain Asmodai arrived, clad in his full black armour, face concealed behind his skull helm. The paint of his livery was heavily chipped, the exposed ceramite cracked in many places. Clearly the Master of Repentance had been involved in quite a clash.

The Chaplain marched past the assembled Black Knights and stood in front of the prisoner, staring at him for some time. The Fallen made no move of his own and said nothing.

‘We are to believe this is Cypher?’ Asmodai said eventually, his voice emitted from the external vocalisers of his helm so that the prisoner could also hear.

‘My title is Lord Cypher.’

Asmodai whirled around, the blue-gleaming head of his crozius arcanum smashing into the side of the traitor’s helm, sending up splinters of ceramite and knocking him to his knees.

‘You are no lord!’ spat Asmodai. ‘You are scum! Filth! Traitor! You do not speak unless directly addressed.’

The stranger stayed down, head bowed, one hand on the ground to steady himself. Asmodai loomed over him, crozius at the ready, but the Fallen remained where he was and kept silent.

‘Good, it seems I am understood.’ Asmodai stepped back and started to pace, circling the Fallen, speaking aloud as much to himself as to the Black Knights. ‘We are to believe that Cypher, architect of a hundred Fallen plots to destroy and dishonour us, is now in our hands. He has finally been caught, nigh minutes after another of his kind came into our custody.’

‘Not caught, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Tybalain. ‘Surrendered. Delivered to us by his own act and admission.’

‘You are correct, Huntmaster, the difference is important. As is the timing.’ Asmodai stopped beside Cypher. ‘Get up!’

The Fallen obeyed, slowly rising to his feet. He kept his hand deliberately away from his scabbarded weapon at all times, giving no sign of threat or even disobedience that the Chaplain could use as reason to inflict more punishment.

‘Is it coincidence that you appeared here and now, arch-traitor? Are we to accept that you have come before us by happenstance? Were you afraid that your accomplice would betray you first? Is that why you killed Astelan?’

‘I did not,’ said the Fallen.

‘You did so, right in front of me.’ Annael was incredulous at Cypher’s denial. ‘Do you call me a liar?’

‘Nothing of the sort. I saved your life. I shot the traitor. But that is not Merir Astelan, at least not as I knew him.’

‘Nonsense,’ growled Asmodai. He knelt beside the corpse and rolled it over. Half of the Space Marine’s head was missing, but his face was mostly intact. Asmodai rose quickly and retreated several steps. ‘What devilry is this? What have you done with the real Astelan?’

‘What?’ Tybalain and the others looked at the body again. The Huntmaster shook his head. ‘No, there must be some mistake. This is the target you sent us after. It has to be. We found his discarded armour a score of metres away.’

‘The mistake was yours, Huntmaster.’ Asmodai’s voice was icy with scorn. ‘You have failed me.’

‘We followed the transponder signal you transmitted,’ said Annael. ‘It led us directly here, Master.’

‘There was another signal,’ said Asmodai. ‘From orbit to the surface. Are you sure you detected no teleport code or energy wave?’

‘Nothing, Brother-Chaplain,’ Calatus said quickly. ‘I scanned the area as soon as we arrived. There were no traces of any such energy expenditure.’

‘Then he must still be here!’ roared Asmodai. ‘Split up! Search the ruins! I want that traitor captured!’

Asmodai remained to keep guard on Cypher while the Black Knights divided to form a search pattern through the remains of the Slaughterkeep. Calatus swept the area with the auspex and declared that there was no human-sized living being within a kilometre, but this did not satisfy the Chaplain.

‘Every chamber and dungeon, I want you to look at it with your own eyes and tell me this place is empty. Astelan cannot have escaped.’

Despite Asmodai’s insistence, and the confusion of the Black Knights as to how it might have happened, it transpired that Astelan had indeed eluded their clutches. When the squad reformed with the Chaplain the Master of Repentance was beyond irate.

‘Where is he?’ the Chaplain demanded, pointing his pistol into the face of Cypher. ‘Tell me, or by the Emperor I will end your treacherous existence.’

‘I do not know,’ the Fallen said quietly. ‘It has been a long time since I crossed paths with Merir Astelan, I know nothing of his current plans.’

‘Then how is it that you happened to be here?’ said Tybalain. ‘Why did we find you in these ruins?’

‘I detected the same incoming transmission that you did,’ the Fallen said, obviously choosing his words with care. ‘I thought it better that I approached you than you came upon me.’

‘Which brings us back to why you have allowed us to capture you,’ said Annael. ‘What do you want?’

‘I must speak with your leaders.’ Cypher turned his full attention to Asmodai. ‘It is imperative that I see the Supreme Grand Master. Anovel must be stopped.’

‘Anovel?’ Asmodai’s voice was low and dangerous. ‘You admit to knowing the traitor? He is aboard our ship and awaiting my attention.’

‘He has been captured? Then perhaps all is not lost. We might yet prevent this disaster.’

‘The traitor is ours now, his plans have come to naught,’ Asmodai assured the Fallen. ‘He cannot harm us any longer.’

‘I hope you are right, I really do. We must avert this catastrophe.’

‘Catastrophe? Disaster? You overestimate the reach of our foes.’

‘You are blind to it, Chaplain Asmodai. Do not take lightly what I have to tell you. Your foes seek nothing less than the utter annihilation of the Dark Angels.’

REPERCUSSIONS

Cypher said nothing more as he was escorted at gunpoint to the Deathwing Land Raider Asmodai had requisitioned. Asmodai turned at the top of the boarding ramp and addressed the Black Knights.

‘Forget the name of Cypher. Forget this misbegotten traitor and serve your Chapter well.’ He uttered the keywords that would place this order into the subconscious of the Space Marines, a hypnotic command rigorously implanted during their earliest training, one that they would be unable to refuse or recall. ‘Non memorianda est. Speak nothing of this moment to another. Speak never of what transpired in the last two hours. Return to Grand Master Sammael and report for duty. Attend to your orders and fight well.’

Thus instructed, the Black Knights returned to their steeds and rode away.

Asmodai stepped into the Land Raider and saw that Cypher had seated himself close to the driver’s compartment. He had already pulled down the bracing harness used during rapid assault to lock a Space Marine’s armour in place. Asmodai sat opposite but remained unhindered, not wishing to restrict his movements in any way in the presence of the arch-traitor.

‘If indeed you are Cypher, as you say,’ he said out loud, completing the thought. ‘This episode with Astelan is a reminder that your kind are as devious as serpents. What proof can you offer to verify your claim? Why should I not simply extract your repentance now and put a bolt into your head, as you did your accomplice?’

‘He was not my accomplice,’ the Fallen replied. ‘I do not know how I can prove my claim. What evidence would you ever accept that comes from my lips?’

‘There is nothing you can say that I will believe,’ said Asmodai. He banged a fist against the bulkhead to signal to the driver. He felt a jolt as the Land Raider moved off a few seconds later, the hull trembling with the growl of powerful engines. ‘You are falsehood incarnate, especially if you are who you claim to be.’

‘So if I am the Lord…’ The prisoner checked himself as Asmodai’s hand strayed towards the haft of his crozius arcanum. ‘If I am the person you know as Cypher, I can be believed even less than if I am not? That is a paradoxical situation, you realise? If I am lying, you do not believe me because it is false. If I am telling the truth, you do not believe because I am telling the truth. How do I defend myself against your accusations?’

‘That is not my concern. It is yours. Believe me, your kind become very inventive beneath the caress of my Blades of Reason.’

‘If I offer a verifiable truth, would that persuade you?’

‘Truth is rarely objective in my experience, except by its absence. I would save your breath. You will need it for when you scream for forgiveness.’

The stranger shook his head, whether in denial or disbelief it was unclear. After a few seconds he raised a hand, index finger jabbing towards Asmodai.

‘Starfire,’ said the Fallen.

‘What was that?’ Asmodai leaned forward. ‘What did you say?’

‘Starfire.’

‘How do you know this word?’ demanded the Interrogator-Chaplain, standing up. He swayed slightly as his armour compensated for the rocking motion of the Land Raider. ‘What does it mean to you?’

‘I am glad that I have your attention, Master Asmodai.’ The Fallen lowered his hand. ‘I know this word because, as I have already told you, I held the rank of Lord Cypher, a position of authority amongst the Order commanded by Lord Luther.’

‘That name is a curse to my ears, even more than your title,’ snapped Asmodai.

‘I see that “starfire” is known to you, as I hoped. It was the command codeword that activated the orbital defence grid. Merir Astelan, the one you thought I had killed, uttered that word to open fire upon Lion El’Jonson.’

It was possible that the Fallen was lying to Asmodai and had learned of the word by some other means, but the Chaplain doubted it. ‘Starfire’ had been recorded in the annals of the Lion’s sons as the last transmission detected from Caliban before the Fallen had opened fire on their primarch. Astelan’s testimony had included as much during visits from Boreas and Asmodai. It seemed an odd secret to pass on the off-chance a Fallen might be captured.

Another matter made Asmodai believe the Fallen. Although the Chaplain knew that his straightforward mind was incapable of the mental somersaults of Sapphon in being able to think like the traitors, for all that he tried Asmodai could not come up with a reason why a Fallen would pretend to be Cypher. More to the point, why the real Cypher would not attempt to hide his identity.

He activated the Land Raider’s comms unit and initiated a transmission to orbit, where the Penitent Warrior and Implacable Justice strike cruisers were engaged with the enemy flotilla. He coded the signal to Brother Sapphon, the Master of Sanctity, foremost of the Chaplains. It took several minutes for Asmodai’s superior to connect and the reply to arrive.

‘Brother Asmodai, I thought that you would be returning to orbit to oversee the internment of Anovel.’

‘Another matter, more pressing, has delayed me. Astelan has eluded the Black Knights. He is loose on the planet.’

There was no reply for some time. When he spoke, Sapphon was reserved.

‘That is unfortunate, brother. I trust that you are organising the pursuit.’

‘Alas not, much as I wish to. A third traitor has been apprehended.’

‘A third? How many more of these wretches infest Tharsis?’

‘We will discover that truth, among many others, when we interrogate the prisoners. The one I have in custody claims to be Cypher.’

Again there was a long pause as this information was absorbed.

‘Cypher? You think you have captured the thrice-cursed?’

‘I believe I have. However, Astelan cannot be allowed to escape. We must instigate an immediate blockade of the planet and task our Dark Talons and Nephilim to interdict any non-Chapter aircraft. He will not be able to get far, and will certainly not leave Tharsis.’

‘You seem to have forgotten an important consideration, brother. We are currently fighting a traitor fleet and a sizeable ground force. We cannot spare neither strike cruiser nor our aircraft to hunt Astelan at this time.’

‘I have to speak to your Chapter Master,’ said Cypher, loud enough to be heard by Sapphon.

‘Silence!’ snarled Asmodai. ‘You will not speak again.’

‘Was that him? What does he claim to know that is so important?’

Asmodai turned back to Cypher.

‘Answer swiftly, traitor.’

‘An attack on your Chapter is imminent. Lord Azrael must be informed.’

‘Empty words,’ said Asmodai. ‘You offer no shred of evidence to back up your claim. Standard protocol is that all statements by the Fallen are treated as false.’

‘Can we afford to ignore him?’ said Sapphon. ‘This is an outlandish situation, there is nothing standard about events on Tharsis. I do not think we can risk being delayed by orthodoxy. Return to orbit as swiftly as possible with your captive, brother. We must discuss our plan of action with Belial and Sammael before we make any decision.’

‘There is little to discuss. One of the Fallen remains at large on Tharsis. He must be captured.’

‘I concur, brother. But we cannot overlook the importance of your prisoner, if he is who he claims to be. Securing him and returning him to the Penitent Warrior safely must be your priority. When we have him in a cell, we can focus our efforts on Astelan.’

‘Very well, I shall take that as your command.’

Asmodai cut the link and sat back, watching Cypher. He studied the traitor’s armour. It was painted black, like Asmodai’s, but whereas the Chaplain’s battleplate had a sheen of freshly applied enamel, Cypher’s was matt from exposure, even grey in places. The Chaplain could also see small flecks of dark green paint. It seemed that Cypher was not above wearing the colours of both the Legion and the Chapter when it suited his purposes. There was a fine edge of golden trim around the knightly helm, the gilding copied on the rims of the shoulder pads but sparse from wear and damage.

The original decoration of the chest plastron had been removed, and in its place was a skeletal figure with arms outstretched across the breastplate. Skull designs adorned the knees and waistband, and links of chain hung like a belt across the traitor’s lap.

A longsword hung from that chain, in a scabbard of black leather and steel, the pommel crimson and gold. There were strange tales surrounding that sword. Tales that Asmodai had heard from the lips of the Fallen and of his battle-brothers. Myth surrounded Cypher as much as the likes of the Lion and Luther, but here he was now, sat in front of the Master of Repentance as solid and real as anything.

Asmodai wondered what truths, what admissions, what myth-shattering confessions Cypher would make beneath the Blades of Reason. The Chaplain knew that all Fallen were equally despised in the eyes of the Emperor, but could not help feeling a touch of pride that Cypher had been brought to him. Almost as much as he dreamed of inflicting his excruciations upon the traitor Rhemell, Asmodai had desired to confront the thrice-cursed.

The traitor would be broken, his secrets revealed and his lies proven false. Asmodai would stand before him and offer him the chance to repent. He would break the Fallen’s blade over his knee as the final stroke, the last proof that Cypher was less than nothing and all that remained was to save his soul with acceptance of his guilt.

‘I would not,’ said the Fallen as Asmodai’s gaze returned to the sword.

‘You give me orders now?’

The Chaplain stood up and reached out towards the hilt of the blade.

‘A warning, not a command,’ said Cypher. ‘It does not suffer the touch of any. None except its true keeper.’

‘It is a weapon, nothing more.’

Asmodai closed gauntleted fingers around the hilt.

Fire burned the sky and the ground fell away beneath his feet. Pain lanced through his body and he saw a snarling face, so close his foe’s foetid breath could be felt. They tumbled together, falling from the heavens it seemed. There was a blade in his gut, burning like poison. His own sword fell from his fingers. The pain increased, surging into his head, blinding and terrible.

Asmodai staggered back as he let go of the sword. He had to steady himself against the bulkhead, blinking away the after-effects of the vision.

‘Perhaps you should start to heed my words,’ said Cypher. ‘Not just on the sword.’

Still shocked by what had happened, Asmodai retreated to the bench and sat down. His normal desire to assert control and superiority was overwhelmed by the sense of dislocation that left his thoughts reeling. The experience had been so visceral, unlike anything he had experienced before. More than a memory, he had lived the moment captured within the vision and for those few seconds he had not known himself.

The memory of what he had seen started to fade, like a dream. Like all Space Marines he had been trained to have near-perfect recall, but just a minute after touching the sword all he could remember was a feeling of betrayal and helplessness. That and the pain. Unconsciously he moved a hand to his midriff, where it was as though a scar was healing beneath his abdominal armour. After another minute, even this sensation had passed.

‘Time until rendezvous point?’ he demanded of the Land Raider’s driver, seeking to steady himself with the physical and mundane.

‘Seven minutes, Master Chaplain,’ the driver replied.

Asmodai accepted this answer without comment. He looked at Cypher and felt something totally alien. The Fallen always filled him with distaste, with hate, with a desire to avenge the wrongs done to the Lion and the Dark Angels. The loathing was there in Asmodai’s gut, seething, wanting to be released, but for the first time since he had ascended to the Chapter another feeling kept the hate in check.

Where Cypher passed, anarchy and war followed. That he would come to the Dark Angels now was a grim harbinger. As he looked at Cypher – for surely the prisoner had to be Cypher and no other – Asmodai could not shake a sense of foreboding.

ARMOURER OF THE SOUL

Sapphon spent some time considering recent events, leaving command of the Penitent Warrior to Belial, who had interred Anovel in one of the cells on the dungeon deck of the strike cruiser. The Chaplain retired to the Reclusiam to gather his thoughts, too distracted by the ongoing battle to think clearly while on the command bridge.

The Reclusiam was a high-vaulted chamber on the deck above the dormers of the battle-brothers, located close to the armoury where their suits of Tactical Dreadnought armour were stowed when in transit. It brought a smile to Sapphon to think of the similarities between this chamber and the one a little further along the deck.

In the armoury the Techmarines clad the bodies of the First Company in adamantium, plasteel and ceramite. They loaded and primed their weapons and applied the unguents and blessings of their arcane order so that the machine-spirits of the Terminator war-plate would serve the warriors of the Chapter. In the Reclusiam the Chaplains armoured the souls of their charges with oaths of dedication to the Emperor, and fired their resolve with legends of the Lion’s victories and ultimate sacrifice. Just as the Techmarines maintained and repaired the armour that protected the Space Marines, Sapphon and his Brother-Chaplains kept vigilant for damage to the spirit and imperfections in the shield of faith that guarded their minds.

The armourers repainted the bone-coloured enamel of the Deathwing, setting upon it the sigils and markings of Chapter, company, squad and individual warrior. They covered up the burns, scratches and other marks of war, eliminating the scars of history. The Chaplains did no less for the minds of their charges, smoothing away questions that could not be answered, recounting tales that explained away inconsistencies of history, painting over discrepancies and concerns with devotions of loyalty and duty.

And most importantly of all, the Reclusiam was the chamber from which the desires of the Inner Circle were enacted. It was here that the various versions of the Chapter’s history were related to the brothers according to their need, rank and experience. From the censers that hung from the ceiling drifted the psychoactive vapours that opened up the hypno-conditioned minds of the Dark Angels, allowing Sapphon to instil the doctrines of faith and remove unworthy doubts and troublesome memories.

Even the First Company, the Deathwing, whose battle-brothers had earned great renown and trust, were subject to such manipulation. Though they had been initiated into the most fundamental secrets of the Fallen – the existence of renegade Dark Angels and the treachery of Luther that had created them – only Belial and a handful of veteran sergeants in the company knew of the corrupting force of Chaos that had turned them, and the identity of the arch-heretics, Luther’s lieutenants such as Merir Astelan, Zahariel El’Zurias and the ringleader known only by the title of Lord Cypher.

That Cypher had reappeared now, openly allowing himself to be captured, troubled Sapphon greatly. This fact, the manner of Cypher’s capture, weighed heavily on his thoughts as he paced down the aisle between the long devotional benches on which the company sat for benedictions and pre-battle mass. A red carpet underfoot muffled his armoured steps, leaving only the hiss of electric lights and the ever-present rumbling of the engines to break the still of the chamber.

Overhead hung banners embroidered by the Librarium’s serfs, the histiographers cataloguing the many battle honours of the Deathwing from the formation of the Dark Angels Chapter to the present day. Two hundred and three banners in black bordered by red, white stitching listing the names of more than nine thousand worlds, space stations, ships, moons and space hulks where the First Company had been victorious, some of them multiple times. In the gloom the writing was barely legible, but it mattered not, Sapphon could recite every single name from memory. He also knew the two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight Righteous Honours omitted from the roll of honour. Actions that had been centred solely on the capture of the Fallen, undertaken by the Deathwing alone.

Three names to be considered for addition to the list: Tharsis, Ulthor and Piscina. Were these victories? Were they Righteous Honours? Ulthor was easy to discard. It had been a disaster from the instant the company had teleported onto the daemon world. Farce was almost too kind as a description of what had followed. Extricating the company, along with the Ravenwing, could be considered an achievement, but certainly not a battle honour.

Piscina was undecided. Sapphon did not know how the campaign continued in their absence, if at all. Grand Master Belial had petitioned Azrael to declare the world lost and wipe out everything on the surface with Exterminatus, but the Supreme Grand Master had withheld judgement. The expedition to Ulthor had taken Belial and his company away from the theatre of war.

Tharsis was surely worthy. A sizeable fleet and army of renegades had been eradicated, or would be within the next few hours. That those traitors had been lured into attacking Tharsis by the machinations of Sapphon did not undermine the achievement of the warriors in the strike force. It also mattered not to the Master of Sanctity that Astelan had escaped. His recapture was inevitable, even if he had an entire world on which to hide. His was a spent fate. Asmodai would be allowed to administer the final act. Two other Fallen had been captured, including Cypher.

Always there was Cypher, Sapphon’s thoughts rapidly coming full circle from their wandering as he knelt in front of the altar. The table was covered with another banner, much tattered and faded, the edges ragged from fire, lasbeams and detonation.

The first battle standard of the Deathwing.

Other Chapters might have suspended such a relic in a stasis field, preserving it for eternity. Not so the Dark Angels. Their history, as obscured as it was by circles of trust and mistruth, was carried beside them. In the presence of this artefact the warriors of the First Company swore and renewed their oaths, just as the first members of the Deathwing had done ten millennia before. To touch the cloth, to smell the ancient must from its fibres, was to connect with every warrior that had donned the bone armour and tabard of the Deathwing for the last ten thousand years. The stories changed, as did those that told them and heard them, but the inner truths remained constant. The banner served as a reminder to every member of the First Company that they upheld a sacred duty unbroken since the dawn of the Imperium.

Sapphon reached out a gauntleted hand and gently stroked the winged sword icon emblazoned on the standard. It had been dark red once, on a field of black. Now it was a dull orange on a grey background. The colours had faded, but not the glory woven into the fabric as much as the sigil.

A glorious legend. And a second, hidden history no less important.

Looking at the relic banner, Sapphon realised what had to be done, but it was not a decision he could take alone.

‘Bridge, this is Master Sapphon. I need a priority coded vox-conclave. Contact Masters Asmodai, Belial and Sammael for immediate exchange.’

‘Understood, Master Sapphon. Creating coded conclave for you now. I will inform you when the other Masters have responded.’

Sapphon stood and moved past the altar, eyes passing over the antiquities placed upon the banner cloth. A goblet it was claimed the Lion had drunk from on his final night on Caliban. A fragment of bone, said to be from a beast of the forests slain at the hand of the primarch’s seneschal, Corswain. A shard of crystal-laced metal from the power sword of Grand Master Haradin, who had reformed the Deathwing following the catastrophic events that had seen Caliban destroyed.

Pieces of ancient history, reminders of legacies far greater than a few sacred ornaments. Sapphon had sometimes wondered why the Chapter set such stock by these odds and ends from the distant past, an affectation of remembrance. He understood now. These relics had been present at the beginning, setting in motion a continuum of events that covered the whole arc of the Age of the Imperium, right up to that day, that hour, that minute. All things, every victory, defeat and decision in the last ten thousand years, by Supreme Grand Masters, Librarians, Chaplains, battle-brothers and even serfs, had steered the Dark Angels upon a troublesome course to the present time.

Caught in the glare of this realisation, Sapphon concluded that the past and the present, his forebears and his peers, would not be his judge. Those that came after, those that would inherit the Chapter he left behind, would decide on the right and wrong of his actions.

Had the Lion thought such a thing when he had lifted that silver goblet to his lips, knowing that the coming dawn would see him leave Caliban to join the Great Crusade, perhaps never to return? Had Corswain known when he slew the tainted monster of Caliban’s forest that his name would reverberate for ten millennia, his deeds an inspiration to generation after generation of Dark Angels? When Haradin had learned of the existence of the Fallen and instigated the reformation of the Deathwing and Ravenwing, had he considered the possibility that their task would still be continued ten thousand years later?

All grand decisions and actions that had defined the Legion and Chapter ever since, their consequences ultimately unknowable.

The capture of Cypher changed everything. The foiling of the plot between Anovel, Methelas and Astelan was a significant moment also. Decisions made now could frame the Hunt for the Fallen for a century or a millennium.

‘Master Sapphon, the coded conclave is active.’

The Master of Sanctity passed through the curtained archway behind the altar and into the smaller chamber beyond. There was a stout desk within, and around the walls many shelves bowed under the weight of books and scrolls. The entirety of the Lore of the Dark Angels, assembled over ten thousand years, starting with treatises from Roboute Guilliman’s Codex Astartes on the reorganisation of the Legiones Astartes, to Supreme Grand Master Azrael’s interpretations and edicts on the Tactica Imperium. Ten millennia of wisdom and battle-rites crowded Sapphon as he accepted the transmission from the strike cruiser’s bridge.

‘Brother-masters, gratitude for your swift attention.’

‘Swiftness is desirable, brother,’ replied Sammael. ‘I am embarking upon what might be the final offensive of this campaign. This conclave is a distraction from my preparations.’

‘One that you will doubtless understand, Brother Sammael, when I tell you that Master Asmodai has captured the accursed fugitive known as Cypher.’

Silence greeted this announcement. Sapphon remembered his own stunned reaction when he had received the news from Asmodai. He also recalled the questions that had followed as he had comprehended the nature of the revelation and spoke to address them before the others wasted breath giving voice.

‘Brother Asmodai is convinced that his prisoner is Cypher, and so I am convinced, as you should be. He is currently stasis-incarcerated and being transported back to the Penitent Warrior with Asmodai as escort. He will be placed into further stasis when he arrives. It is absolutely imperative that he comes into contact with no one that has not already seen him.’

‘I have instructed Brother Malcifer of the Second Company,’ added Asmodai. ‘The Black Knights that discovered Cypher and allowed Astelan to escape will be suitably debriefed and if necessary quarantined upon their return.’

‘What does that mean?’ demanded Sammael. ‘Tybalain responded to your orders. He has done nothing wrong.’

‘I made no accusation of improper conduct,’ answered the Master of Repentance. ‘The knowledge of Cypher’s presence must be closely contained, as Brother Sapphon attests. To this purpose, Tybalain and his warriors must be sequestered from their battle-brothers. I am confident Malcifer can accommodate this without remark or incident.’

‘Astelan has escaped.’ Belial’s statement was quietly spoken but loaded with a cutting edge. ‘This is a grave failure by the Second Company.’

‘A terrible consequence of planning and opportunism,’ Sapphon said quickly, before Sammael responded to the barbed comment.

‘Brought about by your entanglements with Astelan,’ continued Belial. ‘I take no pleasure in acknowledging that I warned against this ill-devised endeavour.’

‘A matter that you can bring up with the Supreme Grand Master,’ said Sapphon.

Asmodai had been in the chamber last, the objects on the table as ordered and regimented as his thoughts. The Master of Sanctity absent-mindedly moved a few things, rearranging the autoquills and piles of data-crystal wafers into a fan pattern. Belial’s condemnation did not concern him. Once Azrael was made aware of all the circumstances of the operation he would acquit Sapphon of any misdemeanours. To do otherwise would undermine Sapphon’s position and give Asmodai tacit free rein to impose his divisive policies on the Inner Circle and the rest of the Chapter.

‘Or perhaps a matter that I will seek to settle personally,’ continued Belial, ‘in a duel upon our return to the Tower of Angels.’

Sapphon stopped his toying, the Grand Master’s threat disturbing. ‘By rite, such an event would be held in view of the Chapter. How would we explain the rift between two senior officers? No. It is not possible. It would compromise the sanctity of the Hunt. I forbid any challenge being issued on this subject and will censure any of you that seek such recourse.’

‘We stray from the purpose of this conclave,’ Sammael interjected. ‘If you wish to test authority or blade with each other, please do so without my involvement. Our assault will launch in twenty-seven minutes and there remain many preparations to undertake. The Tharsians are assembling and awaiting my command. Is there any further matter that requires my attention?’

‘Our involvement is no longer required,’ said Asmodai. ‘The longer we remain on Tharsis, the more precarious our hold on the details of this expedition. Our presence will prompt questions not easily answered, and we must not forget that a sizeable traitor fleet remains in the system, even if they appear to be withdrawing.’

‘We cannot abandon Tharsis,’ Belial replied. ‘We will not.’

‘We cannot save every world, brother,’ said Sapphon. ‘The Hunt, this prisoner, must take priority over all other concerns.’

‘This world has been placed in jeopardy by your actions, Sapphon. We drew the renegades to this system. We ignited the fire of war, and it falls to us to douse it before we depart.’

‘I concur with Brother Sapphon,’ said Asmodai. ‘We have courted disaster too many times on this campaign. Our surest course of action must be to secure the two Fallen we have in custody and return to the Tower of Angels for their interrogation.’

‘They pose no threat,’ argued Sammael. ‘We must remain as long as required to deter the traitor legionaries of the second fleet. The moment they sense that we are leaving, they will surely return.’

‘It is not our two strike cruisers that dissuade their assault,’ Sapphon replied tersely. ‘They came to Tharsis expecting welcome. They find themselves faced with a fully operational orbital defence system. Whatever prize they sought here, they hoped to obtain through the blood of Anovel and his followers, not their own. They will not be returning.’

‘And Astelan?’ said Belial. ‘You cannot truly believe it is wise to leave him loose on the world he once brought to the brink of ruin with his tyranny?’

‘We can learn nothing from him, and the pursuit would continue to expose us.’

‘I detest the notion that we would knowingly allow any of the Fallen to escape, but I agree,’ said Asmodai, to Sapphon’s surprise. ‘Cypher’s excruciation and repentance, the secrets he will reveal to us, will be an unparalleled achievement for the Chapter. The future success of the Hunt may rest on his testimony.’

‘We cannot ignore his claim that there exists a direct threat to the Chapter. We have not yet fully uncovered the extent of the plan we thwarted today. There will be further repercussions and we must consult with the rest of the Inner Circle,’ Sapphon replied.

‘Your hearing appears to be hampered, brothers,’ said Belial, more forcefully than Sapphon had heard in many years. ‘I will not leave Tharsis to an uncertain fate. Too often in these past months we have vacillated, compromised and allowed ourselves to be blinded to certain truths. The Deathwing will conclude the battle, alone if necessary, to ensure Tharsis’s continued prosperity.’

Unseen by the others, Sapphon shook his head, angered by Belial’s defiance. It was unlike the Deathwing commander to gainsay the desires of the Chaplains. Now was the most inopportune time for him to declare he served a higher calling.

‘The Ravenwing will also not shirk the fight ahead,’ said Sammael. ‘We have lost brothers whose memory and sacrifice should be honoured with laurels of victory, not hidden in the dusty chronicles of the Inner Circle. Master Belial is right, there are clear foes to destroy and a war to be won. This is the reason for which we were created.’

‘Your reticence is noted, brothers,’ said Asmodai.

‘As is your attempted disregard for the protocols of command, Master of Repentance,’ Belial replied with a growl in his voice. ‘The First and Second Companies answer to us, not the denizens of the Reclusiam. I would expect such behaviour from Sapphon, but I am disappointed in you, Asmodai. I thought you would desire the prosecution of the enemy.’

‘There is no greater priority than the Hunt, Master of the Deathwing,’ Asmodai spat back. ‘Your disappointment is a burden for you to carry, it is as nothing to me.’

‘Let us not end with dissent, brothers,’ said Sammael. ‘We all wish swift conclusion to this campaign, which has taxed mettle and courage equally. Night will bring victory, I am sure. Let us see what fresh insight the dawn heralds.’

There was a chorus of agreement, reluctant from Sapphon, a single grunt of assent from Asmodai. One by one they broke the vox-link, leaving Sapphon in quiet reflection.

THE CAPTIVE

If he looked to his left, to the north, Annael could just make out the armoured column. Tanks and personnel carriers painted in muted brown and green camouflage flew Tharsian pennants from their aerials. They followed the arrow-straight highway into the wilderness, hidden from view by the hills and undulations of the countryside.

Most of the traitor invaders had been hunted down, but there were still pockets of resistance, some very well armed and consisting of the chemically-boosted and cybernetically enhanced soldiers that had led the attack on Tharsis. Tybalain and his Black Knights were acting as outriders for the tank column heading towards a concentration of enemies that had taken over a town a dozen kilometres north of the capital.

Annael flanked the advance to the east with Calatus, while Tybalain and Nerean patrolled to the west. Land Speeders in the black of the Ravenwing scouted ahead, seeking possible ambushes. So far there had been only the odd straggler, easily dealt with, but Annael remained alert.

‘Nowhere to run to, no chance of surrendering, these rebels will fight to the last, mark my words,’ said Calatus, riding a hundred metres ahead of Annael. ‘What have they got to live for?’

‘Not all soldiers have such purpose,’ said Annael. ‘I discussed as much with Sabrael, back on Port Imperial. That was when his disobedience almost got me killed, but I would gladly accept that sacrifice now if it would return him to the company.’

‘You would rather be dead and Sabrael alive?’ Calatus slowed slightly, allowing Annael to catch up. ‘He abandoned you, brother, and you know he would not wish the same.’

‘I think you are wrong. The events on Thyestes changed him. Sobered his mood a little.’

‘Too little. He still disobeyed Tybalain’s command and paid for his infraction with his life.’

‘Perhaps he was right to attack. Did he not embody the spirit of the Ravenwing more than any of us?’

‘He was foolhardy and self-interested, traits that belong in no Space Marine.’

‘But as a bladesman and a rider, he excelled. A far better warrior than I, his loss would be counted the greater of the two of us.’

‘Not by me,’ insisted Calatus. ‘You ride by my side and I trust that you will guard my back as a battle-brother is supposed to. Sabrael was unreliable, and that makes him a lesser warrior in my eyes.’

Their discussion was curtailed by the sight of a group of buildings ahead, flanking the highway. Huntmaster Tybalain called the Black Knights together and sent word to the armoured column to halt until the small settlement had been investigated.

‘Sable Hunter, Swiftclaw, keep your distance,’ Tybalain transmitted to the pair of Land Speeders. ‘Encircle and recon, do not engage unless attacked.’

The gunners of the anti-grav speeders signalled their affirmatives and swept onwards. Under the guidance of their drivers, the Land Speeders peeled apart three hundred metres from the settlement to conduct their scans from opposite flanks. Tybalain raised a fist and gestured for the Black Knights to split to a fifty-metre spread, advancing slowly while the Land Speeders conducted their sweep.

The auspex of Annael’s steed, Black Shadow, showed around two dozen buildings. The site appeared to be a marshalling yard of sorts, two slipways from the main highway running down ramps into a group of warehouses and living quarters. A small air-dock stood three hundred metres from the road, a cargo-lifter still on the elevated apron. High cranes crisscrossed the entire site thirty metres above.

‘Lookouts on the gantries,’ reported Brother Casamir, pilot of the Swiftclaw. ‘Possibly marksmen, no weapons visible yet.’

On Annael’s display three red runes blinked into existence, highlighted through the linked telemetry of the Ravenwing vehicles. He looked up at the cab of the nearest crane and focused. His helm’s auto-senses took over from his natural sight and magnified the view directly into his optic nerve.

There was a man hunkered down in the cab. Sunlight glinted on glass as he swept his magnoculars after one of the Land Speeders. He appeared to be wearing some kind of facemask, but as the resolution of the auto-senses improved Annael saw that the whiteness was pale, dead skin, the tangle of pipes he had taken to be a respirator dangling directly from the lookout’s flesh.

‘Augmetics and bionics,’ he reported. ‘Definitely enemy.’

‘Heat traces indicate thirty-plus more targets within the buildings,’ said Brother Teraphiel on the Sable Hunter.

‘Pull back! Pull back!’ To the east, the Swiftclaw rose rapidly, its anti-grav engines propelling it backwards so that Casamir’s gunner could keep the heavy bolter and chin-mounted assault cannon pointing at the enemy. ‘Heavy weapons spotted. Missile launchers and some kind of bipod-mounted projectile weapon.’

To the west the Sable Hunter also backed away, the missile pods of its Typhoon launchers directed towards the marshalling yard.

‘I’m detecting a short-range transmission,’ said Nerean. ‘Origin point somewhere in those buildings.’

‘I have it too,’ said Annael, noticing a spike on the radio reception monitor of Black Shadow’s display. He tuned his vox in to the frequency.

‘…and we will not hesitate in killing him.’ The voice was distorted but of a register that made it plain the speaker was a woman. ‘You hear me, dogs of the Lion? We have one of your ill-fated sons and we will kill him if you do not withdraw. I am Neira Kamata, the new commander of the Divine Army. The misbegotten Dark Angels have one hour to withdraw their forces from our world or we will slay the hostage. Do not underestimate…’

Annael’s vox switched back to the squad channel on an override from Tybalain.

‘A lie, I am sure,’ said the Huntmaster. ‘A desperate lie.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Teraphiel as the Sable Hunter circled the highway, moving out in a spiral to join with the Swiftclaw. ‘It’s an outrageous claim if they are bluffing. They have to know we can verify the status of every battle-brother.’

‘It matters not if it is truth or bluff,’ declared Tybalain. ‘We will teach these traitors that this is a war, not a barter. They cannot negotiate their way out of chastisement.’

‘So, we attack?’ said Calatus.

‘We attack,’ replied Tybalain. ‘Sword Four, are you receiving?’

‘Affirmative, Huntmaster. We are on support stand-by. Do you require a strike?’

‘Transmitting coordinates. Designating target Alpha. Full authority strike on Alpha.’

‘Data received. Incoming to target. Three minutes until strike.’

Tybalain signalled for them to stop and Annael turned to look south-east, where he knew the Dark Talon fighter assigned to the escort had been patrolling, ready for the strike command. He could see nothing but low cloud for two minutes and then a black speck appeared, quickly resolving into a stub-nosed craft with reverse delta wings. The Dark Talon stooped out of the cloud like a striking hawk, nose aimed at the group of buildings.

‘Full attack, follow me!’ cried Tybalain as Sword Four swept in on its run. ‘Terminate all targets. Sable Hunter, Swiftclaw, opportunity strike, all targets.’

The Ravenwing picked up speed, their heavy bikes making easy work of the relatively smooth ground that flanked the highway. To their left and right the Land Speeders accelerated past, gaining height. The Dark Talon, just two hundred metres up, soared overhead. The rift cannon in its nose crackled and a sphere of warp energy erupted within the buildings ahead, turning the metal legs of a crane into a crumpled mass. The machine toppled sideways and crashed onto the broad roof of a warehouse, smashing through ferrocrete tiles.

The Typhoon launcher of the Sable Hunter belched fire and smoke. A ripple of missiles streaked towards the marshalling yard. Detonations engulfed the closest building, punching through the thin walls and turning the metal roof to slag. The assault cannon and heavy bolters of the Swiftclaw spewed fire into the crane cabs, taking out the marksmen stationed there.

Another rift cannon detonation imploded the upper floors of a four-storey habitation block on the road to the landing pad. Sword Four sped over the collapsing building, a dark shape detaching from its hull. The aircraft banked away as the stasis bomb erupted a few metres above the ground, engulfing the centre of the complex in a shimmering time-dampened field.

‘I want the leader alive if possible,’ snarled Tybalain as the Black Knights hit the highway. ‘We will teach Neira Kamata the folly of threatening the Sons of the Lion.’

Following the Huntmaster they skidded onto the roadway ramp down into the eastern portion of the marshalling yard, the plasma talons of their steeds firing bursts of miniature stars into the administration block directly ahead of them. The Land Speeders swept overhead and dived down into the crisscross of ferrocrete and buildings of the western district, their progress heralded by missile detonations, the thrum of heavy bolter fire and assault cannon rounds.

A yellow and black barrier straddled the road ahead but Tybalain did not slow. He rode straight through it. Reaching level ground, the Huntmaster peeled down a wide road to the left with Nerean, signalling for Annael and Calatus to continue straight ahead.

The bubble of stasis energy was shrinking, the crackling globe a few dozen metres in front of Annael, almost out of sight behind the buildings. Sword Four had entered hover mode and was strafing left and right, its hurricane bolters unleashing a torrent of fire into the upper storeys of the surrounding hab-blocks.

Las-fire flickered down at the pair of Black Knights from a window in the second floor of a warehouse thirty metres ahead. The purple beams flared from the armour of Black Shadow, leaving welts in the paint but no significant damage.

Annael turned his steed towards the huge doors of the depot and opened fire, blasting a hole in the metal with the bike’s plasma talon. A second plasma ball from Calatus made the gap wide enough for the two to ride directly into the main floor of the building. Just as he plunged into the dark within, Annael drew his bolt pistol, riding one-handed through the gap.

The ground floor was filled with cargo containers, each ten metres long, three metres high and three wide. Most were stacked in rows, a broad concourse down the middle, but a few had been left strewn haphazardly, apparently dumped as the facility was being evacuated.

There were figures on top of the container rows, the glint of metal exoskeletons giving them away as they bounded from one stack to the next. Annael lifted his pistol and fired, a salvo of three bolts taking down an augmented soldier on the closest pile. Las-fire replied, bright beams that slashed down to either side of him.

‘Divide and conquer, brother,’ said Calatus, slowing to steer his steed down one of the rows while Annael continued up the main aisle.

Annael fired the plasma talon again, targeting the distant container stacks. The ball of energy smashed into the uppermost container, throwing it into the air in a cloud of twisted shrapnel and molten drops. More las-fire converged on the Ravenwing rider, striking his armour and bike. He turned in the saddle and fired his pistol at the enemy behind him, felling two more, but there were at least another ten sheltering on the high stacks.

It was time to take a different approach. Accelerating, Annael sped to the end of the artificial causeway, slewing past the abandoned containers in his path. He braked heavily and skidded about at the end, facing the way he had come.

‘Sword Four, lock hurricane system to my beacon. Fire for full effect.’

‘Please confirm, brother. You wish me to fire on your position?’

‘Confirmed! Open fire now!’

Annael gunned the engine and released the clutch, Black Shadow leaping forward like a stallion given full spurs. A second later the metal roof of the warehouse erupted into shards while bolt detonations sparked across the tops of the container stacks. Light poured into the gloom through dozens of holes as Annael accelerated, the fire of the Dark Talon tearing into the warehouse from above, tracking his position. As he powered down the depot, the fusillade ripped along behind him, cutting through the warriors taking cover on the containers.

The tyres shrieked and billowed smoke as Annael braked hard, taking the end of the container row at speed; heeling his bike over hard, fighting handlebars that juddered in his grasp, threatening to throw him off. The hurricane bolter salvo from above followed unerringly, a few rounds sparking from the floor behind as he accelerated again, the rest returning as a storm of small explosions along the container piles as Annael gained speed once more.

‘Cease fire, Sword Four. Cease fire!’ he signalled as he reached the far end of the warehouse again.

A second passed, the last few rounds detonating just a couple of metres away, and then the torrent of bolts stopped. The crack of Calatus’s bolt pistol sounded strangely tinny and distant in the quiet that fell. Annael looked at his steed’s sensor display. He noted seventeen rapidly-cooling signals from those that had been slain. There were still several more active heat returns on the mezzanine level around the warehouse walls, skulking in offices and rest dormitories.

Annael guided Black Shadow to a set of open metal steps leading up to the second floor. He was about to dismount when a vox-transmission stopped him.

‘We have an armoured vehicle, breaking south-west at speed,’ reported Casamir. ‘Half-track, transport, turreted heavy weapon.’

‘Black Knights, break off for pursuit, target Beta.’ Tybalain’s orders were issued in a quick but calm manner. ‘Land Speeders, Sword Four, continued suppression and eradication of enemy at target Alpha.’

‘Affirmative, pursuing target Beta,’ said Annael, moving off towards the street. He was already reaching seventy kilometres an hour by the time he burst back out of the warehouse onto the rockcrete street, Calatus just a few metres behind.

KNIGHTS OF THE FIRST COMPANY

His mood soured by the exchange during the conclave, Belial said little as his Deathwing Knights assembled around him on the teleportarium. The five veterans, the very best of the Dark Angels, elite even amongst the Deathwing, knew the Grand Master well enough to remain silent in his presence. Each wore the Tactical Dreadnought armour for which the Deathwing were famed, immense suits of war-plate that dwarfed even their battle-brothers. Over their ivory armour they wore surcoats in the green of the Chapter colours, edged with silver and gold thread.

Unlike the other warriors of the Deathwing, the Knights of the Lion eschewed ranged weapons. Instead they carried heavy maces, the heads adorned with spikes and pierced to allow a vaporous energy to escape from within, causing a pall of greenish smog to follow them. Their master, Zandorael, wielded a flail with three chains, each ending in a censer-like globe that shimmered with a disruption field. Every warrior bore a large shield embossed with the image of the winged angel of absolution, the faint aura of its protective field causing a shimmer across the surface.

Each of the Knights also wore various talismans from the belts of their tabards – keys, eagles, skulls and the like. To most they would seem like simple ornaments, but to one that looked upon them with the eye of the Inner Circle, each told a story of the Knights’ achievements in the Hunt and the secrets to which they were privy. Combined with their heraldry on greaves and knee plates, and the extra designs embroidered onto their tabards, these symbols charted the entire life of each warrior and the assorted enclaves within the Chapter to which he belonged.

The Knights of the Lion lifted their weapons in salute as Belial stepped in front of the squad and turned to address them. The ship shuddered for several seconds as the port gun decks opened fire, hurling thousands of tonnes of ordnance at the cruiser that had served as Anovel’s flagship. The air was thick with invisible energy, static build-up from the void shield generators running at capacity to withstand the return fire.

‘We have seized that which brought us to Tharsis,’ the Grand Master declared. ‘The traitor is incarcerated and our primary mission fulfilled. An essential but secretive work to be undertaken. Before us stands a nobler task for the warriors of the Lion. It has fallen to us to prosecute the war in orbit while the Ravenwing continue to convey our might on the surface.’

Belial rested his hand on the pommel of the Sword of Silence at his waist. He held his storm bolter in his other fist, the weight of the bulky weapon nothing compared to the strength of the fibre bundles within his armour.

‘We are manoeuvring alongside the enemy: one Master Sapphon and Squad Caulderain dealt a blow to, but the foe is not vanquished. We shall be the first strike, aimed at the foe’s heart, the ship’s reactors. Several other squads are following in our wake, to target weapons batteries and support systems. We cannot destroy a starship alone, but we will leave it crippled, vulnerable to the gun decks of the Penitent Warrior. An ideal killing ground for the Deathwing, close confines and deadly melee. My Knights of the Lion, are you ready?’

‘For the Lion!’ The shout roared from five external address systems. Weapons were hoisted in time to the battle cry. ‘For the Emperor!’

Belial was heartened, his sombre thoughts buoyed by the quality of the warriors accompanying him. There were none that could ever match his expectations of perfection, not even himself, but the Deathwing Knights came close to such high measure. The mission at hand was uncomplicated, the gauge of victory simple. It felt good to lead his company into battle, a defiant enemy to slay before him, the finest of the Deathwing at his back.

Inside his helm, he allowed himself a rare smile.

‘With me, brothers,’ he said, turning and marching onto the closest marblesque plate of the teleporter ring. The teleportation machine aboard the strike cruiser was far less powerful than the systems of the Rock, so only two squads at a time could be transported to their target. Belial had devised a plan of assault that would ensure that the enemy’s void shields would be down for long enough for thirty warriors to launch the attack.

As a reminder that the enemy would not willingly submit to such a fate, the Penitent Warrior shook and the lights in the chamber flickered dimly for several seconds. On the deck a hull breach siren wailed. Belial’s vox came alive with chatter as the damage was assessed. He blotted out the distraction, checked that his Knights were in place.

‘Activating sensorium interface,’ he told them, sending the signal.

His view fractured for several seconds as the auto-sense feeds from the rest of the squad were assimilated by the machine-spirit of his armour. His vision coalesced again as an amalgam image, pieced together from the intelligence gathered by the warsuits of his brothers. Even after years of experience with Terminator armour, Belial still felt slightly nauseated when the sensorium activated, as did everyone.

If he was to describe it, Belial would have said it was like having five additional pairs of eyes whose view changed as his companions moved, alongside five extra pairs of ears that created a soundscape so sharp he could navigate blind without hindrance. He was unconsciously aware of where the Deathwing Knights were in relation to his position and each other, just as natural kinaesthesia told him if he had an arm raised or his fingers curled.

The centre of his sight was focused on his direct auto-senses input – what he would normally see. Around the edges were vaguer images from the other Deathwing Terminators, melding together to give a multidimensional view of the area around him. With a sub-vocal command, he swapped the dominant image with that projected by Cragarion’s armour. The view blinked out and was replaced by a similar outlook, three metres to his left. He turned his head left, but the view remained unchanged except in the small sub-vision on the top-right periphery of his vision.

‘Brother Cragarion, composite test.’

The Deathwing Knight complied, turning his helm towards Belial. The Grand Master looked at himself from the side and slightly behind. He pulled free the Sword of Silence and held it aloft, seeing the smooth action from Cragarion’s perspective.

‘Auto-sense systems integration check positive.’ He told his armour to revert the view to normal. ‘Bellum machina dominatus positivia. Gratuis armorium et Adeptus Mechanicus. Commencing augury data merge.’

Each armoured suit also contained a scanning array the equal of any hand-held or vehicle-based device employed by the other battle-brothers of the Chapter. On activation, the Tactical Dreadnought armour bathed its surroundings with thermal, motion, pressure, electromagnetic and sound detectors above and beyond the inputs from the auto-senses. This was the third and greatest use of the sensorium suite, so that any enemy within a three-hundred-metre radius could be detected, extending up to a kilometre if the members of the squad were separated.

It had been unfortunate that the sensorium had been excessively burdened by the warp-reality overlap on Ulthor. Had his company been functioning at full capacity, Belial had no doubt they would have taken the daemonic fortress and avoided the costly and shameful retreat that followed. He had already written an exhaustive report on the matter to be given to the Techmarines when the expedition returned to the Rock.

‘All systems configured,’ the Grand Master announced. He pointed his sword to the hooded and robed attendant manning the teleporter controls. ‘Begin teleportation.’

Arcane purple and blue energy leapt from the coiled transmitters arranged in a horseshoe around the back of the teleporter ring. The whine of archaic transformers and the crackle of cables filled the chamber, the armour of the Knights gleaming in the flashing light.

‘Imperator protectivis.’ Belial whispered the invocation, a habit from his childhood that all the years with the Dark Angels had never quite eliminated. It was an entreaty to the Emperor to watch over him in the coming voyage, and it had returned to Belial’s mind just before his first teleport. ‘An nostrus equivocum celestiates magna. Expeditus ave honorum Imperator Rex.’

The teleporter energy reached its crescendo just as the last syllables slipped from Belial’s lips. He felt lifted, his mind soaring away from his body. The sensation seemed to last for minutes, but it was in reality an instant before his body followed and the Penitent Warrior disappeared.

TRUTH WITHIN A LIE

It was easy to see where the enemy transport had exited the marshalling yard. A four-metre section of chain-link fence had been toppled and wide track marks ploughed up the muddy ground beyond, heading away from the highway. The haze of exhaust smoke still lingered in the soft breeze.

Tybalain and Nerean had reached the hole in the fence first and were a hundred metres away by the time Annael and Calatus came upon the scene. The Land Speeders flitted overhead, guns firing, to continue the fight against the remaining enemy in the warehouses. The distinctive sharp crack of Sword Four’s rift cannon punctuated the clatter of heavy bolters.

Riding over the broken fence, Annael thought at first that the escaping transport was simply heading cross-country, but after fifty metres they came upon a rutted track, churned up by recent use, which curved southwards into a stretch of forest. The Huntmaster and his companion were almost under the eaves as Annael and Calatus turned onto the uneven road and followed.

Eagerness pushed Annael to accelerate hard. Eagerness not just to overhaul his companions and be present at the battle, but to revel in the simple pleasure of riding over open ground beneath the sky.

‘Too often of late have we been confined to corridors and streets,’ he remarked to his battle-brother. ‘To give steeds full release has been a rarity.’

‘Too true, brother,’ replied Calatus. ‘It bolsters the spirit when the hunt becomes literal!’

Annael laughed. ‘Sabrael would have had some quip at this point. I fail in that regard.’

‘Aye, I’ll grant you that his humour was often timely. But as much as it was uplifting, his wit deserted him often in other ways.’

They reached the cover of the tree canopy, the track sloping downhill as it curved gently through the woods. Annael could smell the oil and smoke from the steeds of his squadron-brothers, strong enough that he knew he had gained distance on them. Ahead the road took a long turn to the left, and he saw an opportunity to make up even more ground.

He leaned the bike to the left and bumped off the track into the mulch and dirt beneath the trees. He felt the tyres slip for a second and gunned the engine for more grip, twisting the handlebars to steer around the thick trunk of a tree.

‘Where are you…?’ Calatus did not complete the question, but wrenched his bike after Annael’s. ‘The spirit of Sabrael lives on, it seems. Who knew that stupidity could be infectious?’

Annael barely heard his companion’s complaint. He was concentrating hard, view flicking between the trees directly in front, the flicker of black shapes along the road further ahead and the blip of the sensor return on Black Shadow’s display.

With smooth movements he guided the speeding bike between the thick boles of the trees, bumping over roots and stones. He could see on the scanning monitor that Calatus had dropped back, unwilling to match Annael’s speed. Annael wondered if Calatus was right, that he was somehow compensating for the loss of Sabrael with this foolish behaviour. He decided he did not care. The Ravenwing were expected to display bravery and daring, to perform the impossible.

He hit the track hard, almost thrown from the saddle as the grip of the tyres found solid purchase, dragging him across the heavily-rutted surface. He glanced back and saw that Tybalain and Nerean were about a hundred and fifty metres behind. Thick black smoke from the traitors’ armoured carrier hung like fog across the track, though the vehicle itself was not yet in sight.

Taking the next curve at top speed, leaning hard into the bend, Annael almost lost control of Black Shadow. Wind had drifted rotting leaves across the track, making it slick. He felt the bike slipping out from under him, wheels bouncing across the uneven ground. He slammed his foot into the dirt, digging his heel into the earth as an anchor against which he could lever, dragging the bike back under control. His injured knee throbbed with fresh pain and damaged fibre bundles in the back of the joint sent warning signals through the armour systems but he held on.

He righted his steed as it hit a straight stretch. The transport was three hundred metres ahead, slowly drifting from one side of the track to the other as the driver tried to maintain control at sixty kilometres an hour.

Annael accelerated hard, making the most of the straight and the fresh ruts left by the carrier’s tracks. He quickly closed the gap to two hundred metres. A flash of muzzle flare from on top of the broad transport alerted him a second before a hail of laser pulses flickered past.

‘Turret weapon is a multi-laser,’ he told his companions as he jinked to the left to avoid another stream of red bolts.

Black Shadow’s auto-targeter for the plasma talon was trying to get a motion lock on the speeding transport, but the bumpy track and swerving vehicle took the task beyond the small machine-spirit. Annael fired out of instinct, the plasma bolt slamming into the back of the transport. Metal buckled beneath the strike but the vehicle was not visibly slowed.

The gunner was beginning to get in his aim as another volley of multi-laser fire streamed down the road. Annael was still gaining, but slower now due to weaving left and right to elude the sporadic bursts of las-fire. A glance at the display showed that his companions were still a hundred metres behind.

The road started to curve, presenting more of the transport’s flank to Annael. Additional armour plates had been bolted onto the sides, but the tracks were still exposed. Annael fired the plasma talon again, getting a glancing hit on the track housing. Suddenly thick black smoke billowed from the track unit, engulfing Annael in darkness. His auto-senses flickered through various spectra and thermal modes while flashes of las swept along the road.

Annael’s vision settled just as a flurry of bolts caught him across the right arm and shoulder, searing along the ceramite of his armour. He almost lost his grip on the handlebars and was forced to slow to regain control. The smoke was thinning as whatever gear or engine he had hit burned out, but the track was becoming more winding, forcing both the transport and its pursuers to slow.

Seeing the gunner lining up for another shot, the six barrels of the multi-laser pointing right at him, Annael accelerated again, shortening the range so that the salvo sped over his head. He rode hard, until the turret could not depress enough to target him. Just ten metres behind the transport, Annael knew that if the driver braked suddenly he would slam into its back.

The road dipped beneath them and Annael felt a second of weightlessness as Black Shadow left the ground. The transport landed heavily and more smoke spewed from the engine grille. Narrowly avoiding riding straight into the back of the armoured vehicle, Annael pulled around to the left and dragged free his corvus hammer.

He saw the road curving sharply even as he swung the hammer. The gleaming beaked head smashed through the outer track apron, the twisted metal stripping links. Metal showered Annael as he braked so hard he almost threw himself over the handlebars.

Still shedding links, road wheels grinding against the ground, the carrier was unable to make the turn. It ploughed over the raised lip of the track and into a tree, riding up until the trunk snapped under the weight. Annael saw the gunner in the open turret flop sideways in his hatch, spine snapped by the impact.

Remembering Tybalain’s demand that the leader of the group was to be taken alive, Annael slewed to a halt and dismounted. Corvus hammer in one hand, bolt pistol in the other, he advanced.

The front hatch slammed open and a figure staggered out. A male in grey fatigues, some kind of bionic augmentation plugged into his left shoulder and neck. Obviously not the speaker on the vox-link. Annael fired and the bolt tore apart the traitor’s head.

Annael heard the creak of another hatch and looked up as a figure emerged beside the turret. She was tall, muscles bulging with stimulants, white hair cropped to a peak. There was a vox-unit implanted in her face, replacing the cheek and ear, a short aerial jutting back from the cranial adaptation. Her torso was protected by a hauberk of overlapping black scales, heavy gauntlets with spiked knuckles on her fists, her feet shod in knee-length boots with metal banding and thick buckles down the side.

Neira Kamata hissed and leapt at Annael from the roof of the transport.

He moved back a step and swung his corvus hammer, using the haft as a weapon. It caught the descending traitor in the chest and flung her against the side of the transport with a loud clang. Dazed, she fell forward, into Annael’s rising boot. The cyber-implant shattered as she flew back again, crashing into the armoured vehicle. She slumped into the dirt, barely conscious.

Annael noticed the growl of engines and turned to see the others slowing to a stop just a few metres away. Tybalain was quickly off his steed. Annael stepped back and allowed the Huntmaster to see the prisoner.

‘Neira Kamata, as you requested, brother-sergeant.’

Tybalain hauled the woman to her feet. She spat blood across the face of his helm and was thrust hard against the transport as punishment.

‘Die, Imperial dogs! I will tell you nothing!’

Tybalain holstered his pistol and grabbed Kamata’s head in one hand. His fingers squeezed and she screamed.

‘Far stronger foes than you have told us everything, Kamata. Your lord is dead, your army scattered, your fleet destroyed. All you can hope for is swift release.’ Tybalain moved his grip, taking his captive’s wrist in his gauntlet. Again he applied just the right amount of pressure and elicited a shriek of pain. ‘Tell me where you have the captive and you will endure no more.’

Kamata looked at him and Annael could already see the defeat in her eyes. She sagged, eyes downward.

‘I never had him,’ she confessed.

‘I thought as much,’ said Calatus.

The prisoner looked over at him and grinned savagely, bloodied teeth on display.

‘I said I did not have him. I do not know where he is, but my comrades will make him pay in suffering for the affront he has caused them. If the Dark Angels do not leave Tharsis within the hour, his remains will be returned to you.’

‘Where is he?’ growled Tybalain. Bones cracked in Kamata’s wrist. She drew in a snarling breath.

‘In the city,’ she gasped. ‘I don’t know where. Safe. Hidden.’

There was truth as well as pain in her gaze. Tybalain nodded and extended his arm, pushing her against the hull of the vehicle, hand plunging through breastbone and internal organs. With a last wheeze, the traitor died. The Huntmaster ripped free his bloodied hand and let her body fall to the ground.

‘She believed there is a hostage,’ said Calatus. ‘There could be some truth to the story.’

Annael looked down at Kamata’s corpse and for the first time in a long while he wondered who she had been. Normally he would not spare a second thought for the lives of traitors, but there had been something about her honest defiance that had struck him. Had she willingly joined forces with the rebels or been lured into servitude with false promises? She had clearly lied about being the new commander of the traitor army. An act of arrogance or desperation? Kamata had capitulated easily enough to Tybalain’s demands, it was likely she had been grasping for hope from the moment the Dark Angels had struck.

‘She was telling the truth, for sure,’ he said. ‘She hoped that we already knew about the hostage and was relying on us believing that she had him.’

‘She was mistaken,’ said Calatus. ‘Fatally so.’

‘A sentence merely commuted since she sided with anti-Imperial elements,’ said Nerean. ‘Justice has been served, vengeance has been enacted.’

‘But what of the possible hostage?’ said Annael.

‘A mystery easily solved,’ said Tybalain. He returned to his bike and gestured for the others to mount their steeds. When they had done so, Tybalain wheeled away from the wreck of the transport and headed back towards the highway depot.

‘Sword Four, Land Speeders, status report,’ the Huntmaster transmitted.

‘All enemy neutralised. Local forces are moving forward to secure the shipping yard.’ There was a pause and a touch of humour entered Casamir’s tone. ‘What’s left of it.’

As the squadron emerged from the woods, Annael saw several columns of smoke rising from the remains of the cargo station. Several buildings had been levelled in their entirety and others were in flames. Tharsian infantry were advancing, supported by their armoured vehicles, but Annael knew that if Casamir reported that all enemies were dead, it was definitely so.

‘We shall uncover the nature of this hostage story, one way or the other,’ said Tybalain. The vox signal wavered as he routed his transmission through his steed’s systems to contact one of the strategion technicians on board the Implacable Justice. ‘This is Huntmaster Tybalain. I need a full force casualty notice, with reference to all lost personnel.’

‘Request received, Huntmaster. Compiling report.’ There was a pause while the information was collated from the battleforce data-stream. The Black Knights reached the highway and roared past the slowly moving armoured vehicles of the Tharsians, only stopping when they had moved half a kilometre beyond the burning waystation. Another minute passed before the strategion sent his reply. ‘Combined losses are seven Second Company battle-brothers killed in action, thirteen attended by apothecarion personnel. First Company casualties are as follows. Three slain. Two in apothecarion review.’

‘Report received, Implacable Justice.’ Tybalain turned in his saddle and looked at the rest of the squad. ‘No hostage. The whole story was a lie.’

‘That seems strange,’ said Annael.

‘Stranger than one of our brothers being taken alive?’ said Calatus. ‘I know which reality I think the more credible.’

‘The woman, Kamata, believed there was a hostage. We all saw it. Which means that someone else told her there was a hostage. What purpose does such a falsehood achieve? Why would anyone perpetrate such a mistruth to their allies?’

The others were silent for a while, and Annael realised the awkward nature of the topic he was delving into. As Black Knights, they were privy to secrets from the history of the Dark Angels that had not been revealed even to other members of the Ravenwing. The majority of the battle-brothers were not even aware of the existence of the Fallen and their part in assisting Horus in the destruction of ancient Caliban.

‘Myriad are the deceptions of the enemy,’ Nerean said eventually. ‘If we were to expend thought in unravelling such mysteries we would be philosophers, not warriors. There are few enough hours in each day as it is, without pondering the imponderable.’

‘I think Brother Annael has a point,’ said Calatus. ‘Another thought occurs, also. We reported Sabrael dead, but as yet no body has been recovered. Perhaps there are others that were lost in the fighting, their demise assumed rather than confirmed.’

‘A possibility,’ conceded Tybalain. Again the vox crackled as the Huntmaster boosted his signal. ‘Implacable Justice, casualty report clarification needed. How many brothers killed in action have been visually or telemetrically verified?’

‘That will take some time to clarify, Huntmaster. We will have to contact the reporting sergeants and analyse the tactical data-stream.’

‘I am a patient man,’ replied Tybalain.

‘Of course, Huntmaster. Apologies if I implied to the contrary. I will assemble the report for you as swiftly as possible.’

While they waited, Annael watched the Tharsians taking possession of the half-ruined marshalling yard. Sword Four had departed to continue its air cover while the Ravenwing Land Speeders buzzed back and forth above the local troops, guns at the ready to provide immediate overwhelming firepower.

There had been little contact between the armoured column and the Black Knights, and Annael wondered what the Tharsians thought of their superhuman allies. From their point of view it might seem as though the Dark Angels had brought this war upon their world, rather than arriving at an opportune time to help in its defence. Annael knew little of the strategy involved, but there had to be good reason Grand Masters Belial and Sammael had brought the task force here for the timely intervention. Doubtless it was intelligence gathered at the horrific daemon world, or perhaps even from the Fallen warrior captured by Sammael’s company on Thyestes.

It gave Annael some extra satisfaction to think that the latter might be the case. It was proof of the just cause of the Hunt. Capturing the Traitor Space Marine on Thyestes might have led to preventing the devastation of Tharsis. The Tharsians could never know the truth of how the Dark Angels had arrived at such a timely moment, that would be disastrous, but to return to a world that had been so ravaged by the crimes of one of the Fallen and see it guarded safe against the violent intentions of another…

It almost made the disappointment of the failings at Piscina bearable.

Annael’s downward turn of thought was interrupted by a reply from the technician in contact with Tybalain.

‘Huntmaster, four casualties reported as killed in action are as yet unconfirmed,’ said the serf. ‘Brother Sabrael of your squadron, along with Brothers Orius and Garbadon, and Sergeant Polemetus of the First Company.’

‘Gratitude, Implacable Justice. Transfer last known locations of the brothers and their beacon telemetry frequencies.’ Tybalain disconnected from the long-range broadcast and addressed his companions. ‘We shall see if Annael and Calatus are correct, and one of our missing brothers has been taken by the enemy. Brother Casamir, rendezvous at my position and relinquish your Land Speeder. Annael, you are coming with me. Let us see if you remember your gunnery training.’

TELEPORT STRIKE

The sensorium was alive with signals from the instant Belial materialised aboard the enemy ship. The white flare from the containment fields of three plasma reactors almost blotted out every other signature in the vicinity. Against this glare he could dimly perceive hundreds of life signs. The sensorium took several seconds to adjust to the proximity to the ship’s reactors and engines, during which time Belial surveyed his surroundings by more conventional means.

The Grand Master and his Deathwing Knights had landed exactly where he had chosen, in a broad, high gallery that ran for several hundred metres between the port and starboard engine decks and intersected ahead with the reactor chambers. Everything was bathed in an orange glow from battle lighting.

The plain metal decking and bulkheads were in considerable disrepair, corrosion and damage evident wherever he looked. Through the wide archways that ran the length of the corridor he could see banks of monitoring servitors – shrivelled half-humans wired into the myriad systems of the heavy cruiser’s engines.

The sensorium gained some clarity, dimming the signal from the plasma shields so that Belial could see the crew in more detail. The rows of servitors were marked with lines of grey dots, stretching for two hundred metres behind him and three decks above and below. There were brighter spots from overseers and tech-priests walking the ranks, currently heedless of the enemy that had just arrived on their ship.

‘Onward to the objective,’ Belial told his warriors, pointing his sword at the two sets of high doors that ended the large passage. ‘Kill everyone we encounter.’

The sensorium picked up a fresh spike of energy, a dozen decks above and to starboard. Another followed to port. These were the Deathwing squads tasked with inflicting as much damage as they could to the gun decks. A third and a fourth would be targeting the void shield generators above the plasma chambers, but it would be another half a minute before the teleporters had recharged.

A siren announced that the crew of the flagship had been alerted to the presence of intruders. A reedy voice barked orders over an address system, in some argot that Belial did not recognise. He assumed it was from the pirates that made up the bulk of the fleet, though part of him wondered if the language had a darker origin, somehow connected to the daemons of Ulthor. There seemed no sign of obvious Chaos infestation, but he was prepared for the worst.

The doors shattered beneath the blows of Barzareon and Deralus’s maces, revealing a tight knot of corridors and winding stairways around two open elevator shafts. Belial led the squad on, the body lamps of the Terminator suits bathing the confines of the ship in pale fluorescence.

Suddenly a flood of signals boiled towards their position from the decks above and below, streaming along the stairwells like ants.

‘Barzareon, Galbarad, rear defence.’

The two Knights peeled away from the advance and turned back. At the edge of his vision Belial could see the first of the ship’s crew coming into view through Barzareon’s link. They wore grimy grey, blue or green coveralls, barefooted. He saw only men, heads shaven to the scalp, red tattoos of interlocking circles marking the exposed skin.

They were poorly armed, most with nothing more than lengths of pipe and tools to wield, a few with long, axe-headed boarding gaffs that they could barely carry. Some had knives, either crude but properly-fashioned daggers or sharpened splinters of metal with rag-woven handles. All were emaciated from lack of food, eyes sunken and dark, skin jaundiced.

The moment the crew at the front of the wave laid eyes upon their foes, their impetus faltered. Seeing the armour-clad giants they had been sent to confront, the determination in their eyes quickly became desperation. The patter of feet on the metal grille of the deck slowed, and some tried to turn and move back but found their path blocked by those behind.

From Galbarad’s point of view an overseer with a crackling electrowhip could be seen behind the first few dozen indentured crewmen. He snarled something, trying to urge on his reluctant charges with snaps of the whip.

Barzareon did not wait for his foes, but ploughed forward, his mace smashing through a handful of bodies with one sweep. The protestations of the slaves became panicked screams as the Deathwing Knight carried on, pushing through the mass of frantic humanity, pulping their bodies underfoot, his shield crushing them against the walls of the corridor while his mace obliterated anything it touched.

There was little enough for Galbarad to do except follow in his battle-brother’s wake, ready to exterminate any crewman fortunate to survive the onslaught.

Belial’s attention was drawn back to closer matters when he reached a wide ferrocrete stair that led down to the causeway running around the reactor chambers. A fusillade of las-bolts and shotgun rounds met his descent, flickering and ricocheting harmlessly from his warsuit.

His storm bolter barked in reply, the first salvo of rounds cutting down three foes. These were better equipped than the slave-fodder that had come up from the depths, formed into coherent groups around heretic tech-priests wearing stained red robes. The soldiers wore scarlet like their masters, their padded jerkins and scaled kilts in contrast to black open-faced helms, steel-banded knee-high boots and gloves that glinted with spikes on the knuckles. The crewmen stood and knelt along the curving corridor, using girders and columns as cover. Some bore chainswords, perhaps as a badge of rank, and a few had gilded stripes on their helms, which Belial took to mean they were deck officers of some type.

The corridors opened out into a massive domed space at least a hundred and fifty metres across. In the circle formed by the surrounding raised platform of decking, the three reactors were arranged in a triangle, heavily reinforced egg-like structures whose top thirds were visible from this level. Several kilometres of cabling and pipes looped and coiled around the power plant and like the approaches to the chamber there were signs of poor maintenance everywhere. Exposed wiring let loose fountains of sparks and leaking connectors on coolant pipes and heat exchanges vented icy vapour and steam.

The energy field projected from the Grand Master’s iron halo flared into life as another torrent of fire erupted around him. Zandorael moved past the Grand Master as Belial opened fire again, the stream of bolts ripping into a group of foes on the leftward curve of the causeway. Cragarion and Deralus followed just behind their master, shields lifted to deflect the incoming fire.

Belial continued firing to the left while the Knights advanced to the right. The tech-priests were not so brutal, or perhaps unthinking, as the slavemaster had been, and the ring of red collapsed back from the advancing Terminators, still firing.

Belial reached the bottom of the steps. He adjusted his focus to see what was happening with the rearguard, assuring himself that Galbarad and Barzareon had little to concern them. The corridor was awash with blood, choked with the bodies of slain deck-workers. Of the overseer there was no sign, his whip lost in the gory mass. Galbarad glanced across to his companion and for several seconds Belial could see Barzareon, the off-white of his armour almost lost beneath a sheen of crimson.

The flagship suddenly thundered, the dome overhead buckling to send slivers of metal and ferrocrete raining down on the exposed reactors. Although the Terminators were unaffected, the ship’s crew were rocked by the impact, some of them losing their footing as they scrambled away from Zandorael and his companions.

‘Penitent Warrior,’ Belial snapped into the vox. ‘Cease firing at the aft section. Reactors are highly unstable. I am standing right next to them!’

‘Profuse apologies, Brother Belial,’ Sapphon replied. ‘We have been taking some damage ourselves. A hit amidships has caused a targeting metriculator error with one of the macro-cannons.’

‘Shut it down,’ said Belial. ‘Concentrate all firepower on the secondary bridge and prow sections. We do not need to suffer casualties by our own hand.’

‘Shutting down the battery now, brother. The Lion guards us.’

The Grand Master increased his stride, powering towards the rebels that continued to fire at him from the left. Unlike those confronted by the Knight Master and his two warriors, these traitors held their ground, firing desperately with lasguns and shotguns. His energy field a shimmering aura of red around him, Belial fell upon the closest group with the Sword of Silence.

Belial was one of the foremost blademasters of the Chapter, and had defeated nearly all challengers since he had been inducted into the Dark Angels ranks. The ship’s crew were little more challenge to him than the straw-stuffed dummies he had, as a child, attacked on the training fields of Bregundia, when he had been a squire in the Society of the Ebon Star. The Sword of Silence parted raised rifle butts, arms and necks without hesitation or favour, rendering Belial’s victory a simple matter of mathematics and time.

A tech-priest held his ground before him, his left arm replaced with a scythe-fingered claw that gleamed with a power field. Beneath his hood, his face was masked with bronze and gold, a tear-like ruby studding the left cheek – a curiously emotional adornment for one who had been a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Though his weapon posed more of a threat than the daggers and bayonets of the crew, his skill was no greater. Belial parried the first swiping blow, the clash of weapons unleashing a miniature storm of lightning. Not wishing to waste any time in the conclusion of his mission, Belial turned his wrist and thrust, lancing the point of his blade into the throat of the tech-priest. He withdrew the sword and the dead adept slid to the ground, half-decapitated, artificial windpipe hissing air like a broken valve.

The tech-priests realised that if they retreated they would allow Belial free rein on the reactor deck. This was unacceptable, so they bellowed orders in metallic tones, physically restraining some of their warriors from retreating. Despite the crew’s bolstered enthusiasm, this resurgent offensive was no better than the defence, and Belial shot twenty or thirty foes over the following minute, dissuading any further assault.

Across the sensorium, he could see that Zandorael, Cragarion and Deralus had finally run their prey to ground, cornering several dozen crew against a trio of pipes, each higher than a man was tall, which cut across the surrounding causeway to aft, linking the reactors to the main engines. The green glow from their flail and maces gave the carnage an otherworldly air, clouds of emerald fumes swirling and twisting with each swing of a weapon.

The sensorium alerted Belial to the arrival of a conveyor a few metres ahead of him, descending from one of the upper decks. The telescoping doors rattled open. The tech-priests and their soldiers parted to reveal the occupants of the transport cage.

Two hulking figures almost filled the doorway. Belial recognised the monstrous ogryns they had once been, but little remained of the abhumans’ natural bodies. Pale blue flesh was ridged with subcutaneous bony implants and their veins stood out like cords, pulsing with near-toxic levels of stimulants and steroidal compounds. Their heads were encased in steel helms, just a slit left for them to see, their squinting red eyes visible within. Their hands had been removed, on the one replaced with circular chainblades, on the other a drill-like appendage and a power hammer.

In the small gap between their bulk, Belial saw their handler. She too was dressed in Adeptus Mechanicus robes, but there was armour beneath her vestments, pale grey and made up of overlapping scales. Belial glimpsed the blue glow of a plasma containment field – a pistol in the magos’s hand.

‘Finally,’ Belial said to his companions, lifting his blade with a flourish, ‘a foe that might test me.’

A MISSING BROTHER

Under Tybalain’s control, the Land Speeder glided to a halt beside a tangle of wreckage that almost blocked one of Streisgant’s streets. Annael turned the heavy bolter to cover the upper storeys of a shell-pocked building to the left, then swung it to the right towards the main avenue. The area was deserted, but the instinct for alertness was ingrained into every cell of his body.

‘This is definitely the place,’ said Tybalain, dismounting from the hovering Land Speeder. On the Swiftclaw’s scanner flickered the tracer beacon of Sergeant Polemetus’s Tactical Dreadnought armour, indicating a point somewhere just behind the twisted metal and cables. ‘Casualty report has the sergeant failing to teleport back to orbit with his squad but none of them saw him fall.’

Tybalain pulled aside a jagged sheet of plasteel. A smoking engine block fell free. Annael could make out the shape of three walkers in the mangled ruin, each nearly twice the height of a Space Marine. Their frames bore holes from bolt detonations and the distinctive molten-edged folds where a power fist had torn at them. There were other signs of damage: the slash of a power sword, the blackened, sticky residue of burned promethium from a heavy flamer.

‘He’s here,’ announced Tybalain, shouldering aside one of the burned and broken war machines. A multi-barrelled laser like the one on Kamata’s transport flopped uselessly on its mounting as the Huntmaster heaved at the wrecked walker some more.

The bone-coloured armour of Polemetus was stark against the dark ferrocrete road. Annael could see the red of the Dark Angels insignia on his shoulder plate, and the golden winged skull on his chest. A piece of armoured leg lay across him, severed at the top with a neat blow from a powered blade. That blade was still in his hand. There was no sign of his head.

‘Definitely dead,’ said Annael. ‘May his shade be honoured for his valour.’

‘Honour his shade,’ Tybalain murmured in reply, stepping back from the corpse. ‘That leaves us with Sabrael and Orius to confirm.’

‘The closest is the position we last saw Sabrael,’ said Annael, scrolling the navigational display on the console in front of him. He studied the schematic data. ‘Some of the invading forces are still holding out between here and there. The Tharsians were outflanked when our brothers in the Deathwing pulled out with their prize. It looks like they’re content just to contain the enemy.’

‘That shall be our next objective,’ said Tybalain, climbing back aboard the Land Speeder.

The whine from the anti-grav engine increased as the Huntmaster took them above the pile of wreckage, joined by the throatier roar of the thrust engines. The Land Speeder darted forward, the gloss black of its armoured hull reflecting the sky. Smoke clouds were clearing above, leaving a vibrant indigo in their wake. It was late afternoon and the local sun was just over the tops of the buildings, gleaming from thousands of shattered windows.

Annael continued to track back and forth with the heavy bolter, one eye on the scanner, the other ahead. Tybalain steered the skimmer with the casual ease of several decades’ experience, flitting along alleys barely wide enough to accommodate them, turning at speed into broad marketplaces and racing across battle-scarred plazas.

They came across groups of civilians picking through the wreckage of their homes. Most stopped and stared as the Dark Angels sped past. Some cheered, a few waved, but many were just dumb with shock, staring with vacant eyes at the gods of war in their midst.

Annael noticed that most were young, less than thirty years old, except for a few womenfolk. The oldest men would have been youths when Astelan and his Sacred Bands interned and slaughtered millions as he ruled from the Slaughterkeep. A lot were younger still, fortunate not to remember those harrowing times in any detail.

Generations lost, Annael considered. Perverted to a barbaric cause by the Fallen or slain for their opposition, or even their apathy. Streisgant had been built anew but the wounds of the turmoil were written deep into the people of Tharsis. They would take generations more to heal, and fresh wounds had been opened by this latest war.

‘Curse the traitors, curse all of them,’ growled Annael. ‘May their souls burn in eternal agony for the woes they have heaped upon these people.’

‘They will,’ Tybalain assured him. ‘As soon as our blades and bolts deliver them to that hell.’

A few moments later Annael detected the metronomic crash of an artillery piece not far away. It seemed to be firing point-blank, judging by the time between the crack of its fire and the thunder of the shell’s detonation. He looked around and saw a plume of wind-blown dust rising over the buildings ahead and to the left. Correlating this with his scanner data, he saw that the traitors were holed up in a habitation block ten storeys high, overlooking several manufactorums and workshops in which the Tharsians had made their stand.

‘Sabrael fell on the boulevard on the opposite side of that hab-block,’ he told Tybalain. ‘If we continue on this road and swing–’

‘No need for a lengthy detour,’ said Tybalain, slinging the Land Speeder into a tight climbing turn over the roofs flanking the street they were following. They continued to ascend, flitting through billows of steam escaping from a sprawling laundry works, churning vortices in their wake as the Huntmaster accelerated.

A warning sounded from the auspex, detecting an incoming projectile. Tybalain was already jerking the control column to the right as Annael looked up to see a missile streaking down at them from the upper storeys of the hab-block. The projectile whistled past a few metres to their left and detonated on the roof of the laundry.

Annael traced back the trajectory in a second and swung the heavy bolter around. He opened fire, steady bursts of four rounds each. The explosive-tipped bolts punched into the ferrocrete wall around the window from which the missile had been fired and exploded in the room within.

The artillery piece, somewhere off to the right, fired again and a chunk of the building’s corner three storeys up fell away into the street. Exposed pipes gushed water and severed power lines hurled sparks after the debris.

Now that they were closer, Annael could see the criss-cross of las and tracer fire between the lower levels and the Tharsian troopers holding ground in the surrounding complexes. Tybalain steered the Land Speeder down to ground level, barely a metre clearance beneath them as they screamed along the main road past the hab-complex. From here Annael saw the piles of dead by the doors into the hab-building, dressed in the fatigues of the Tharsian militia, the casualties of failed assaults.

‘What are you waiting for?’ snapped Tybalain. ‘Targets of opportunity, open fire!’

Snapped out of his reverie, ashamed at the momentary loss of focus, Annael let his embarrassment become ire. He unleashed a long salvo of fire from the heavy bolter, tearing along the second-floor windows with a storm of bolts. He saw flashes of pale, pain-wracked faces in some of the windows, the bricks and frames spattered with blood.

With the buzz of a gigantic hornet, the assault cannon opened fire under Tybalain’s control. Annael felt the shock of the sudden recoil slowing the speeder in midair, such was the torrent of projectiles unleashed by the rotary cannon. A cluster of stained-glass windows on the ground floor – the local chapel, it seemed – disappeared in a welter of flying coloured glass and spinning masonry shards.

Tybalain reversed the jet flow hard, swinging the Land Speeder around in a tight u-turn. They had come to a hover opposite one of the hab-block’s entrances. The short flight of steps was red with dried blood, three bodies sprawled by the thick wooden doors.

‘Suppression fire, second floor,’ Tybalain snapped. He switched his vox-unit to external address. ‘Warriors of Tharsis, reclaim your lands from the traitor filth! We of the Dark Angels stand proud to be counted amongst your allies.’

Annael opened fire again, short bursts into each window above the entrance, quickly moving from one to the next and back again. Tybalain turned the doors to matchwood with a burst from the assault cannon and then churned a few thousand rounds into the surrounding rooms, the armour-piercing ammunition tearing holes through the ferrocrete.

A Tharsian officer had taken the lead, confidence buoyed by the presence of the Angels of Death. A platoon of militia followed the sword-waving Tharsian across the road, plunging up the steps with bayonets fitted to their lasguns. Renewed fire sprang up around the Land Speeder as the Tharsians poured on everything they had, covering the attack of two more platoons dashing across the road.

Not all made it. Bullets and lasbeams sprang out from the upper floors, cutting down a quarter of the Tharsians in the open. Annael did his best to return fire with the heavy bolter, as Tybalain manoeuvred from one group to the next.

The attack warning sounded again, but this time Tybalain did not have time to evade the incoming missile. It struck the Swiftclaw on the engine pod just behind Annael’s head. His armour blared alerts as shrapnel and fire engulfed him.

The Swiftclaw spun sharply to the left, turning three full circles before Tybalain was able to equalise the thruster outputs. Annael leaned sideways and looked back so he could evaluate the damage. Smoke leaked out of cracked ceramite and the buckled armour plate beneath. The fire soon sputtered out, doused by internal regulator systems. There was a speckling of frost along one side of the jagged gash.

‘Coolant system pierced. We won’t be able to achieve maximum speed without overheating.’

‘We have done enough here,’ said Tybalain, aiming the Land Speeder down the street. ‘Let us see what has become of Sabrael.’

Annael fired a few more bursts into briefly-glimpsed figures on the third and fourth floors while Tybalain concentrated on keeping the Land Speeder moving straight, boosting the power on the anti-grav plate to compensate for the damaged engine. The Swiftclaw rocked slowly from side to side as though riding a wave, making it difficult for Annael to maintain any accuracy, but he poured what fire he could into the visible enemy before they broke away at the end of the main street.

A sharp left took them under a rail bridge and then they climbed over the peaked roof of the station terminus building, narrowly avoiding its clock tower. Beyond lay the long boulevard that would take them to Sabrael’s last known position.

Three hundred metres out, Annael knew they should have picked up his battle-brother’s telemetry signal. There was nothing on the scanner. On its own this meant nothing, as the beacon in their armour suits was often one of the first systems to cut out in the event of power loss or damage. However, in the context of the hostage situation, Annael felt a mixture of hope and annoyance. Hope that his brother – his friend, he admitted – might be alive, spoiled by the annoyance that Sabrael would dishonour them all by allowing himself to be captured.

They found the exact spot where the Black Knights had turned back from their attack on the orders of Asmodai, and Sabrael had continued on to confront an enemy transport on his own. Tybalain slowed as they turned the next corner. There was a small crater in the road, surrounded by pieces of black-enamelled armour. Four bodies, or pieces of bodies, were scattered further out, bloodied and burned.

‘It looks like he used the terminus protocol,’ said Annael.

‘Not so,’ said Tybalain, bringing the Land Speeder to a hover next to the site of the detonation.

The Huntmaster dismounted and picked through the wreckage for a couple of minutes. He returned, holding a broken piece of fuel tank.

‘It’s all from his steed, no pieces from his battleplate,’ Tybalain said, tossing the debris away. ‘The corpses are Tharsian youths. Sabrael must have been taken and his steed activated its anti-tamper terminus command. The Tharsians most likely thought they had found something worth looting and the bike detonated its plasma talon core.’

The Huntmaster pulled himself back into the driver’s position, but he laid his hands on the console rather than taking hold of the controls. His head was dipped for some time, deep in thought. Eventually he straightened and grabbed the steering column.

‘It seems our wayward brother is alive, but possibly not for long.’

BLADE VERSUS BEAST

Belial moved to intercept the augmented ogryns before they could exit the confines of the conveyor cage. He fired his storm bolter at the closest monster, the rounds tearing chunks out of its rivet-pierced flesh. The damage was superficial, a thick layer of fat and slabs of muscle preventing the bolts penetrating to any depth.

There was a particular art to fighting in Terminator armour, using the impetus of attack to overcome the bulk of the war-plate. Belial was well-versed in this style of fighting and raised his blade to slash at the wounded ogryn as he passed. The Sword of Silence connected with the elbow of his target, severing the arm to send its whirring chainblade clattering to the deck.

The ogryn barely noticed, lunging with its other arm as it stepped out of the conveyor, the teeth of its circular saw screeching across Belial’s left shoulder pad and marring the crux terminatus displayed there. Belial’s attention was fixed on the next ogryn, which was struggling to get past its companion.

The Sword of Silence flashed towards the abhuman’s chest but deflected from the glowing head of the ogryn’s hastily-raised hammer-hand. Sparks flared across its pale chest and Belial’s plate. Its spinning drill met the Grand Master’s charge, the diamond-glinting point slamming into his abdominal armour.

The blow nearly stopped him on the spot, his next step faltering, leaving him vulnerable to the ogryn coming up from behind. Belial shifted his weight and twisted, the flat of his blade knocking aside the chainblade aimed for him. He fired his storm bolter into the gut of the ogryn with the drill embedded in his armour, shredding more flesh and the underlay of bionics and organic enhancements. He allowed himself to be pushed by the beast’s drill-fist rather than let it dig into his war-plate further, turning almost into the creature’s embrace to slash the Sword of Silence down its thigh.

Thick blood spilling from the parted femoral artery, the ogryn reeled back, tearing its drill free in a fountain of ceramite shards and metal splinters. The one-handed ogryn slashed its saw again, but Belial’s iron halo burst into life, the power field absorbing the force of the blow, dissipating it harmlessly.

This unfortunately left Belial vulnerable to the magos’s plasma pistol. She opened fire, the ball of energy flickering between the two brutish bodyguards to slam into Belial’s already weakened left shoulder. The pauldron split apart, shattered by the bolt of plasma. The release of energy and sudden loss of weight on one side sent him reeling. He brought up his storm bolter and fired back out of instinct, the weapon’s targeter allowing him to aim at the tech-priest even though he was looking away.

The bolts ripped through her robe but seemed to blunt themselves on the armour underneath, their detonations charring the red fabric but causing no harm to the magos. Undeterred, Belial spent a second to analyse the situation of his squad. The Knights had almost wiped out the tech-priests and crewmen they had trapped against the energy exchange pipes, but they would have to come the long way around the gantry to assist their Grand Master.

Annoyed that he had not yet eliminated one of his foes, Belial reassessed his strategy even as he parried another swipe from a spinning sawblade aimed at his head. He slammed his storm bolter up into the chin of the ogryn, breaking the jaw and cracking tusks. This gave him half a metre of space to sidestep, using the brute’s body to block the angle of attack from the other.

One-on-one for a moment, Belial made good use of the time. The Sword of Silence carved deep welts into the ogryn’s flesh, the gleaming blue power sword cutting through the bone under skin as easily as it could part steel and ferrocrete. Four times he struck these scything blows, opening up the monster’s chest to expose its breastbone and ribs. Belial finished with a flourish, straightening his arm to plunge his blade through the ribcage and into the massive heart.

He wrenched the Sword of Silence free and barged his shoulder into the toppling ogryn, sending the dying monster staggering backwards into the magos who had been trying to get out of the conveyor.

Belial took a calculated risk, stepping to the left past the falling ogryn, into the confines of the conveyor. It left him with little room to retreat or manoeuvre, but granted him an extra second to surprise the magos. Two articulated iron tentacles sprang from her back, trying to seize hold of Belial’s weapons with grasping claws. He cut the mechanical claw from one and fired his storm bolter between the magos’s shoulder blades, hoping her armour was not as strong from the back. It was, and as before the salvo impacted on her without causing injury.

She turned, aiming the plasma pistol.

Belial closed the gap, slapping away the pistol with his storm bolter so that her shot pierced the side of the conveyor. He punched her in the face with his sword-hand, buckling a respirator implant across her mouth and nose. He saw her eyes widen in shock as her air supply was cut off, panic in her gaze.

Her momentary hesitation was more than enough time to smash his storm bolter against the side of her head, knocking the magos to one knee. A heartsbeat later, the Sword of Silence arced down, decapitating with a single stroke.

A gleaming hammer caught him full in the face, sending him staggering back across the conveyor cage. Sparing no glance for its fallen mistress, the surviving ogryn stepped into the cramped interior, its drill tearing through Belial’s tabard to skitter across the winged sword blazon on his chest.

There was barely room for Belial to swing his sword, and all he could manage was a raking slice across the shoulder of the ogryn. It grunted, perhaps in pain, perhaps anger. Scarlet eyes glared at the Grand Master from the depths of the bucket-like helm.

The ogryn seized Belial in a bear hug, lifted and smashed him against the rear of the conveyor. The attack did little actual harm, but his storm bolter was pinned to his side and his sword equally useless in his raised hand. It stepped back and rammed him into the wall again, buckling the metal.

The Grand Master kicked, driving his heel into the inside of the ogryn’s knee. The monster’s leg buckled as it twisted, giving Belial an opportunity to get his feet on the floor again, though the ogryn did not relinquish its desperate grip.

Thrusting with both legs, Belial managed to drive back his attacker, forcing it to trip over the corpse of its dead companion. The ogryn let go as it fell, unable to fight the instinct to put out a hand it no longer possessed. The drill was no help, deflecting from the hard deck as the ogryn pitched backwards.

Belial used his momentum to seize the ogryn’s neck in the crook of his elbow, broken chin locked between the thick plates of his armour. He twisted, trying to pull the monster’s head free, but could not gain enough leverage.

It rolled but Belial kept his hold, moving onto the ogryn’s back to pin it to the floor with the weight of his Terminator armour. With no proper hands to steady itself, the augmented brute could not push itself up and moaned helplessly, bucking like a stallion being broken.

Belial dragged the creature’s head back further and pulled his gleaming blade across its throat, sawing through metal-sheathed windpipe and reinforced tendons. Blood bubbled rather than sprayed, thick like oil.

The ogryn shuddered and collapsed underneath Belial.

‘Grand Master!’ The tone of warning in Galbarad’s voice caused Belial to instinctively switch his viewpoint to the Deathwing Knight’s.

Galbarad needed to offer no further explanation for his concern. A small mountain of dead crew and lower-deck slaves was heaped in the passageway leading back to the main concourse, but over the mound of mashed corpses Belial spied several heavily-armoured, bionically-enhanced figures, illuminated by the glow of plasma weapons.

‘Hold for two minutes,’ Belial told his rearguard. ‘Zandorael, Cragarion and Deralus, meet me at the entry to the plasma chamber.’

He switched back to his own view as he turned right and headed to rendezvous with the rest of the squad. A flicker of his right eye highlighted the strategic display. A schematic of the ship imposed itself over his view, several dark red runes marking target objectives for the other Deathwing squads. Most had a red slash across them, indicating they had been destroyed, but the void shield generators remained operational.’

‘Sergeant Caulderain, report assault status.’

‘Two casualties, already teleported back to the Penitent Warrior. Progress slow, regretfully report unlikely to achieve objective, enemy massing.’

‘Understood. Withdraw to the strike cruiser to prevent further losses.’ Belial changed the vox-channel to contact his Knights. ‘Zandorael, Cragarion and Deralus, reinforce the rearguard. We must secure the main concourse for teleportation, there is too much interference from the plasma containment field inside the dome to receive a lock signal. I shall join you shortly.’

He barely heard their affirmatives as he focused his attention on the three plasma reactors. The main containment vessels were heavily shielded, and even if he could penetrate the force fields the vessels themselves had walls two or three metres thick. He needed to interrupt the power exchange to the void shield generators without causing an instant meltdown that would most likely consume everybody aboard the ship, including more than two dozen warriors of the Deathwing.

His gaze returned to the exposed cables and shoddily-repaired coolant pipes that crisscrossed the middle part of the chamber. It was impossible to tell what conduit led where in the rat’s nest of tubes and wires. He fired the last three rounds from his storm bolter, punching several holes in one of the vents atop the closest plasma case. He reloaded and fired again, emptying a dual-magazine of bolts into the surrounding web of connectors and exchanges.

‘Penitent Warrior, can you monitor power flow to the void shields?’

Sapphon’s reply returned a few seconds later.

‘Yes, brother, we are reading significant fluctuations in the recharge rate.’

‘Good. Initiate extraction sequence.’ He did not wait to hear a reply. A sub-vocal command changed the vox-transmitter to company address mode. ‘All squads prepare for immediate teleport extractions, in sequence as briefed.’

He checked the status of his Deathwing Knights. All had suffered some damage to their armour, Galbarad and Barzareon quite heavily, but it was only the latter that had been injured. Across the telemetry of the sensorium Belial could tell that the Knight had only partial use of his right leg.

‘Push forward to the teleportation point,’ Belial ordered, emptying another full magazine of bolts into the plasma energy system. He turned and broke into a lopsided run, the absence of his left shoulder plate and the damage to his chest plastron affecting his suit’s balancing systems.

The Deathwing Knights had retaken the archways leading to the main passage but a torrent of fire – plasma, lascannon and missiles – streamed down onto them from gangways to either side and the open archways leading to the engines.

‘Lock shields, advance ten metres,’ Belial barked as he joined them. He fed another magazine into his storm bolter and fired back at the rebel crew thronging the gantries above.

The Knights did as commanded, raising their shields to form a line shoulder-to-shoulder just a few strides onto the concourse. The fields of their storm shields overlapped, creating a shimmering wall of energy in front. Belial fell in behind them as they advanced in step, bullets and las-blasts flaring from the barrier of their shields in a constant thrash of released energy.

On the far left and right, Barzareon and Deralus slowed, allowing the shield wall to curve slightly and protect the flanks.

‘Penitent Warrior, do you have our signal?’ Even as Belial asked the question, a beam from a tripod-mounted lascannon sliced down from the walkway on the right, piercing the energy shield to burn through Deralus’s breastplate. The Knight fell sideways to one knee, his shield tumbling from his grasp before he toppled face first to the deck. Belial could see a hole in the back of Deralus’s war-plate.

‘Faint, intermittent signal, Grand Master,’ the crewman of the strike cruiser told him.

‘Do it!’ growled Belial as more enemy fire converged on the weakening shield line, stray rounds pattering from the armour of his brethren. ‘Activate extraction teleport!’

The inside of the ship glimmered with a purple aura, the Deathwing Knights at the centre of the glow. Belial felt himself sinking again, mind slipping free from mortal body. A brain-jarring moment passed and then the squad was deposited back aboard the Penitent Warrior, appearing on the teleportation plate arranged in a static tableau just as they had been aboard the flagship.

‘Grand Master, we need the teleporter for Squad Ardeon,’ announced the retainer at the controls.

Belial understood his meaning immediately and sheathed his sword. Barzareon was the quickest of the Terminators to comprehend his intent. He tossed aside his shield to grab the arm of Deralus while Belial took a leg. They dragged the badly wounded Terminator free of the platform so that the serf could recharge the cells and bring in the remaining Deathwing squad.

Leaning over Deralus, Belial inspected the damage and the wound beneath. It was severe, and the Knight’s suit was transmitting a faltering life signal.

It was not yet time to count the cost of the mission. First Belial needed to know the measure of success.

‘Brother Sapphon? Enemy status?’

The crackle of the activating teleport echoed around the room as Squad Ardeon reappeared. Belial noted that they too were carrying one of their brethren between them. He waited intently for the reply to his question, knowing that the Deathwing had paid a high price in its battles of late and could ill afford more casualties.

‘Severe damage to starboard batteries,’ Sapphon confirmed. ‘Void shields still inactive. Plasma drives partially functional. Congratulations, Belial, you’ve given us a sitting target. We are closing in for the kill.’

ANNIHILATION

Clad in his Chaplain’s black armour, Sapphon stalked the command bridge of the Penitent Warrior like an all-seeing shadow. He simultaneously assessed three streams of information; from the Ravenwing assault preparations, the progressing teleport attacks by Belial and the Deathwing, and the ongoing duel of gun decks between the strike cruiser and the rebel fleet’s heavy cruiser flagship.

Though his particular strengths and aptitude had taken him into the ranks of the Chaplains, Sapphon was a Space Marine with centuries of battle behind him, and possessed more command experience than most general staff officers across the Imperium. He was perhaps not as adept as Belial or Sammael, but the fight with the heavy cruiser proved that he was far superior to the enemy’s captain in the absence of Anovel.

‘They should be pounding us with twice the rate of fire,’ he remarked to the ranking non-Space Marine bridge officer, Lasla Chirpet. ‘Poor discipline on the gun decks.’

‘True, Brother-Chaplain,’ said the deck-captain. ‘I am sure that a squad of Deathwing marauding through their batteries is also causing them some consternation, master. For all that, they still outgun us by a margin. It is taking nearly all of our firepower to simply keep their void shields overloaded.’

‘And they the same.’ Sapphon glanced at the mission chronometer that had started on the instigation of Belial’s teleport attack. The First Company warriors had been aboard the enemy ship for three minutes and twenty-four seconds. Sapphon and the crew of the strike cruiser were under orders to retrieve any Terminator whose signal they could detect at the five-minute mark. Any remaining aboard were to be presumed lost and Sapphon would evaluate whether to continue the starship battle or withdraw out of teleport range.

‘Helm, reduce inclination by four degrees,’ Sapphon announced, checking the relative positions of the ships on a battle schematic. ‘Starboard eight degrees. Keep us to starboard and below their guns, the Deathwing are focusing their attack on the lower starboard gun batteries.’

‘Aye, Brother-Chaplain,’ the three serfs at the helm controls chorused. One of them turned his head to confirm the order. A youth no more than seventeen or eighteen years of age by Terran standards, his hair was shaved to the scalp. His sleeveless green robe revealed one of his arms to be badly crippled, twisted almost to a ninety-degree angle at the elbow. A token of a mishap during his initial training. ‘Inclination minus four degrees, starboard eight degrees.’

A concentrated salvo of fire from several operational gun decks erupted from the opposing flagship. Lasla bellowed for the brace warning to be sounded before Sapphon opened his mouth. A second later, clarions rang the length of the strike cruiser, alerting the crew and the few Deathwing warriors that had remained on board.

Sapphon refused to grab the brace bars that were set behind each of the command positions. It was his duty to display implacable composure in the face of the enemy. He folded his arms and waited for the shells and rockets to strike.

It started as a rippling shudder towards amidships, moving in the direction of the prow. The vibration picked up speed and intensity as it travelled, becoming a growling rumble by the time it enveloped the command bridge situated atop the dorsal spar of the warship.

The Penitent Warrior rocked as attitude thrusters misfired during the bombardment, causing the strike cruiser to roll to port a few degrees. Damage warning sirens blared into shrill life around Sapphon as one of the communications stations fell blank from loss of power. The attendant at the console looked around, forlorn, at the row of empty screens and silent speakers.

‘Brother Nemeus, please attend,’ Sapphon said calmly. The Techmarine who had been standing at the back of the bridge came forward, his three servitors clumping across the deck behind him, faces slack, their extremities replaced with a variety of basic and powered tools.

Nemeus’s red armour was a stark contrast to the black of Sapphon and the dark green robes of the attendants. It matched the colour of alert lights that sprang into life as he inserted a diagnostic spike from his war-plate’s vambrace into an aperture in the communications station.

‘Primary relay overload,’ Nemeus reported, speaking more to himself than the Interrogator-Chaplain. Content that the Techmarine knew exactly what to do, Sapphon allowed Nemeus to drift out of conscious thought, along with the clank of ratchets and hiss of a solder torch.

‘Master Sapphon, the Implacable Justice is requesting permission to pursue the departing renegade battleship.’ Lasla showed no sign that he, or any of the crew, realised that the battleship he referred to was the Terminus Est, flagship of the despised traitor legionary Typhus. This much Sapphon had learned from Asmodai’s brief account regarding what had happened with Astelan. Nor did the deck-captain of the Ravenwing strike cruiser know the true nature of the enemy vessel, as evidenced by the request.

The presence of the Terminus Est added a new layer of intrigue to the plot of the Fallen that had been thwarted and Sapphon would have ordered the pursuit in a heartsbeat if there had been more vessels at his disposal. He would be tempted even now, with just two strike cruisers and a dozen or so system defence ships, but for the fact that the Penitent Warrior could not disengage from its duel with Anovel’s heavy cruiser.

As reminder, the bombardment cannon fired again, the projectiles racing across the display on the main screen. Magma warheads exploded across the hull of the enemy warship. A blaze of fire from the gun decks followed, shells slamming into the prow sections of the heavy cruiser.

To break away now would be to maroon the Deathwing aboard the opposing starship, an unforgivable breach of trust. Similarly, regardless of the hazards in pursuing the Terminus Est, the Ravenwing strike cruiser had engaged other elements of Anovel’s fleet – vessels that would be left free to target the Penitent Warrior.

‘Signal to the Implacable Justice to remain at current station,’ the Chaplain told Lasla. ‘Continue to implement containment strategy.’

Much of the Fallen’s pirate fleet had been destroyed in the minutes following Astelan’s pre-emptive decision to open fire. Expecting welcome from the orbital stations and platforms of Tharsis, the renegades had been caught in vicious crossfires and torpedo salvoes. The arriving strike cruisers had formed the lid of the box, interposing themselves between the assailed vessels and the route out of low orbit.

The debris from the fighting was starting to form a ring around Tharsis, plasteel and frozen water and metres-thick ferrite plates joining the millions of micro-asteroids surrounding the world. On the surveyor displays an even more complex pattern emerged – sprays of heat and radiation, the radio echo of final transmissions and dissipating plasma swirling around the physical debris.

The Implacable Justice was pursuing a pair of enemy corvettes, which were hoping to dissuade the strike cruiser from attacking by staying close together. Deck-Captain Pichon had been left in charge, a more experienced starship commander than could be boasted by many vessels in the Imperial Navy. Pichon and the crew of the Ravenwing’s transport were doing an admirable job of ensuring the Penitent Warrior and the enemy flagship could conduct their duel without interference.

The orbital stations of Tharsis had reaped quite a toll early in the attack, opening fire at Astelan’s command against the unprepared fleet of Anovel. Now they formed an effective barrier against which the Implacable Justice was able to force the smaller ships it pursued. Unable to turn and head for outer space and not daring to risk the fire of the defence stations in lower orbit, the pair of corvettes were inevitably being run to ground.

‘Lord Sapphon.’ The voice of the communications attendant drew the Chaplain’s thoughts back to his own situation. ‘Master Belial has been teleported back to the ship.’

Sapphon checked the chronometer. Four minutes and forty-three seconds. There was little to be gained by waiting another seventeen seconds, and lives could be lost.

‘Teleport stations, activate full retrieval,’ he commanded. ‘Gunnery systems, open fire at full tempo. Helm, bring us to torpedo launch distance.’

The bridge officers broke into action, relaying orders, coordinates and target specifics to the relevant crews in the bowels of the vessel. Attitude engines burst into life, checking the Penitent Warrior’s momentum. The battle lighting flickered as the two teleportaria simultaneously brought back the remaining squads of Terminators, temporarily usurping the power output of the plasma reactors.

‘Brother Sapphon?’ Belial’s vox signal was routed through the internal systems. He was safely back on board. ‘Enemy status?’

Sapphon already knew the answer to the question, but reviewed the latest augur data streaming across the displays.

‘Severe damage to starboard batteries,’ he told the Master of the First Company. ‘Void shields still inactive. Plasma drives partially functional. Congratulations, Belial, you’ve given us a sitting target. We are closing in for the kill.’

The Penitent Warrior broke away from the heavy cruiser, stalling its inertia to allow the target vessel to slip ahead by several thousand kilometres. Its own engine output disrupted by the Terminator assault, the enemy flagship could do nothing but arc slowly to port, trying to bring the bulk of its operational gun decks to bear.

All the while, the dorsal bombardment cannon kept up a relentless fusillade against the opposing ship. Shells created to breach surface fortresses and obliterate star bases pounded into the crippled cruiser. Each impact sent clouds of atomised armour and superstructure spraying into the void.

‘Master, torpedo failsafe distance reached,’ reported one of the weapons serfs.

‘Load both tubes, melta warheads.’ Sapphon consulted a sub-screen just to his left. ‘Zero spread. Helm, angle us to bearing mark-oh-seventeen. Engines to ahead standard. Launch on my command.’

While the huge torpedoes were lifted up to the firing tubes, the Penitent Warrior increased speed once more and turned, keeping inside the arc of the curve described by the route of the enemy. The prow of the Space Marine vessel edged ahead of the target’s trajectory, the intersecting points of the torpedo flight and the enemy course picked out in red on a weapons display in the bottom right corner of the main screen. Numbers counted down the time to optimal launch.

‘Master, weapons crew report torpedoes loaded. Tubes sealed. Ready to launch.’

Sapphon acknowledged the report with a nod.

‘Remain on course.’ He switched to the command vox. ‘Brother Belial, are you en route to the strategium?’

‘Thirty seconds, brother. Give me thirty seconds and we will watch these traitors burn together.’

‘I think we can stay our hand for that long, brother.’

Sapphon strode to the front of the command auditorium and turned to face the deck officers and attendants.

‘The situation brings to my mind an ancient quote. No one remembers who first said these words, but you should mark them well. They have not been forgotten in ten thousand years for good reason.’ The Chaplain paused as the doors hissed open to admit Belial. The master of the Deathwing’s Terminator armour was scorched and cut in many places, the painted heraldry flaked and charred. His helm was in his hand, his face set with grim determination. Despite his efforts to mask it, the commander seemed out of breath, as if he had been running hard to get to the bridge in time. ‘Hail to Master Belial, and the First Company. By their effort and sacrifice we have earned victory this day.’

A resounding shout filled the strategium, a wordless commendation to the warriors and commander of the Deathwing. Belial accepted the praise with a grudging nod.

‘You were making a speech,’ he said to Sapphon, taking up the command position at the centre of the strategium.

‘I was,’ said Sapphon. His gaze moved across all that were in the chamber, meeting the gaze of each and every serf and Space Marine present. ‘The enemies of the Emperor fear many things. They fear discovery, defeat, despair and death. Yet there is one thing they fear above all others. They fear the wrath of the Space Marines!’

Belial directed an inquiring look at Sapphon, technically his subordinate until the Chaplain saw fit to return command to the Grand Master.

‘Hereby witness that I rescind authority of command of the Penitent Warrior to Grand Master Belial.’ He nodded and smiled at his fellow officer, and waved a hand towards the tactical display. ‘All is in order. The torpedo room awaits your will, brother-captain.’

‘Launch torpedoes,’ the Grand Master growled without ceremony. ‘We’ll send these scum to the void.’

They followed the progress of the immense projectiles as they hurtled across the vacuum towards the heavy cruiser. The main sensor arrays damaged during Sapphon’s attack, their engine power reduced by Belial’s assault, the officers commanding the traitor vessel detected the incoming missiles late, and lacked the ability to do anything but execute the most rudimentary evasive manoeuvre.

A few hundred kilometres from their target, the torpedoes shed their warhead sheaths, dispersing hundreds of armour-piercing melta charges. The cloud of munitions engulfed the heavy cruiser thirty seconds later. Every warhead erupted into a short-range radiation blast intense enough to penetrate metres of ferrite, plasteel and ceramite. Each was enough to make a small breach, but in their hundreds they punched through the aft section of the cruiser in a red wave, shearing almost halfway across the decks.

Already punished to the point of breaking by the bombardment cannon shells and gun deck salvoes, the heavy cruiser was in no state to weather this latest assault. Stanchions snapped and decks collapsed, the back third of the vessel tearing away as spasming engines and secondary explosions pushed the prow up and to starboard while a reactor breach spewed plasma to port, twisting the doomed cruiser amidships.

In another minute, the ship had torn itself in two, fires raging along the forward section while plasma swallowed the aft.

‘Vengeance is ours,’ Sapphon declared.

‘Tactical report,’ Belial barked, sparing no time to mark the achievement. ‘Target priority assessments. There are others awaiting our retribution.’

A BROTHER’S CHOICE

When they reached the rendezvous coordinates in the outskirts of the city, Annael saw that the other two Black Knights were already present. Calatus and Nerean waited astride their steeds, with Casamir and his gunner, Eladon, on their borrowed mounts. Tybalain had picked a small square intersection between three roads, overlooked by high hab-towers pocked by shells and las-fire. The auspex relayed the presence of several hundred life signals, and as the Land Speeder approached Annael could see terrified faces peering out of shattered windows. The area had been reported secure, cleansed of enemies, but Tybalain followed procedure and circled the area twice while Annael kept the heavy bolter primed to fire at any target that presented itself.

Bringing the skimmer to a halt beside the squadron, Tybalain jumped down from the driver’s seat and motioned to Casamir.

‘My thanks for the lending, but I prefer the feel of my steed to the seat of your carriage,’ said the Huntmaster.

‘Remember that the next time you run into a blocked street, Brother-Huntmaster,’ replied Casamir as Annael alighted to relinquish his post to Eladon. ‘We have received orders from the Grand Master to assist the attack being launched through sector fifteen in the canal quarter.’

‘I have also received such command, but wait a moment, brothers.’

Casamir and Eladon stopped before they reached the Swiftclaw. Tybalain activated his vox, connecting the transmission to the external address so that they could all hear the exchange.

‘Grand Master Sammael, this is Tybalain with an urgent force deployment request.’

‘Received, Huntmaster.’ It was strange to hear Sammael’s voice issuing from Tybalain’s helm. ‘Make your request.’

‘We have subdued enemy forces that claimed they had captured a battle-brother. I have conducted an investigation and believe this is true. I reported Brother Sabrael dead, but there is no sign of his body. I request that a strike force is readied to punish the perpetrators of this affront.’

‘You have a confirmed location, Huntmaster?’

‘Not yet, Grand Master, but we will acquire intelligence while the strike force is assembled.’

‘The purging of the enemy army is ongoing, Huntmaster. We have suffered heavily of late, nearly half our strength. We cannot afford these distractions.’

‘A threat has been made, Master Sammael,’ Annael cut into the discussion. ‘Brother Sabrael will be executed if our forces do not leave Tharsis. Compliance is impossible, so we must rescue Sabrael.’

‘It is a matter of honour,’ Tybalain replied.

‘There is much to mar the honour of the Second Company of late, Huntmaster. If we fail to drive the enemy from Streisgant, we shall bear a far greater shame in the eyes of our First Company brethren. Sabrael’s foolhardiness has cost him dear, but it is a fate of his own making. You will continue to join with the assault force assembling for the strike through sector fifteen.’

‘Grand Master, I ask you to reconsider,’ said Tybalain. ‘We can ill afford another blow to morale.’

‘That is a consequence you will have to bear, for allowing Sabrael to break rank. Losing more warriors in a rescue mission would be vanity, brother. I have given my command.’

The link was broken from the other end and Annael shook his head.

‘This feels wrong, brothers,’ he said. ‘You know that Sabrael would be the first to aid any one of us, despite his flaws.’

‘He would be the first to disobey an order, that’s for sure,’ said Nerean.

‘This seems to be an issue for your squadron, Huntmaster,’ said Casamir.

‘We’ll leave you to your… discussion,’ said Eladon, turning back to the Land Speeder.

‘Sabrael was Ravenwing as much as he was a Black Knight,’ said Annael. ‘He is battle-brother to us all.’

‘The Grand Master did not leave any room for interpretation,’ said Calatus.

‘The order was clear but our duty is not,’ argued Annael. ‘Brother Tybalain is right, we need to consider the extent of our losses. Even our Huntmaster, may the Lion watch over him, cannot claim a greater skill with blade or more adroit employment of steed. For all his indiscipline, Sabrael is a boon to the squadron.’

‘In your opinion,’ contested Calatus.

‘In the opinion of Brother Malcifer, the Grand Master and several other superiors who have been well aware of Sabrael’s mercurial behaviour but have not striven to break him from his nature.’

Annael remembered seeing Sabrael astride the Grand Master’s jetbike on the occasion they had come upon Corvex aboard the Implacable Justice. The thought that Sabrael pictured himself as being Master of the Ravenwing in the future had horrified Annael at the time, but recent events had made Annael reconsider his objections.

‘Another moment of your time, Casamir, Eladon,’ Tybalain said, causing the pilot and gunner to turn back. ‘I cannot order you to accompany us, but I am asking, as one brother to another.’

‘We’re going after Sabrael?’ said Annael, his mood lifted by the Huntmaster’s decision. ‘You are willing to ignore the Grand Master’s command.’

‘We will seek fresh intelligence,’ said Tybalain. ‘Another captive might reveal what we want to know. I promise nothing more.’

‘Why should we risk the wrath of the Grand Master?’ asked Eladon.

‘As Huntmaster it is within my purview to elevate you to the rank of Black Knights,’ Tybalain replied. ‘I would happily do so, with the endorsement of my squadron, if you were to assist in the recovery of one of our number.’

‘A posthumous rank is of little value, brother,’ said Casamir.

‘The promotion will be immediate, and we all have to die at some point,’ said Tybalain, returning to his mount. He swung a leg over and settled into the saddle while Annael made his way back to Black Shadow. ‘Your Land Speeder would prove very useful in the task ahead.’

The crew of the Swiftclaw looked at each other and there was a pause while they communicated over their isolated vox-channel, unheard by the Black Knights. Judging by the body language, Casamir was the more enthusiastic of the two, but whether for or against Tybalain’s proposal was impossible to tell. Eventually they both turned back to face the Black Knights.

‘We agree,’ said Eladon. ‘We will help you.’

‘And you will bestow the rank of Black Knights on us now.’

‘Welcome to the brotherhood of the Black Knights,’ said Tybalain, holding a fist across his chest in salute. The rest of the squadron followed suit. ‘We will establish the formalities later, I give you my word.’

‘Are there oaths to swear?’ asked Casamir.

‘Many,’ replied Tybalain, ‘but only one I demand of you at this time. Whatever you hear, whatever you might see, whatever you might learn, you must swear never to reveal to the rest of the company, nor to any member of the Chapter except for an officer or member of the Deathwing. When you became Ravenwing you swore to uphold the secrets and lore of the company. Now do the same for the brotherhood of the Black Knights.’

‘I swear by the Lion, the Emperor and my soul, to uphold the secrets and lore of the brotherhood of the Black Knights,’ the two Space Marines intoned simultaneously.

‘Welcome to the brotherhood,’ said Nerean.

‘Let us hope it is not a decision you regret,’ added Annael.

‘Very well.’ Tybalain signalled for the newly promoted brothers to board their vehicle and addressed the rest of the squadron. ‘We need to find where Sabrael is being held. It must be in one of the contested sectors, fifteen, sixteen or twenty. The Grand Master’s offensive is about to tear through fifteen and sixteen and if Sabrael is there they will find him. We must take a prisoner who can tell us about sector twenty.’

‘Wait, Huntmaster,’ said Calatus. ‘You have not asked us.’

‘Asked you what?’ said Tybalain.

‘Whether we are willing to disregard the Grand Master’s orders. Sabrael was a liability even before he was captured.’

‘You think we should abandon him?’ said Annael. ‘Forget that it is Sabrael. Would you grant that boon to our foes, to say that they slew a Dark Angel?’

‘It will be a boast of the moment, swiftly ended when we wipe out the last of these heretic scum.’

‘I did not ask because I did not think there would be debate,’ said Tybalain. He looked at his Black Knights. ‘Was I wrong? Did I misjudge the mettle of the warriors I lead?’

The question was left hanging, along with the implied accusation within it. Annael broke the silence that followed.

‘We are the only Black Knights left after the losses of this campaign. We cannot allow another of our rank to die simply for the sake of pride.’

‘Pride?’ Calatus growled the word. ‘Ask Sabrael the meaning of pride when we find him.’

‘You will come?’ said Tybalain.

‘Yes, Huntmaster, I will come.’

‘And you, Nerean?’ said Annael.

‘Brother Tybalain is correct,’ said the last Black Knight. ‘It is redundant to ask.’

‘Follow me!’ barked the Huntmaster. ‘Casamir, scout us the quickest route to sector twenty.’

‘Aye, Brother-Huntmaster,’ the pilot replied.

The small force left the intersection, the bikers following the lead of the Land Speeder. Within two hundred metres, Casamir had accelerated out of sight, but the signal from his vehicle remained on Black Shadow’s scanner.

‘How do you propose we locate a suitable target for capture?’ asked Calatus. ‘We could round up dozens of these scum and not find one who knows Sabrael’s whereabouts.’

‘Though she overstated her position, Kamata knew, and clearly had some authority over her group,’ said Tybalain. ‘A lieutenant in the wider scheme. We shall locate an enemy force, identify the leaders and extract them for interrogation.’

‘That should be simple enough,’ said Annael. ‘It is the reason for our existence.’

‘As you have it, brother,’ said Tybalain. ‘Casamir, I want you to coordinate with the Implacable Justice to identify the most significant enemy presence in sector twenty.’

‘And if they ask why I want to know? We are supposed to be embarking on a mission in sector fifteen, Huntmaster.’

‘Remind the strategion that you are a battle-brother of the Chapter and his superior. The Chaplains will be interested to hear of his reluctance. I do not think he will require further encouragement.’

‘It seems unworthy to threaten serfs, Brother-Huntmaster,’ said Casamir.

‘We are disobeying the orders of our Grand Master, brother. It is too late to quibble about the details.’

‘Of course, Huntmaster. I shall find us a good fight to pick.’

The invasion and subsequent Dark Angels counter-attack had encompassed nearly the whole city, so that as the Black Knights rode westward through the battleground there was barely a street or building that did not show some scar from the fighting. In places whole districts had been flattened, either by the orbital bombardment or the Tharsians shelling their own homes to drive out the occupying enemy. Elsewhere there were little las-burn or bolter marks to show that a war had been raging for the fate of the metropolis.

With most of the fighting having moved away from the centre, survivors emerged, some clearly shocked by what had occurred, watching dumbly as the Black Knights rode past. Some of the citizens had started trying to clear up in the aftermath of the brutal exchanges, picking through the rubble, trying to piece together lives as broken as the buildings they had lived in.

Dusk was coming, the daylight fading quickly to twilight in this part of Tharsis. Some parts of Streisgant were lit by the phosphorescence of street lamps, others dark except for lanterns and candles glowing fitfully through dirty, cracked windows and broken shutters.

There were groups of scavengers roaming the darker streets, like those that had been slain by the terminus detonation of Sabrael’s steed. Though they skulked in the ruins and shadows, Annael’s auto-senses picked them out as clearly as noon sun. The looters and leeches scattered at the sound of the approaching Space Marines, disappearing into cellars and sewers like startled rats.

Gunfire crackled in the distance, the boom of bombs and artillery lessened now that the enemy columns had been shattered and only isolated pockets remained. Fires burned from broken energy lines and incendiary ammunition, patches of orange against the deepening purple sky, lighting the underside of the thick smoke clouds that swathed the city.

Annael could hear the staccato rhythm of heavy bolters and the burr of assault cannons as Ravenwing Land Speeders heralded the attack gathering momentum to the east. Though he could see nothing of the battle, by sound alone he recognised the hiss of tornado missiles and the particular thump of Thunderhawk battle cannons.

That the sounds were in the distance when he should have been in the thick of the fighting gave Annael a few seconds of regret. He cursed Sabrael for his headstrong nature and for lacking the decency to get killed by his foolishness. The Ravenwing rider kept his momentary reservations to himself, knowing that they would pass when the squadron located a clear quarry to pursue and he had something else on which to focus his energy.

HIT AND RUN

While much of the city had been quiet after the cataclysmic events of the day, the approaches to sector twenty were busy with people still fleeing from the foe. Tybalain led the Black Knights from the main road into one of the side streets but after another two hundred metres the press of people made it impossible to proceed any further.

‘The crowd extends for over a kilometre,’ reported Casamir. ‘Nearer thirteen hundred metres, across sectors nineteen and twenty-one.’

‘Clear us a path,’ growled Tybalain. ‘We have no time for a detour.’

‘Clear a path, Huntmaster? You want me to open fire on Imperial citizens fleeing for their lives?’

Annael was not sure if the pause that followed was due to Tybalain reassessing his intent or surprise that Casamir might think he should issue such an order.

‘Use your external address, brother.’ The Huntmaster’s tone became more exasperated. ‘Get the crowd to disperse from your position and we will come to you.’

The Huntmaster activated the clarion of his steed and the other Black Knights followed his lead. The blare of an ascending siren split the crowd for a few metres, the breach opening like a tear in fabric as the riders advanced. The refugees stared at the passing Space Marines with a mixture of hope and resignation, fear and happiness. Many were bloodied, their clothes ragged. Faces were smeared with grime from their desperate escapes. Those that had been worst affected shuffled out of the path of the Dark Angels with stumbling, listless steps, their vacant gazes following the armoured Space Marines without comprehension.

After a few minutes the mass of humanity ended abruptly, leaving empty streets and buildings. Seven hundred metres ahead a broad perimeter roadway divided the bulk of Streisgant from the industrial zone that formed most of sector twenty. The broad encircling highway was like a cut across the suburban landscape. On the inside rose tall, windowed towers of hab-blocks, steepled Administratum cloisters, Ecclesiarchy temples and many-domed tithe chambers. On the periphery stood a forest of smoke stacks and steam vents, raised transitways and roads on ferrocrete legs, arching plasteel bridges and fuming furnace works.

Like the city the riders left behind, the industrial zone had not escaped the fighting, though the full vengeance of the Emperor’s warriors had not yet descended upon the area. A refinery blazed, belching a noxious black cloud into the sky. Fire from ruptured gas pipelines lit arcing travelways with a cerulean gleam. Warehouse windows were shattered and the roofs of storage depots several hectares in size had gaping holes from the random fall of shells. The surface of the road was littered in places by debris and glass – little hindrance to the heavy bikes of the Ravenwing except where whole facades had toppled, and in one place where a shell or rocket strike had severed a bridge support and brought several thousand tonnes of ferrocrete down on a railyard.

Annael saw a bright spark of bluish-white lighting up the sky half a kilometre from their position. Simultaneously Black Shadow’s auspex sounded a tone to alert him to a considerable energy discharge and Casamir was on the vox.

‘By the Lion’s shade, that was close!’ A stutter of heavy automatic weapons fire and the zip of laser blasts could be heard, both over the vox-link and echoing down the factory-flanked street. ‘I have some enemies. I was not expecting them to have a plasma cannon. Withdrawing to await orders. Transmitting target data.’

‘That rules out approaching undetected,’ said Nerean.

A schematic of three buildings appeared on Black Shadow’s screen. One was an open depot, much like the marshalling yard where they had rooted out Kamata. The two flanking buildings, one to the north-east and the other to the north-west, were smaller, Casamir’s scan showing each had a dozen or so internal rooms over three floors. Heat data was vague, but showed a concentration of enemies on the upper floors of the two outbuildings, with little in the warehouse itself. A bright spot in the eastward tower showed the position from which the plasma cannon had fired.

‘Remember the mission,’ said Tybalain. ‘We are not here to conquer, but to extract. Swiftclaw, suppressive fire on the western structure. Operational centrepoint will be the eastern tower. Calatus and Nerean, perimeter and containment. Annael and I will conduct the extraction.’

The Ravenwing warriors confirmed their orders and Annael added his own affirmative response. Another thirty seconds brought them in sight of the Swiftclaw as Casamir brought the Land Speeder rising up over the roof of a building neighbouring his target. A torrent of fire burst from the assault cannon and heavy bolter, ripping along the uppermost row of windows. When the first lasbeams and bullets of counter-fire erupted from the lower floors, the Swiftclaw dived quickly, obscured from the view of the enemy in a matter of moments. Strafing sideways the Land Speeder adjusted position by a few metres and then rose again, targeting a different part of the facade for several seconds before using the intervening building to shield itself from the redirected fire of the enemy.

The Black Knights squadron swept along the road beneath the Land Speeder, travelling on from the target for half a kilometre before turning along a connecting road to come back at the objective from a perpendicular angle of attack. Calatus and Nerean accelerated and took the lead by twenty metres. They opened fire with their plasma talons the instant they were within range, sending sparkling blasts into the lowest storey. Braking hard, they added salvoes from their bolt pistols while their bike weapons recharged.

Tybalain and Annael sped past, moving towards the target building at high speed. Annael sent another ball of plasma through the ruins of the main door, its detonation star-bright in the darkened confines. For an instant Annael saw the figure of a mechanically-augmented woman with a large-calibre rifle at an adjoining window. The apparition disappeared as the searing plasma cloud vaporised the rebel sniper.

The Huntmaster veered in front of Annael and activated his steed’s grenade launcher. The projectile arced up into the second storey and for a second nothing happened. Bringing their bikes to a screeching stop in front of the door, the two Ravenwing Space Marines dismounted in one fluid motion, pulling free their corvus hammers as they did so.

Above them the stasis grenade erupted, a flickering field of non-time engulfing the room over the entrance.

More plasma from Calatus and Nerean accompanied them into the building, the shots directed on both sides of the stasis grenade’s effect. Inside, Annael found himself in a narrow hallway, a set of steps leading up at the far end, two doors to either side of the corridor. The walls were covered with a pallid green, the floor tiled with large brown ceramic squares. It was dark inside, whether by design or accident. Annael’s auto-senses adjusted, turning the world into a ruddy swathe of dark reds and muted oranges.

‘Up,’ barked Tybalain. ‘We seize the high ground and if we do not find what we seek, we shall search on the descent.’

Annael offered no comment and pounded towards the steps. Glancing through the first door on the left, he saw the charred remains of the sniper, the tiled floor melted into ridged sworls, the walls bleached white. He passed some kind of workshop to the right, with lathes, vices and die-presses. The next chamber was an archive storage room filled with shelves and boxes, and on the opposite side the open door revealed a food preparation area. Annael assumed that the building was some kind of shift house for the workers in the depot.

His armour-boosted legs took the stair in three strides, bringing him to a landing that ran back to the front of the building. It was decorated with the same paint and tiles as the ground floor, but only two doorways came off the landing, both of them shut with white plastek doors.

The stasis field was shrinking, but in its grip crouched at the window were two robe-clad rebels, a tripod-mounted anti-tank gun held between them. One had a bionic limb, a crude claw more than an arm, the rifle held fast against his shoulder. The other was leaning forward looking out of the window, his astonished look visible through the eyeholes of a grey mask sculpted in the likeness of a leering face.

‘Keep going,’ said Tybalain. He took two steps along the landing and vaulted over the banister onto the next flight of steps. As Annael followed, the metal rail bending slightly in his grip, a fragmentation grenade bounced down the stair past him. He glanced back to see it clatter across the landing and then stop mid-bounce as it met the edge of the temporal effect.

A group of foes were emerging onto the uppermost landing as Annael reached the top step. He was accustomed to the strange mixture of chemically-altered bodies, crude exoskeletons and stimulant-fuelled stares that met him. Tybalain was already halfway to the nearest door. His bolt pistol shattered the leg of the woman stepping onto the landing, the detonation twisting the bracing wired into the joint.

The sound of the frag grenade going off below announced the collapse of the stasis field, followed by the screams of the anti-tank rifle crew as shrapnel ripped into them. Annael had no thought to spare for them, his attention focused on the enemies at hand.

Tybalain moved past the woman he had injured, thrusting his hammer into the chest of the next foe. Annael followed his Huntmaster, his boot connecting with the chin of the wounded traitor as she toppled forward. Her head twisted violently and her eyes glazed before she hit the floor.

‘Search right,’ Tybalain commanded, smashing his bolt pistol across the face of another rebel soldier. The man fell backwards, a gash of blackish blood opened across the green-tinted skin of his forehead.

Annael ducked a chainsword swung at his head and blocked the return blow with his arm, his attacker’s exoskeletal frame clanging against the ceramite of the Dark Angel’s war-plate. Annael struck the man in the chest, sending him into one of his companions. The Black Knight followed up, punching another foe into the wall to clear space to the door on the right.

Someone grabbed him from behind, throwing their arms around his helm, legs wrapping around his thigh like a constricting serpent trying to crush him. Alchemically boosted muscles strained against Annael’s armour to little effect.

Turning, Annael threw himself backwards and he crashed through the plasterboard wall with his assailant attached. Dust and debris fell around the Space Marine as the dazed rebel’s grip slipped. Holstering his pistol, Annael grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him free, slamming him to the floor, a massively over-muscled shoulder dislocated by the throw. The man howled and tried to roll away. Annael’s boot came down on his thigh, shattering the bone.

In an instant, Annael took stock of his surroundings. An overseer’s office. Ahead the wall had half-collapsed, a picture frame broken beneath the remains of the plasterboard. To his right, a desk below the window at the front of the building, which had been upturned to create a barrier. Two men were at the window with blunt-nosed lasguns, returning fire at Calatus and Nerean.

Behind him the wall had a long shelf stacked with regulation tomes, personnel data-files and order books. Incongruous given the current situation, a brightly coloured blown glass bauble was used as a paperweight to hold down a sheaf of transparencies at one end of the shelf.

On his left were a pair of glass-fronted wooden cabinets containing more gaudy ornaments and a delicate set of shoddy, mass-produced porcelain Ecclesiarchy figurines depicting various saints in their grisly martyrdoms – shot, decapitated, disembowelled and otherwise gratuitously violated. Annael was struck by their contented smiles and cheerful colours, in particular the obscenely bright red of splashing blood.

He almost didn’t see the figure crouched between the display cases, his body heat masked by a head-to-toe bodysuit armoured with flexible plates, face concealed in a helmet fashioned in the likeness of a wolf’s head.

The figure snarled and leapt as Annael registered the danger, a gleaming power knife in one hand, the fingertips of the other sheathed in serrated blades.

Annael stepped into the attack and caught the traitor in a bear hug, the power knife and fingerblades rasping against his backpack. He spun with his assailant’s impetus, grip tightening until he felt his foe’s ribs buckling, air pushed from his lungs. With his free hand Annael broke the man’s wrist, the power knife clattering to the floor. Manoeuvring to get a better grip, Annael crushed the man’s other fingers in his fist, breaking every bone and tearing ligaments. His captive howled and writhed but could no more break free than a truculent infant could escape the grasp of a parent.

‘Possible target secured!’ Annael told Tybalain. He smashed his head into the face of his struggling captive, cracking open the wolf-mask and crushing the nose of the pale-skinned warrior within.

The soldiers at the window turned, only now reacting to Annael’s surprise entrance. One of them pitched to the floor, half her head missing from a bolt fired from outside. The other raised his lasgun as Annael broke into a run.

‘Rapid extraction with target,’ Annael announced to his companions. ‘Cease fire!’

The rebel at the window did not open fire, perhaps realising he might hit Annael’s prisoner. The accelerating Space Marine barrelled into him like a locomotive, all three fighters crashing towards the window together.

Annael jumped at the last moment and plunged through the glass feet-first. He landed heavily but safely just a couple of metres from Black Shadow, with the prisoner couched in his arms. The lasgun-wielding rebel was less fortunate, hitting the unforgiving ferrocrete headfirst, his skull popping and neck snapping. Annael smashed the butt of his hammer into the side of his captive’s head, dazing him further. As he swung a leg over the saddle of his steed, the crash of more splintering glass heralded the arrival of Tybalain. Stowing his corvus hammer, the prisoner dragged across his lap, Annael grabbed the handlebar and accelerated away, glancing back to see that the Huntmaster was empty-handed. The squadron leader vaulted onto his bike and followed, barking an order for the Ravenwing to withdraw.

Las-fire and bullets followed them along the street until they were out of range. The Swiftclaw’s guns covered their exit, the tempest of fire from its heavy bolter and assault cannon dissuading any foe from pursuit. They covered half a kilometre and then Tybalain called the squadron to a halt in the shadow of a huge water tower.

Annael pulled up alongside his Huntmaster and slung his captive to the floor. The man rolled to his back and groaned, helm falling away to reveal a face marked with the scars of implant surgery and facial reconstruction. His teeth were steel points fastened into flesh, his ears replaced with bionic receivers. A bulge on the side of his neck revealed the presence of a subcutaneous vox-caster.

‘Obviously a leader of some rank,’ said Annael. ‘Modified for high-level communication.’

The man groaned, some semblance of alertness returning to his eyes. Tybalain dismounted, hammer in hand. The prisoner tried to rise but was pinned back to the floor by Tybalain’s weapon, the power field switched off. The Huntmaster knelt, one knee resting on the captive’s chest. He moved the head of his corvus hammer to the side of the man’s face. When he activated the weapon, a blue power field enveloped the hammer’s head and crackled across the rebel lieutenant’s flesh, melting skin and fat, causing sparks to fly from his artificial ear.

The rebel screamed until Tybalain deactivated the hammer.

‘It is time to find out what you know,’ said the Huntmaster.

THE HAND OF JUSTICE

Asmodai walked down the ramp of the Thunderhawk gunship, the huge overhead lamps of the docking bay gleaming bright spots on his ebon armour. He was just a few strides from the gunship when the pilot closed the boarding ramp and took off, the heat wave from the plasma drives washing across the Chaplain. In a few seconds, the Thunderhawk was gone, returning to its missions on Tharsis through open bay doors secured by the blue glow of a power field.

Every gunship the strike cruiser possessed was in action on the world below. Asmodai hurried towards a door in the bulkhead to his left, his footfalls echoing in the cavernous space. The door was barred by a lock, concealed with the skull-seal of Caliban centred on the heavy security portal. Taking one of the ornamental keys that hung from the rope belt of his tabard, Asmodai made two swift adjustments to the talisman, revealing a transponder. Activating the device, he stepped back.

The door seal split apart to uncover a runepad with thirteen buttons marked with the old alphabet of Caliban, used in many of the most ancient texts of the Chapter. Asmodai entered the codeword that he had learned on being accepted into the Inner Circle, each unique to the individual members. A faint green light confirmed the validity of the code and the bulkhead sighed open.

Beyond was another flight deck, far smaller than the one beside it, no more than ten metres square. It appeared on no plan of the strike cruiser, its purpose known only to the Deathwing and Ravenwing that used it. Its outer door was a slit barely large enough for the arriving Dark Talon to enter. Sliding into the opening, the aircraft came to a halt on pillars of plasma, hovering in place while the pilot affirmed that there were no unauthorised personnel present.

The Dark Talon dropped onto the landing zone depicted by the winged sigil of the Ravenwing – the only place such a symbol appeared on the Penitent Warrior, the only chamber where the Second Company were allowed.

The Dark Talon settled onto its landing gear and the whine of the engines died down and eventually fell silent. Wheezing hydraulics lifted up the tail boom of the aircraft, revealing an arched hatch sealed with several lockbars. The outer rim of the door was rimed with frost, a side effect of the stasis field within passing through the vacuum of space – water particles trapped in time had frozen on the exposed edge of the stasis chamber. The chamber itself was located just behind the cockpit, powered by the same arcane warp core that fed energy to the rift cannon mounted in the nose of the craft.

A short set of steps extended from the back and folded to the deck. Asmodai ascended and scraped ice from the central lock panel. He took another key, one of only six that existed – the others were in the possession of Sapphon, Ezekiel, Belial, Sammael and Azrael. Originally there had been eight keys, Asmodai had learned, but two had been lost over ten thousand years of fighting. Only the most senior members of the Inner Circle could open the stasis cells. The keys contained a unique crystal centre, the formation of which resonated with an emitter inside the stasis lock. Only the Keys of Devotion could conduct the signal across the divide and unlock the bars.

The background buzz of the field generator died away and after several seconds the cell door opened a few centimetres to release a cloud of vapour into the cool interior of the bay. Asmodai grabbed a handle and pulled, retreating down the steps as the door swung open.

Cypher stood inside the chamber like a corpse in a sarcophagus, head bowed, arms held to his chest as if in prayer.

‘Move,’ said Asmodai, knowing that the stasis field effects had already worn off. ‘Come here!’

Cypher looked at Asmodai. With slow, deliberate movements he disengaged his helmet. Hanging the helm on his belt, he pulled up the hood of his robe and descended towards Asmodai, walking with slow strides. Asmodai grabbed the front of the prisoner’s robe as he reached the last step and dragged him onto the deck, tired of the Fallen’s attempts to display power and control.

‘You are nothing,’ Asmodai told Cypher. ‘All that you once were has been wasted. Your plans, your ploys, your lies, schemes and alliances, they have failed and come to nothing. Your existence is meaningless. When you come to realise this you will be prepared to atone for your sins. But not before!’

Asmodai looked into the shadow beneath the hood and saw Cypher staring back at him, showing no signs of amusement. There was the faintest hint of a glitter in his eyes; a reflection of a gleam from Asmodai’s armour, the Chaplain told himself, nothing more. Asmodai pulled the prisoner away from the Dark Talon as the stasis cell closed and the engines built to a roar. In half a minute the craft was gone, returning like the Thunderhawk to the final battle for Streisgant.

‘Will you disarm?’ said Asmodai, pointing to the sword hilt protruding from the scabbard at Cypher’s waist.

‘Will you try to take it from me again if I refuse?’ said Cypher. ‘Or perhaps order some menial to do so for you?’

Asmodai considered the question. He had no desire to experience the unsettling vision that had assailed him aboard the Land Raider. The Chaplain weighed this against the protocol that demanded that all Fallen be disarmed and removed from their armour as soon as they were in secure custody. A faint smile had crept onto his captive’s lips, but the humour had not spread as far as his eyes. Normally Asmodai would have responded to such mocking with a short but intensely violent episode. Such outbursts usually forestalled any further attempts at ridicule. The Interrogator restrained himself with effort, knowing that not only was Cypher trying to elicit such a reaction, this was a prisoner like no other.

When he had been younger, first elevated to the rank of Interrogator and made aware of Cypher’s existence, Asmodai had heard the other Interrogator-Chaplains discussing their methodology in the event they were the ones to capture and admonish the legendary Cypher. Asmodai had scorned such debates, accusing his brethren of fantasising. He had asserted then that Cypher would be treated like any other Fallen, no better and no worse. Now that he found himself in that enviable position he knew two things. Firstly, that Cypher did require special treatment and a unique approach. He would have to work closely with Sapphon to ensure both mind and body were equally vexed. The prospect of such a cooperation made his mood darker still.

The second thing he realised was that the fantasies of the other Interrogators would not have worked. None of them possessed, or had possessed, the combination of brutality and determination embodied in Asmodai.

He came to the conclusion that he was procrastinating, second-guessing himself and his captive. This reaction annoyed Asmodai even more than Cypher’s attitude. He had allowed himself to be awed, only a little, but enough.

He punched Cypher in the face. It was a quick jab, nothing more, but it knocked the Fallen down by the shock of it.

There was blood on Cypher’s gauntlet as he pulled it away from his face. Asmodai looked down and saw the same on his hand. It was reassuring to see such a thing, evidence of his prisoner’s mortal frailty.

‘You can keep the sword,’ Asmodai said as Cypher got to his feet. ‘If you attempt to draw it you will be slain. No threats, no bargaining. If you lay a hand on that hilt death will follow on swift wings.’

‘I understand,’ said Cypher, his tone sincere. ‘Fortunately I have as much desire to wield this blade as you do, but it is my curse and honour to bear it.’

Asmodai kept his eye on the prisoner and sent a short, wordless vox-burst, coded to be picked up by the Deathwing squad that stood outside the other door to the internment chamber. The door hissed open a few seconds later, revealing Belial and three Deathwing Knights. The armour of all four warriors bore the scars of the recent battle aboard the enemy flagship.

‘Wait here,’ Belial snapped at his men as he stepped into the chamber. He turned and closed the door. The lock light flicked from green to red again, indicating the chamber was secure.

‘You do not entrust this information to your Knights?’ said Asmodai. Like Sammael’s elite, the Deathwing Knights knew of Cypher’s existence and importance, if not his true nature.

Belial said nothing and strode past Asmodai. He did not wear his helm, his eyes fixed on the Fallen.

Just as the Deathwing commander reached for his blade Asmodai realised Belial’s intent. The Sword of Silence flashed free from its scabbard and Asmodai had only a heartsbeat to react.

The Interrogator-Chaplain launched himself at Belial, one hand reaching for the blade of the Grand Master’s sword while the other dragged the crozius arcanum from his own belt.

The Sword of Silence crackled as Asmodai’s fingers closed around the weapon. Pain seared up the Chaplain’s arm and he saw rather than felt his fingers and thumb falling away. Though he had lost his hand, the interruption had been enough to deflect the Grand Master’s blow.

As Belial turned, faced twisted with hatred, Asmodai lashed out with his crozius. Belial parried the blow easily – Asmodai was no match for the master swordsman, but he could not let the Grand Master attack the prisoner without cause.

‘Cease this madness!’ Asmodai bellowed.

‘You protect him?’ Belial snarled back. ‘The Damned One. The Cursed of the Dark Angels. The Lion’s Bane?’

Asmodai shoved Cypher aside with his mutilated hand as Belial moved to strike again, intercepting the Grand Master once more. Belial stayed his blade a centimetre from Asmodai’s head.

‘It is too dangerous to allow him to live,’ said Belial, his voice strained by conflicting, rare emotion. ‘We risk too much bringing him aboard. He will only die beneath your blades all the same. You must forego your bloody pleasures this one time.’

‘That is not the point!’ roared Asmodai, affronted by the notion that he was no more than an executioner. ‘He must be allowed to repent. His death condemns or exonerates his soul. I take no pleasure from the grievous harm I inflict. It is necessary to arrive at the unvarnished truth. Blood washes away the lies. Do not dare to call me a murderer, Belial!’

The vehemence of Asmodai’s rebuttal caused the Grand Master to pause. Asmodai was incensed and did not relent.

‘Is that what you think of me? A maniac, good only to slay our prisoners? Am I held so low in your regard that you would deny me the opportunity to extract the repentance of one we have held in such vile humour for ten millennia?’

‘He will manipulate us, bend our thoughts to his will. See what ruin Astelan wrought upon us and how easily he escaped, with simple words and opportunism. It is a mistake to allow him onto this starship, and I would no more let him set foot upon the Rock than I would invite an enemy army into the Tower of Angels.’

‘It is not your decision,’ Asmodai insisted with gritted teeth. The Chaplain knew that if Belial still decided he wanted Cypher dead, there was little – nothing, he admitted – that he could do physically to prevent it. But he would not be bowed by veiled threats. ‘Would you raise your blade against me, Grand Master of the First Company? Am I to be your foe as well?’

‘If you decide to stand in my way, you place yourself against me,’ Belial replied, taking a step, his sword raised.

‘I give you one last chance to submit to my will, brother.’ Asmodai did not say what he intended. Belial lunged at him, the tip of the Sword of Silence directed at the Chaplain’s shoulder, aimed to disarm rather than kill.

Asmodai swept up his crozius barely in time. The Grand Master’s blade sheared through the Chaplain’s pauldron, missing the shoulder within. Pulling back his blade, Belial readied for another blow. Asmodai could see in the Grand Master’s eyes that this time there would be no leniency.

‘Et spiritu vexatus!’ Asmodai shouted in desperation, using the words that had been implanted into the mind of every Dark Angel as a failsafe against this treachery. The message could be transmitted mentally by a Librarian also. Never again would a Dark Angel turn on his own.

Belial stumbled, face screwed up with pain at the verbal trigger. More calmly, Asmodai continued. ‘Libertaris non, Belial. Tu esta dominatus voxilis. Tu pacifica et somnalis.’

The other Space Marine sagged in his armour, eyes glazing. Asmodai’s incantation had caused Belial’s catalepsean node to misfire. Normally the implant allowed a Space Marine to relax one half of his brain at a time, remaining semi-functional whilst effectively asleep. Now the malfunctioning organ was rapidly activating and deactivating the Grand Master’s synapses, effectively rendering him into a hypnogogic state.

‘You should not have seen that,’ said Asmodai, looking at Cypher. The Fallen’s expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity. ‘If you speak of this to anyone…’

‘You’ll kill me?’

‘I have never claimed to be a complicated man.’

‘What will you do with him now?’ Cypher asked, stepping forward to inspect the stunned Grand Master more closely.

‘That is no concern of yours,’ Asmodai replied.

The truth was that Belial would be roused by another set of keywords, which would also erase his memory of the incident. In time, he would naturally construct a false memory to cover the gap, prompted by certain key elements inserted by Asmodai before Belial awoke.

He motioned for Cypher to walk towards the door. When the two of them were next to the portal, Asmodai hitched his crozius and used his remaining hand to activate the door lock. The door opened and he pushed Cypher into the corridor beyond.

‘Take him to stasis cell four,’ he instructed the Deathwing Knights.

‘As you command, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied Zandorael. The Knight Master looked at Asmodai’s fingerless hand. The blood had already clotted and the Chaplain’s armour had stemmed any pain from the wound. ‘What happened, brother?’

‘A mistake,’ said Asmodai, and shut the door.

THE WAYWARD ANGEL

Annael was impressed by the mind-work of Tybalain. The Huntmaster had been right about the rebel lair being located in sector twenty, and the captive taken by Annael had not required much inducement to reveal the exact location.

The Swiftclaw was conducting a low-intensity scan of the area while the Black Knights waited a kilometre away from their target. Casamir provided a running commentary while his gunner stayed alert to immediate threats.

‘The manufactorum is an assembly plant, ground floor only on the main building, four-storey administration structure attached. We have three ingress routes to the west, thermal scan shows marksmen in the overzoom bridge to the north have that covered. Detecting low-rate pulse feeds, probably trip detectors on the road approaches. North access is cut off by a canal, nearest bridge looks to be the main highway, two kilometres north-east. They have a gun emplacement station covering the canal regardless. Two, perhaps three mounted weapons.’

There was a pause while the Land Speeder circled. Casamir kept his distance and maintained a low speed to minimise the chance of detection. If the rebels had an inkling that they had been discovered they might bolt or try to kill Sabrael.

‘Shall we take another vote on whether we still want to rescue that Lion-forsaken rogue?’ asked Calatus. He had accepted the mission with good humour after voicing his arguments. It was the manner of the Black Knights to exchange frank truths with each other when necessary, but to harbour no malicious consequence of those opinions. As a brotherhood within the wider Ravenwing it was essential that they trusted each other without reservation.

‘It would not surprise me if we found the idiot drinking recaff and throwing dice with the rebels,’ replied Annael. ‘He has a knack of exploiting situations to his advantage.’

‘Fortune favours the fool,’ said Nerean. ‘And there are few fools greater than Sabrael.’

Any further exchange was cut short by the continuance of Casamir’s report.

‘Still no obvious sign of where they are holding Sabrael. We have heat clusters at various points in the plant, but that could be idling machinery, power armour or just a fire to keep them warm. We would have to get closer to uncover the finer detail.’

‘Negative, Swiftclaw,’ said Tybalain. ‘Mission security is paramount. Continue wide sweep.’

The Land Speeder pilot recommenced his description, transmitting the vague scan data to the steeds of the Black Knights squadron. Annael watched as a sketchy, three-dimensional image coalesced on the display, grainy detail added every few seconds with each pulse of the Swiftclaw’s surveillance systems. After another half minute, the rebel lair and surrounding buildings were mapped out, likely sentry points and enemy groups highlighted with floating red icons.

Annael immediately noticed a particular pattern to their dispersal.

‘They appear to be concentrated on the ground and first floors,’ he said.

‘Fearing orbital or air attack?’ suggested Nerean.

‘The reason is unimportant,’ said Tybalain. ‘It is a weakness we can exploit.’

‘If our steeds had wings or we had a gunship, perhaps,’ said Calatus. ‘I do not see how it favours us without.’

‘We have other means to part ways with the ground,’ said the Huntmaster. ‘Casamir, what would be your maximum altitude with four extra crew?’

‘Hitch a ride on the Swiftclaw?’ Annael laughed, but his brothers did not share his humour.

‘A highly exposed target,’ said Calatus. ‘One good shot would see us all drop, vulnerable to every gun in the surrounding buildings.’

‘A fourth-storey roof would be attainable, Brother-Huntmaster,’ confirmed Casamir.

‘If they fear the skies, they will be holding Sabrael as far down as possible,’ said Annael. ‘Basement, sub-levels. Anything of that sort, Swiftclaw?’

‘Extensive basement and sub-basement structures beneath the main plant and linked to the accompanying structure. Pipes, energy cables, storage space, a jumble of conduits, chambers and passageways. Once we launch the attack, I can perform a low-altitude pass and perhaps pick up something more definite.’

‘Affirmative, Swiftclaw,’ said Tybalain. He dismounted and the others followed. Annael was reluctant to leave Black Shadow, fearing something might happen to his steed in his absence. He patted the saddle and left one hand on the fuel tank as he awaited instruction from the Huntmaster.

‘Are we sure of this course of action, brother?’ said Calatus. ‘To risk the lives of six brothers to reclaim a single wayward soul seems a poor exchange of effort for reward.’

‘No order has left my lips,’ snapped Tybalain. ‘If you did not wish to accompany us, you have come a long way for nothing.’

The Huntmaster and the Black Knight stared at each other for several seconds, before Calatus bowed his head in deference.

‘Your will is my command, Brother-Huntmaster,’ Calatus said. ‘No order need be voiced.’

The growl of the Swiftclaw’s engines reverberated down the street and they turned towards the approaching skimmer.

‘It is fortunate that we have expended most of our ammunition reserves,’ Eladon told them. ‘We should be just within the weight boundary.’

The sound from the anti-grav plate became a moan as Annael and Calatus climbed onto the boarding steps on either side of the Land Speeder. It increased to a loud whine to compensate for Nerean and Tybalain, the Swiftclaw dipping slightly before resuming its place a metre above the ground.

‘Are you positive you can put us on the roof?’ asked Annael.

‘Yes.’ Casamir’s tone made it clear he did not appreciate Annael’s question. ‘Everybody secure?’

After receiving their affirmatives, the Land Speeder pilot took his machine into a vertical climb, rotating the nose towards the target.

‘Straight in and out,’ he said. ‘I’ll set up a distraction attack on the east side once you are on the roof.’

The speeder rose to about ten metres, just enough to clear a cluster of power cables stretching along a line of pylons beside the road. The nose dipped and the thrusters eased them forward, a little more than walking speed.

‘Can you not dawdle?’ said Nerean. ‘The enemy are bound to see us if we meander into their midst.’

‘I have almost no trim or roll control, let’s not make this any harder,’ Casamir replied, his mood tense.

They crossed several streets and manufactoria, moving through clouds of steam and smog from exhaust stacks, the ground below lit by idling forges and the gleam of lamps through bulls-eye-glassed windows, the headlights of abandoned ore movers and cargo haulers. Perhaps to conceal their presence, the invaders had doused the street lanterns in the processing plant and surrounding buildings. Rather than hide their whereabouts, the blot of darkness made it clear that something was amiss in the area.

It also meant that the Swiftclaw moved almost invisibly, the black-hulled craft a shadow against the smoke that swathed the sky. The wind carried away the noise of the protesting grav-plate. Unseen and unheard, the Black Knights alighted on the roof of the target building.

Annael was the first to land, his armour absorbing the impact of a three-metre drop. He had his bolt pistol in hand, but it was his combat knife in the other that would be his weapon of choice on this operation. It was key that the enemy did not know they were compromised until it was too late.

The roof was made of plasteel sheeting that sagged under his weight.

‘Disperse,’ he hissed to the others. ‘Fragile surface.’

He moved a few paces so that the others could spread out, distributing their weight more evenly.

‘I see no ingress point,’ he told them, looking around. ‘No stairs or conveyor.’

‘Heating spill shaft here,’ said Nerean, kneeling beside a grille-topped pipe that extruded about a metre from the slight cant of the roof. ‘Let me just see if…’

He fell silent and pulled the pipe with one hand. It resisted and then slid upward. An extraction unit followed, leaving a metre-square hole in the roof material. Tybalain moved to the edge while Nerean set down the piece of machinery. Taking the lip in both hands, the Huntmaster pulled, peeling back the roof like the lid of a rations tin. Moving backwards, he opened up a gap large enough for a Space Marine to drop through.

Nerean went in first. Annael heard the clump of his battle-brother landing and the tread of his boots as he moved around the top floor.

‘Abandoned,’ Nerean declared. ‘Not even being used for storage.’

Tybalain, still holding back the roll of plasteel, gestured for Calatus and then Annael to descend. They quickly formed a defensive perimeter and were joined by the Huntmaster. Annael missed the auspex of Black Shadow, but even without its enhanced systems, he could see that the floor was mostly one open space, crisscrossed with ducts and pipes from the environmental and communications systems situated on the floors below.

‘Stairwell,’ announced Tybalain, from the north-west corner.

A dull rattle broke the still. Though dampened by the walls, the sound of the Swiftclaw’s heavy bolter was unmistakable. Between fusillades, Annael could hear exclamations of shock from the floors below, and the sound of running feet came up the stairway.

They followed Tybalain down a level. The third storey, from what Annael could see through the open door on the landing, was divided into several illuminators’ stations, split by chest-high partitions and bookshelves. The easels and magnifiers of stencillists and the pict-capture devices of the crystographers had been left undisturbed, along with the sheaves of reports and archives the administrators had been transcribing.

The sound of descending soldiers on the stairs below faded away. Tybalain started down the next flight, followed by Nerean and then Calatus. Annael was bringing up the rear. While the others continued down, he stopped just before the landing. He heard the scuff of feet and muttered cursing.

A moment later a blue-skinned soldier, head shaven, body bulging with boosted muscle, stepped out in front of Annael. The rebel’s attention was fixed on the large-calibre automatic weapon he was carrying in one hand, and the drum magazine he was trying to slot into place with the other.

The clump of Annael’s stride brought the renegade spinning around, mouth opening to shout a warning. Adrenal stimms gave the man preternatural speed, but he was still not as swift as the Dark Angel.

Annael’s knife stabbed up into the man’s throat, sliding effortlessly through his enemy’s windpipe, cleaving up through tongue and soft palate to fix the dying man’s mouth shut. The base of Annael’s pistol grip smashed into the man’s temple, shattering bone, killing him instantly.

‘Target slain,’ he reported to the others. He paused, listening intently. ‘No sign of any remaining, I think he was the last.’

He caught up with them on the next floor, but Tybalain moved on without pause until they had reached the bottom. The stair had brought them to a vestibule area, a broad door flanked by two high arched windows. The flicker of muzzle flare strobed through the coloured glass and the panes rattled with every discharge from the Land Speeder’s assault cannon.

‘No entry to the sub-levels,’ said Calatus, who had been checking the space beneath the ferrocrete steps.

‘Casamir, we need a basement entrance point,’ said Tybalain.

They waited several seconds for the reply, eyes and ears straining for any sound of the enemy close at hand. There was none; it seemed the building had been emptied by the Swiftclaw’s diversion. Casamir replied, the background zip of las-fire caught in the transmission.

‘I have your position. There is a service elevator in a docking bay seven metres to the south. It goes down one level.’ There was another pause and through the windows came the bright flash of an explosion. ‘Frag warhead, minimal damage. Fire control systems activated. The service elevator takes you into the connecting duct with the main facility. Head east, there is a branching point, the second one that turns north again. I am reading a strange thermal cluster. Could be a generator, but it looks worth investigating.’

‘Acknowledged, proceeding to target point,’ said Tybalain. ‘Maintain attack for thirty seconds and then break off. We will be in the sub-levels at that point.’

‘Confirmed, Brother-Huntmaster.’

They followed Casamir’s directions, moving from the stairwell via a short corridor into a cage-like storage pen and through into the loading bay. The metal shutters were closed, the conveyor doors open. Tybalain stepped into the elevator, followed by Annael.

‘Wait!’ said Annael, holding up a hand as Nerean was about to step aboard. He pointed to the plate above the door indicating the maximum load weight. ‘We will have to descend two at a time.’

Nerean took a step back and Annael slid the door closed. Tybalain pulled the lever and they made their rattling descent. When the conveyor had touched the bottom, a bell chimed outside.

Annael wrenched the door open and stepped out quickly, pulling his knife free, aware that the elevator’s bell might attract attention. He was in a corridor only a little wider than the elevator, which ran for a few metres and then met a larger passageway cutting perpendicular across the end. Thin glowing wires set into the ceiling cast a jade light across the sub-level.

Without needing any command from Tybalain, Annael strode forward and stopped at the junction. He checked both ways.

‘West runs about thirty metres, east ten metres and then turns. No activity.’ In fact there was very little at all in the corridor. A pipe ran along the joint between the wall and the ceiling, dripping at a few broken seams, leaving a mouldy growth on the walls. The sound of the drops echoed starkly in the silence. Down here, nothing could be heard of the Land Speeder’s attack or the rebels’ response.

‘Move to the turn,’ Tybalain said, as he sent the elevator clattering back up to collect the others.

Annael obeyed, long strides taking him swiftly to where the corridor bent thirty degrees north-east.

‘Forty metres, I can see another conveyor at the end. Two doors on the left, wheel-locks. Three branching corridors on the right.’ Annael stopped, his auto-senses filtering something from the air. He boosted the olfactory receivers and audio conductors, his vision dimming slightly while the system compensated. ‘I can smell sweat, gun oil, explosives. Picking up breathing, multiple respirations per second. Footsteps!’

The pad of feet grew louder and a shadow emerged from the end of the corridor Casamir had indicated. Decisive action and surprise were the key tactics of the Ravenwing, whether mounted or on foot. Annael responded without thought, dashing forward with pistol and knife at the ready.

The man that stepped out of the passage looked surprisingly normal, in comparison to the heavily augmented warriors that made up the bulk of the enemy force. He wore loose grey trousers and a long blue coat, a tattered forage cap jammed onto a head of white hair. Annael was still several metres away when the rebel turned his head towards the sound of the onrushing Space Marine.

The traitor gave a shout of warning and brought up his lasgun.

The crack of Annael’s bolt pistol sounded loud in the confined space, as did the impact detonation that split the man’s head apart.

Annael had seconds to make the most of the enemy’s shock and confusion. He threw himself around the corner into the side-tunnel, cracking the ferrocrete as he rebounded from the far wall. Ahead, the metal door at the end of a ten-metre corridor was closing. Annael loosed off as many rounds as he could, the bolts sparking from the hatchway, but the door slammed closed with an ominous clang.

He reached the door, slamming his shoulder into the ferrite, the reverberation of the impact accompanied by lock bars scraping into place.

‘Melta charges,’ he told the others. ‘We have to breach.’

Calatus had the melta bombs and ten seconds passed before he arrived at the barred door. Annael stepped back to allow his companion to work.

The Black Knight placed three charges, one at each hinge and one about two-thirds of the way in where he judged the interior lock to be located. Waving for Annael and the others to back away further, Calatus pulled a priming pin from each charge and rapidly retreated.

Three seconds later the melta bombs detonated, vaporising the metal of the door. The hatch continued standing, but the hinges and the wall around them had been turned to blackened slag and dust.

Annael heard shouts from inside the room beyond – panicked yells.

He pushed past Calatus, about to raise a boot to kick the door, when the hatch fell towards him, clanging to the floor in a swirl of charred motes and dissipating vapour.

In the doorway stood Sabrael. He wore his armour, except for his helm, and there was fresh blood sprayed across his chest, his gauntlets ruddy with gore. Half a dozen corpses lay mangled in the storeroom behind him, hearts and throats ripped out. Annael could see another door open behind his battle-brother, almost ripped from its mountings.

Noticing the direction of his gaze, Sabrael stepped back and looked at the dead men.

‘They made the mistake of trying to kill me,’ he said quietly. ‘They really should not have opened that door.’

Annael grinned inside his helm and stepped forward, offering a hand. Sabrael took it and they stood looking at each other. Calatus intervened, stepping between them to break the handshake.

‘Brother Calatus, it is s–’

Sabrael’s intended witticism was cut short by Calatus’s fist crashing against his chin. Dazed, Sabrael reeled back and Calatus followed, throwing another punch that slammed against the side of Sabrael’s head. Annael leapt forward, taking Calatus to the ground. The two of them struggled for several seconds as Calatus tried to rise again.

‘Enough!’ The stern command from Tybalain separated the two grappling Black Knights. ‘Show some discipline, both of you. We are still in enemy territory.’

‘Thank you for your intervention,’ said Sabrael, extending a hand in gratitude.

The Huntmaster ignored him and looked around the room. On a table was the Blade of Corswain, lying in its scabbard. Tybalain pushed past Sabrael and took up the sheathed sword in one hand.

‘I was about to…’ Sabrael’s protest died as Tybalain turned round, one finger raised to silence him.

‘When we return to the Chapter it will be decided whether you may retain the swordsman’s honour. Until then, you have forfeited the right to bear the Blade of Corswain. That you risked its loss is evidence enough that you do not deserve it. However, it will not be my judgement, but the Supreme Grand Master’s.’

‘Of course, Huntmaster,’ said Sabrael, bowing his head in submission to Tybalain’s command.

‘If you have any honour, you will not contest its confiscation,’ the Huntmaster added.

‘The shame you have brought upon yourself, the squadron and the company is monstrous,’ said Calatus, pushing himself free from Annael’s grip. ‘If you have any honour, you will seek the penitent’s fate at the next opportunity.’

The Black Knight stalked back to the corridor, where he received a nod of agreement from Nerean. Sabrael said nothing as he turned and helped Annael to his feet. He looked pensive as he retrieved his helm from a shelf and fitted it to the collar of his war-plate.

The penitent’s fate – death in battle.

PART TWO

PISCINA

END OF AN AGE

‘If I might ask, what does that mean, Chapter Master?’

Colonel Brade looked up at the giant warrior who stood next to him in the cratered remains that had been a roof terrace on the Imperial Commander’s palace. The ranking officer of the remnants of the Piscina Free Militia looked haggard, his skin loose where he had lost considerable weight in a short time. His uniform was carefully pressed, the collars starched stiff, but such treatment could not hide the stains and wear of recent months. The de facto ruler of Piscina Four looked weary beyond caring.

‘You might ask, colonel, but I feel no inclination to answer,’ replied Azrael.

The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels stood in his full war panoply, his dark green armour embellished with gilding and gems, his personal standard affixed to a pole that extended from his backpack. He wore the Sword of Secrets at his belt, which banded his robe about his waist, the cloth the bone-white of the Deathwing to mark his passage through the First Company.

He glanced down at Brade and then returned his gaze to the broken city that lay about the palace. Kadillus Harbour was less a metropolis and more a ruin. It had never fully recovered from the invasion of the ork warlords Ghazghkull Thraka and Nazdreg. The uprising and ork resurgence of the past year had brought down everything that had been rebuilt and more. Tactical squads from the Chapter and specialised Free Militia units were using flamers and pyrobombs to cleanse the shattered remains of the city, to ensure no ork spores remained.

The spires of the ancient Chapter Keep that had once dominated the eastern part of the city had been flattened, not by the greenskins but the Techmarines of the Dark Angels. Nothing remained of the old stronghold.

The Basilica that had once belonged to the Chapter, site of the fiercest fighting in the city between Ghazghkull’s orks and the Third Company, still stood, a hollowed shell. It seemed a sacrilege to pull down such an honoured structure, so he had deigned to let it remain as testament to the bonds that had once held Piscina and the Dark Angels together.

Beyond the curtain wall – itself a jagged shadow of its former defiance – were the East Barrens where any number of ork nests remained to be uncovered. In the opposite direction was the ocean, the only part of the region untouched by the orkish taint.

‘You can’t just leave, Chapter Master. The war isn’t over!’

‘This war will never be over, Colonel Brade, until the regiments of the Emperor’s Astra Militarum arrive with such numbers that every square kilometre of Kadillus Island can be scoured. I thought once that my Chapter had achieved this end, but I was wrong. Your forces are experienced and well-equipped now, enough to keep the threat under control until a task force can be mobilised by the Adeptus Terra.’

Azrael could not tell the colonel his reasons for leaving Piscina, any more than he could inform him that this disaster had not been brought about by orks, but the intervention of a handful of Dark Angel renegades from the dawn of the Imperium. It sounded so ridiculous to think of the Hunt in those terms. Azrael almost wanted to tell Brade the truth, just to see his incredulity. That was out of the question and the Supreme Grand Master reined in his whimsy, regaining his composure. Of his expression nothing had changed during the internal debate and Brade continued regardless.

‘If the Dark Angels remove their liegehood from Piscina, what will become of us? We have scant resources for our people, with the docks in ruins, the mines just as unworkable.’

‘The Priesthood of Terra will find a place for you in the grander scheme of the Imperium, colonel. It is done, there is no turning back my decision. You must learn to survive without the patronage of the Dark Angels. Far lesser planets and people have done so for millennia, I do not doubt that Piscina Four will endure long into the coming centuries.’

Azrael did not say how close Piscina had come to having no future at all. It had been a difficult decision to cut Piscina loose from the demesne of the Chapter, but an event two months earlier had left him only a far worse alternative.

The door terminal chimed, announcing the arrival of Master Belial. Azrael waited for a few seconds, finishing his briefing notes for the next phase of missions into the East Barrens of Kadillus Island. He looked around the chamber, sparing a glance for the view of the world below through the great arched window to his left. A globe of mostly blue ocean and dark clouds, the glimpse of grey and green continents brief.

These rooms had hosted the commanders of the Dark Angels for generations. He was far up in the pinnacle of the Tower of Angels that Azrael knew once had been Aldurukh, the keep of the Order on Caliban. Lesser towers and fortifications as well as star docks and launch bays spread out across the asteroid that now served as the fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels, spilling yellow, red and white patches of light across the barren rock. Tradition held that these rooms had been used by the Lion himself.

The walls were hung with banners showing the heraldry of successive Chapter Masters, Azrael’s taking pride of place above the chair and desk at the far end of the chamber. Countless worlds had been saved by orders issued from this chamber, and countless again were the foes slain and the brothers lost in those wars. Azrael’s only concession to that history was a skull of an eldar pirate, polished to a gleam and inscribed with curses and catechisms to torment the soul of the creature it had belonged to. He had learned many things on becoming Supreme Grand Master, reading the old texts of the Lion and gleaning what he could from the Dark Oracle in the dungeons beneath the Rock. The eldar had once controlled an empire across the stars, but had lost it. The severed head of the eldar warrior was reminder to Azrael that the Dark Angels clung to a similar precipice and a moment’s respite would see them fall into the abyss of damnation.

He looked up, noted that Asmodai accompanied Belial, and waved them forward. He watched the two of them carefully, wondering why Asmodai had chosen to join Belial in the petition. The Master of Repentance made no secret of his dislike for Azrael’s appointment of Sapphon to the position of Master of Sanctity. Was this another opportunity to exert pressure on his Chapter lord? The timing was inconvenient, to put it mildly.

‘You understand that our campaign on Piscina is ongoing.’ The Supreme Grand Master focused on Belial who had called for the audience, eyes as dark and hard as granite. ‘All three of us have duties elsewhere.’

‘I will be brief, Grand Master. I think that we waste valuable time and resources trying to reclaim Piscina Four from the ork infestation. With the Rock in orbit we possess the weaponry required to obliterate all life on the planet, and should do so before casualties amongst our ranks become excessive.’

‘I am surprised that you of all my warriors are prepared to abandon Piscina Four without a battle. You have already striven so hard to guard this world for the Chapter and the Emperor, why give in to the counsel of despair now?’

‘No despair, Brother Azrael, only a long-delayed acceptance of the consequences of my failures many years ago. Had I succeeded in eliminating the ork threat properly at its arrival the current situation would not have developed. That I did not has allowed the orks to gain a grip on this world that no effort of the Chapter can prise away.’

‘I see.’

The Supreme Grand Master stood up. To mask his annoyance he started to pace back and forth behind his chair. He stroked his chin, feigning deep thought, while he mastered unwarranted feelings of betrayal. When one held sway over the Inner Circle it was too easy to give in to paranoia and the belief that every disagreement was but the first pebbles that heralded a coming avalanche of treachery.

Just as every Supreme Grand Master secretly harboured the hope that he would usher in an age after the Hunt had finished, they all had been prone to an underlying dread that they would preside over the ultimate collapse of the teetering edifice of lies and obfuscations that the Dark Angels had become. From his position atop the mound of falsehood and misdirection, Azrael could clearly see how precarious was the position he held and the foundations beneath it. And Asmodai was just the sort of individual that would happily see the Chapter fall upon itself if it proved him righteous.

Belial took this as an opportunity to argue his case further and Azrael said nothing to stop him.

‘We cannot accomplish this task alone without ignoring other battles that require our intervention. The longer we spend on this lost world, the more danger to other planets of the Emperor. The Piscinans have been rendered useless as allies, would you have us wait until forces from the Imperium arrive to assist us?’

Asmodai shook his head, thumping a fist into his other hand.

‘Impossible! All three of us know that the Fallen interfered with Piscina during the stewardship of Chaplain Boreas and his companions. We risk knowledge of their existence spreading beyond the world if outsiders become involved in the campaign.’

Azrael stopped and turned a warning look towards the Chaplain, his hands moving to clasp each other behind his back. Talk of the Fallen earned a fierce scowl from the Supreme Grand Master.

‘You suggest that I destroy the population of an entire world to keep secret the existence of the Fallen? An act that will earn us further investigation and suspicion, no doubt. Sometimes I think you desire a confrontation with the Imperium, Asmodai.’

‘There is precedent, Brother Azrael. And the presence of the orks presents far more justification than has sometimes been offered.’

‘If there is evidence of the Fallen to be removed, it will be removed. If I listened to your counsel, every world where even rumour of the Fallen is found would be left a lifeless wasteland.’

The Deathwing commander stepped closer to his superior, darting an equal look of annoyance at the Master of Repentance. Azrael did not react, but noted that the two were not of perfect accord. Neither of them were experts at the internal politics of the Chapter and both had come with an honest petition to make. Belial took a breath and weighed his next words carefully.

‘The Piscina System is tainted, we can no longer recruit from here with any confidence. If we become mired in a war against the greenskins we compound the failure of my earlier campaign.’

Azrael’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘Your campaign? Your failure? Did you not hold back the orks sufficiently to stop the world being overrun, and did not the entire Chapter under my command conduct the intended annihilation? You would embroil us in intrigue with the Imperium and throw away millions of lives because of your impossible quest for perfection?’

‘Apologies, Supreme Grand Master. Our failure. And it is not perfection I seek, it is simply an absence of error. Our warriors spend days in the Reclusiam pondering their failings and atoning for their deficiencies. Those of us of higher rank must hold to an even stricter code.’

‘The reasons are irrelevant. We cannot place ourselves in higher moral authority than the people we are sworn to protect. If there is atonement to be made, should it not be painful? Should it not involve sacrifice? You suggest the easy route, thinking there will be no repercussions, no regrets.’

Belial struggled, the truth of this statement undeniable. It was no secret that the Grand Master of the Deathwing vexed his flesh with acidic tattoos so that he would better remember the price of perceived failure. For the most part it was an entirely desirable – admirable – trait in a commander but now the First Company’s master was becoming intolerant, perhaps finding undue alliance with Asmodai’s hard-line beliefs. For all that Belial agreed with Azrael’s sentiment, equally he could not hide his consternation at this apparent refusal.

‘And I see from your expression that there is some other purpose for wishing swift conclusion to our war in Piscina.’

Directly confronted, Belial showed renewed dilemma in his expression. Azrael had guessed correctly that a more personal motive steered the counsel of the Deathwing commander. Belial sighed heavily.

‘There were reports of the Beast, sightings a few thousand light years from our current position. It would be a better use of our might to strike down the creature that dealt the fatal wound to Piscina than to remain here and mire ourselves with the scraps left behind.’

Azrael had heard these reports that Ghazghkull was on the move again, but they were no more substantial than a hundred other rumours about the warlord since he had returned to the hives of Armageddon to lay waste to the world that had been the site of his previous great defeat. The Chapter Master regarded Belial evenly, letting neither angered temper nor indulgent forgiveness colour his demeanour.

‘So it is to be revenge, is it?’

‘I would prefer you not cheapen my motives with such terminology, Supreme Grand Master. It is justice, is it not, to punish those guilty of the crimes? The Beast killed Piscina, we are simply putting the planet out of its misery.’

Azrael paused before speaking, about to argue out of habit, out of necessity, but confounded by Belial’s argument. He sat down again, another act that bought him a moment’s grace to think more clearly. He steepled his hands to his chin and rested his elbows on the report-strewn desk. He looked at Belial for some time and saw honest desire, and then moved his gaze to Asmodai, who had watched the exchange in uncharacteristic silence.

‘It is a bleak day when the Adeptus Astartes must weigh the life and death of a whole world, an entire culture that has supported and praised them for generations. You are both dismissed.’

‘Are you refusing my proposal, Supreme Grand Master? Am I to conclude that my plan does not find favour in your eyes? You will not conduct Exterminatus?’

‘You have made sound arguments, brother. I will not decide the fate of a world in a moment.’

Exterminatus had been out of the question, on practical accounts if the moral reasons were not enough. As Azrael had told the pair of officers, wiping out all life on an Imperial world invited scrutiny he did not desire. Weighed against this had been the equally legitimate argument that the Dark Angels were tarrying far longer than was feasible. There would be no swift end to the problems of Piscina, and the Adeptus Terra were better able to deal with those problems than a Chapter of Space Marines.

‘It could be years before they respond, the Adepts of Terra,’ complained Brade. ‘Even if the astropaths send signals now, they will not receive them on the Throneworld for months more.’

‘I have already sent transmissions notifying the High Lords of my decision,’ Azrael informed the Free Militia commander. ‘My personal psygnia was attached to the broadcast, to ensure it receives the swift attention it deserves.’

‘The High Lords?’ Brade was clearly vexed by the realisation that Azrael dealt with such powerful, semi-mythical creatures. He was used to dealing with the faceless, endlessly bureaucratic ranks of the Administratum.

‘Of course,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘The surrendering of sovereign Chapter domains to the Imperium is no small matter. I expect that a great deal of attention will soon be brought to bear upon Piscina and its people, and its rulers. Be sure that all is in order when the agents of the Adeptus Terra and Inquisition arrive to audit your conduct.’

The veiled threat pierced Brade’s bluster and a fresh look of horror crossed his face.

‘Inquisition?’ he whispered. ‘Here?’

‘If I were you, colonel, I would welcome such a thing. I will leave a report that highlights your exemplary behaviour, both in the current crisis and during our earlier dealings with Ghazghkull. Praise like that will earn you a general’s rank in the Astra Militarum if you desire it, or perhaps officially confirm you as Imperial Commander of Piscina, dispensing with the charade of your coup and puppet-governor.’

‘Puppet?’ Brade was genuinely offended by the intimation and bridled before Azrael, stiffening to his full height and staring the supreme commander of the Dark Angels in the eye. ‘I have nothing to fear from the Inquisition, Chapter Master Azrael. Can you say the same?’

‘The Inquisition have never been a problem for my Chapter, colonel. Remember, we are the First, the Dark Angels, the Emperor’s Own. Do not make me regret penning my report in such favourable terms.’ Brade sagged again, his moment of fortitude evaporating. ‘As an appointed representative of the Piscinan authorities, you are duly informed that the Dark Angels Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes rescinds all ties to the worlds of the Piscina System. As outlined in the Justices Astartes, the Liber Mortis Angelica and the Codes of Imperial Governance, I exert the right for all oaths, allegiances and tithes to revert from the sovereign control of the Dark Angels Chapter to the Adeptus Terra, overseers of the Imperium in the Emperor’s name. Acquieset finalis.’

Brade paled even further as the finality of these words sank home.

‘Brother Bethor,’ said Azrael, looking to the Space Marine who stood at a tall flagpole near the edge of the roof. At the top of the pole flew a black banner with a golden Imperial aquila upon it. Beneath fluttered a pennant, black, marked in white with the sigil of the Dark Angels.

Taking up a silver cord hanging from the pole, Brother Bethor lowered the standard of the Dark Angels. He removed it from its toggles, folded it thrice and presented it to Azrael with a bow. Azrael took the flag with a solemn nod and held it for several seconds before passing it back to the Chapter Standard Bearer.

‘Is that it?’ said Brade, looking around. ‘I expected more… pomp. Grandeur?’

‘Do you feel this a moment to celebrate, colonel?’ Azrael swept a hand towards the encompassing city. ‘Would you like to announce to all and sundry that your liege-masters are departing, never to return?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Brade. ‘Not yet. The Free Militia draw strength from our alliance. I will not rob them of that, not yet.’

‘Our business is concluded, in all ways.’ Azrael turned away but spun back and extended a hand of friendship to the colonel. Surprised, it was several seconds before Brade clasped it in return. ‘I would have had this another way if I could, Colonel Brade. You have my sincerest regards and respect, and I wish you every success in the forging of a new age for Piscina. You will be a worthy Imperial Commander.’

‘Thank you,’ said Brade, clearly humbled by the Space Marine’s unexpected praise.

Azrael said no more as he turned on his heel and marched away, Bethor matching his stride beside him.

‘The deed is done,’ said the Standard Bearer.

‘Yes. It is time to implement the extraction strategy.’ Azrael did not look at his companion as he voiced the consequences of his decision. ‘Within four hours, for the first time in thousands of years, there will no more be a Dark Angels presence on Piscina.’

THE HIDDEN CHAMBER

Asmodai descended the ramp of the Thunderhawk, his step echoed by the Deathwing Knights behind him. They flanked two prisoners, both manacled with magno-cuffs and hooded with eyeless cowls made of plasteel chainmail. Anovel had been divested of his armour, Cypher not. It annoyed Asmodai that he was reluctant to strip the arch-renegade of his wargear, but the memory of the sword’s vision was burned into his mind. He did not know the full properties of the blade, or its provenance, but if the myths were true that it was the Lion Sword, weapon of the primarch, it was possible his last moments were etched into the ancient metal in some arcane fashion. He had spoken to Ezekiel about the matter but even the Chief Librarian had been reluctant to psychically probe the sword.

Beneath the cowls both Space Marines were gagged and further blindfolded, to ensure there was no possibility of communication between them. A Deathwing Knight, in ivory-coloured robes rather than armour, stood between them to further restrict any possibility of them passing a message to each other.

They were halted by a pair of large gates, wrought from black metal in the design of a winged sword that was mirrored on each side. Asmodai looked back, past the Thunderhawk, into the gulf of space. The spread of stars was slightly out of focus, distorted by the banks of energy shields that protected the Rock. Piscina’s star was no larger than his fist, dwindling imperceptibly as the fortress-monastery powered away from the abandoned world. They were outside the orbit of Piscina Five, Piscina Four just a blue speck barely visible in the light of the star. Five more days would see them at the gravitic boundary of the system, where the pull of the star was weak enough to allow a warp jump.

It had been fortunate that the expedition had arrived in Piscina a scant few days before the Rock was due to transition to the warp. Azrael had decided the Chapter would move on to battle the emerging threat of a Varsine Bloodflock tearing across the Phyleaides Cluster seventy light years away. Though Ezekiel had despatched psychic transmissions concerning the imminent return of the Ravenwing and Deathwing – though no word of their special captive could be risked across the warp – the two strike cruisers had outpaced the astropathic message. Such were the vagaries of warp communication and travel at times.

Azrael had decided against Exterminatus, a decision Asmodai thought weak but predictable. Even without knowing the events on Ulthor and Tharsis, the Supreme Grand Master had chosen to compromise rather than take decisive action. The Chaplain had not spoken to Belial since the Penitent Warrior had jumped in-system, but he knew that the Deathwing commander would bear the news with his usual phlegmatic manner.

The Master of the First Company followed his Knights from the Thunderhawk, Ezekiel and Sapphon with him. Sammael and Malcifer had arrived at the Rock three days earlier, the Ravenwing’s transit through the warp slightly swifter than their brothers in the Deathwing. Asmodai could see them as the gates opened, standing beside Lord Azrael.

The prisoner and escort halted as they reached the bare stone paving outside the dungeon entrance. Belial and his companions passed them, the Grand Master of the Deathwing with eyes only for the Supreme Grand Master. Asmodai had ensured that Belial knew nothing of what had happened with the arrival of Cypher, and they had not spoken since departing Tharsis. Their last conversation still troubled Asmodai.

Belial was still in the semicomatose state induced by Asmodai’s psycommand words. The Interrogator-Chaplain approached and whispered in the Grand Master’s ear.

‘Somnalatus exaunt.’

Belial straightened but there was still a glassy, faraway cast to his gaze. His catalepsean node was returning to normal function, but in the next few minutes Belial would be capable of interacting with the Chaplain, and also highly susceptible to any prompt or implanted thought. Asmodai chose his words carefully.

‘Master Belial, do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Yes,’ the Deathwing commander mumbled.

‘Do you recall what happened before sleep took you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me what happened from the time that you left your chamber to meet me.’

‘I assembled the escort squad as protocol dictates, mustering at the second guard chamber of the cell deck.’

‘What were you thinking?’ Asmodai asked.

‘I was concerned with the procedure of the incarceration. The prisoner is highly valuable and extremely dangerous. It was not the time to allow for any mistake.’

‘And your thoughts towards the prisoner at that time?’

‘I was not considering him as a person, simply a prisoner, an object that required careful handling. I did not have any thoughts towards him beyond that.’

‘You arrived with the escort party and waited at the door for my command, is that correct? How did you feel then?’

‘That is correct. I was expectant, curious to see what the arch-renegade looked like. Anticipation, a little apprehension that I did not welcome.’

‘What happened next?’

‘When I entered, when I laid eyes upon the prisoner, I felt hatred boiling inside me.’

‘At that exact moment when you saw him?’

‘Yes. I realised that he had to die. I did not want my Knights to see what I was going to do, nor give them the chance to intervene. I closed the door. I moved to kill the prisoner with my blade and you protected him.’

‘Why did he have to die?’

‘I am not certain.’

‘Not certain? You showed no reluctance to slay him. You were possessed by conviction. Why did he have to die?’

‘It was an instinct, an overwhelming urge. He is the arch-renegade, the traitoris principe and death was his punishment.’

Asmodai could see comprehension begin to return to Belial’s eyes. He had to act swiftly.

‘The prisoner misspoke, insulting the Chapter and the Lion. He provoked you.’

Belial’s brow wrinkled in confusion but he parroted the line a few seconds later.

‘The prisoner tricked you into drawing your blade and tried to take it from you.’

Again Belial, words faltering, recited the line.

‘I intervened to assist you and my hand caught on the exposed blade.’

‘He sliced off your fingers,’ said Belial, looking down at the Chaplain’s ravaged hand. That was a good sign. The Deathwing commander was starting to create the false memories himself, picking up the narrative implanted by Asmodai. The more he imagined for himself, the better the memory would sit in his mind.

‘That is correct.’

‘I came to your aid and restrained the prisoner.’

Asmodai bit back the instinct to correct this assertion. He suppressed his pride and allowed himself to be pictured as the victim in the exchange.

‘That is also correct.’

Belial nodded, almost fully awake again.

‘You will not remember us having this conversation, only the events as you have related them. You have just sent the prisoner away with the escort and are going to inform the apothecarion of my injury. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Mnemonis dialogis non memorianda est.’

Belial came to consciousness like a man resurfacing from being beneath the waves. He looked around the flight bay and then back at Asmodai, his gaze straying to the wounded hand.

‘Apothecary, this is Belial. Master Asmodai is on his way for treatment. Digital loss. Inform the armoury master, active prosthetics will be required.’

Asmodai flexed his artificial fingers, the movement still feeling stiff and unnatural. The Techmarines had removed his whole hand – easier than attaching individual digits – weaving the old tendons, reinforced with muscle fibres similar to those used in power armour, around a metal and plastic skeleton. Black tubing acted as veins and capillaries. The bionic was covered with a thin sheen of blood, though he had been assured that would dissipate as the biowelding healed fully.

The ruddy glow of lamps flickered off thousands of skulls adorning the walls and ceiling of the vast sepulchre, gleaming in eyeless sockets and shining off polished lipless grins. Many were human, but most were not: a mix of subtle, elongated features, brutal, bucket-jawed aliens, eyeless monstrosities, horned, twisted creatures and many other contorted, inhuman stares looked down upon the assembled Dark Angels.

The solitary toll of a bell brought the assembled guard to attention, both officers and Knights. The great gates in front of the prisoners opened inwards, another clanging of the bell drowning out the hiss of hydraulics and creak of ancient hinges. When the gates were fully open Belial gestured to the escort to advance. Under their prompting, Anovel and Cypher marched across the threshold into the dungeons of the Rock.

Azrael’s hood was raised. Nothing could be seen of his expression.

‘Brother Malcifer, lead the escort to the prisoners’ cells,’ he said, his voice quiet, the softest of echoes returning from the walls of the dungeon vault. ‘The rest of you will remain with me.’

Asmodai peeled away from the group with Belial, Sapphon, Ezekiel and Sammael to either side of him. They waited for further instruction from their lord, who followed the progress of the captives into the depths. When the last sound of footfalls had passed, the Supreme Grand Master turned silently and led his senior officers to a set of steps winding up from the entrance tunnel.

Asmodai had never seen the stairwell before – he had always come either by shuttle or gunship, or down the steps located a few dozen metres further into the Rock, which descended from the Lower Reclusiam of the Tower of Angels that soared above them. He glanced at his companions and saw that they were similarly intrigued, the existence of the steps known previously entirely to Azrael. Only Ezekiel remained unmoved, his eyes fixed on the Lord of the Dark Angels.

The stair did not ascend far, thirty steps in all, and brought them into a space illuminated by a dim, flickering light. Asmodai judged the chamber to be just below the Great Library where candidates for the Inner Circle were tested, and the successful were given their tuition in the innermost mysteries of the Chapter.

There was a curtained archway to one side, probably leading to another secret entrance in the Grand Library. The room was round, a star inlaid in twelve alternating red and black points in the stone floor. Azrael stepped onto the white circle at the centre of the design and turned to face them. His officers halted just short of the star, looking around the chamber.

Asmodai turned his gaze towards the ceiling and saw another star above, the colours reversed so that red was above black and black above red. The centre was formed by a large crystal that glimmered with pale light. It was inscribed with a ten-pointed star, and inside that another star with eight points, then six. The last, no larger than the tip of Asmodai’s finger, had four points.

He detected a subtle intake of breath by his companions and he returned his gaze to the rest of the room. In the shadows at the edge of the chamber he saw diminutive figures, no taller than waist-high. There had to be two dozen of them, swathed in dark robes that hid any sight of the form within. Eyes gleamed like embers beneath their cowls.

Watchers in the Dark.

They had always been around the Rock, and Asmodai had never questioned their existence. They were as much a part of the Dark Angels as the green armour and the robes of office. The Watchers had been there when Asmodai had first been brought into the Chapter and a rarely seen but unremarkable sight ever since.

It struck him now as odd that their presence had been so disregarded by everyone. Outsiders simply assumed that they were child serfs or some kind of Adeptus Mechanicus servitor-creation specific to the Chapter. Asmodai had never given them much thought until now.

His speculation was interrupted by Azrael.

‘This is the Hidden Chamber. A banal name for a place of such importance.’ The Supreme Grand Master turned a full circle, arms wide. ‘Within these walls the first Inner Circle convened.’

‘To discuss Guilliman’s Codex Astartes and the break-up of the Legion,’ offered Sammael.

‘No,’ Azrael replied bluntly, completing his rotation. He pulled back his hood, revealing a face with dark eyes, gaunt cheeks and furrowed brow. ‘That is a lie. One of several likely to be exposed over the coming days and months. We were told the Inner Circle came together to discuss the formation of the Chapters, but that event predates the Inner Circle’s inception by several decades. Thus I have found in the private library of my position.’

Asmodai looked as Azrael raised a hand and gestured to his right. The Watchers had parted and where there had been a plain wall there was now an archway leading into a small book-lined chamber. Sapphon took a step forward, entranced by this apparition.

Several Watchers gathered between the Master of Sanctity and the library. They made no noise, said nothing, but their eyes glimmered a little brighter, though they revealed nothing more of their faces. An air of oppression, of chastisement filled the chamber and Sapphon hurriedly stepped back, muttering an apology. The Watchers parted again, their eyes dimming.

‘Do not think that this is the only secret library in the Rock,’ Azrael said with a lopsided smile. His gaze roamed across them all, and settled on Ezekiel. ‘I know that you each have records and tomes peculiar to your positions, and only one of us has access to copies of them all.’

Asmodai wondered how Azrael had learned of the collection of lore volumes in the crypt of the Upper Reclusiam – databanks that expanded with every interrogation of the Fallen. He realised that the Lord of the Chapter was speaking generally, and did not know the location or contents of these additional knowledge banks. The intimation that the Chief Librarian knew the contents was a trifle unsettling, however, although it was obvious, now that he considered the possibility.

‘The Inner Circle was first drawn together to discuss a new and terrible threat to the Chapter. The existence of the Fallen.’ Azrael paused to allow his words to sink in. ‘Swallowed by a great warp storm as battle raged for Caliban, the traitors that had turned on the Lion were thought destroyed for a generation. Our predecessors had believed the rebels annihilated by the tempest they had summoned to aid victory, torn apart by the same energies that had ripped asunder our home world. And then the first of the Fallen was found and the truth of their scattering became known.’

‘Why would such a thing be kept secret?’ asked Belial. ‘We all know the purpose of the Inner Circle.’

‘I cannot answer that, because the records do not show, at least not to me,’ Azrael replied. ‘Many reasons for acts in the distant past have been lost. The shock of the revelation, the creation of the Hunt, these matters preoccupied the officers of the Chapter. The first Inner Circle consisted of twelve Grand Masters, the Chapter Master of the Dark Angels and his peers that ruled the eleven Successors of that time. From that first enclave the decision was made to pursue the Fallen with all vigour and secrecy, and the rule of the Inner Circle was disseminated to all the Chapters of the Unforgiven.’

Asmodai gritted his teeth at mention of the secret name held by the descendants of the Dark Angels Legion. He despised the appellation, for it assumed that the Dark Angels were guilty of the sins of the Fallen. He did not cleave to that philosophy though many did, and preferred to think of the Dark Angels and their Successors as the Vengeance of the Lion, not the bearers of a hidden shame.

‘Why reveal this to us now, Master Azrael?’ asked Ezekiel, who knew much but clearly not everything. His bionic eye shone red as he glanced at his brothers. ‘It is the capture of Cypher, is it not?’

‘It is.’ Azrael moved a few steps and stopped at one of the points of the star, facing his library. Asmodai followed, an odd compulsion drawing him onto the point two to the left of the Supreme Grand Master. The others took up positions around the device, Ezekiel on the right hand of his lord, Sapphon directly opposite. ‘Cypher holds the key to our salvation. And our damnation.’

Asmodai glanced down and saw that he was flanked by two Watchers in the Dark. So were the others. Their diminutive escorts bore identical articles. The one on the right of each warrior carried an empty silver goblet. The Watcher to the left bore a slender dagger.

‘You must all swear a new oath today. Rather, you must swear a very ancient oath, sworn first in this chamber and only by six more groups since.’

‘What oath could bind us to greater secrecy than we already have sworn?’ asked Sammael. ‘By what power higher than the Lion and the Emperor could we swear?’

‘A good question,’ Azrael said. ‘Our honour has been staked in the sight of the Emperor Himself, so what further demand could be made? The first Inner Circle were more pragmatic. They swore a blood oath, that death would find them if they broke their word.’

The Watchers beside the Supreme Grand Master moved in front of him and turned, the one with the knife presenting its weapon. Azrael took the golden blade and held it to his palm while the second Watcher in the Dark held up the goblet beneath. A stream of crimson filled the cup as Azrael drew the blade across his hand.

‘With this blood I seal my lips. With this blood I still my tongue. I hold faith with my brothers present today that all I shall learn about the Dark Angels, the traitors of Luther and the breaking of Caliban will never be passed to another. Should I break this oath, shall my lips be sealed and tongue stilled for eternity.’

When Azrael had returned the dagger to the Watcher, the two creatures moved away, disappearing into the shadows. One by one they each repeated the blood-pact, until it was Asmodai’s turn. Out of instinct he sought to replicate Azrael’s deed, but realised that he held the knife in his left hand, ready to slice the palm of his new bionic.

He paused, taken aback by this, alarmed that this was a bad portent. He tried to dismiss the notion and swapped hands, quickly pulling the blade across exposed flesh. He was too hasty, the cut deeper than he wished. He hid the mistake, putting his hands behind his back when the Watcher had collected a goblet of blood, grasping the cloth of his robe tight to help his genhanced blood stem the flow.

‘So your life will be forfeit if you break the faith that has been sworn today,’ said Azrael. ‘Now I can tell you that this is not the first time Cypher has been captured. It was he that caused the first conclave of the Inner Circle to gather. He presented himself at the very gate we have just left, demanding audience with the lords of the Chapter. Another six times has he been in our grasp, yet on all occasions he has escaped retribution for his betrayal.’

The Supreme Grand Master looked each of his lieutenants squarely in the eye, his jaw set.

‘We will not make the mistakes of the past. There will be no in fighting, no personal agendas and no cross purposes. My will, my word, is absolute and any that choose to think otherwise will be held instantly accountable.’ He took a deep breath, his point made. When the Supreme Grand Master continued, his voice dropped to a determined whisper. ‘The future of the Chapter, of all the Unforgiven, has been placed in our hands and we shall not squander it.’

DARK PROPHECIES

Watching the others leave, Azrael understood their bewilderment and frustration. He had related everything he had learned about Cypher from the ledgers of the Chapter Masters, and it was woefully little. The position of Lord Cypher had been shrouded in mystery throughout the history of the Order, and such secrecy had endured for the warrior bearing the title at the fall of Caliban. Despite clear opportunities to subject Cypher to excruciation at the hands of the Interrogators, Azrael’s predecessors had singularly failed to do so, unless some record was kept in one of the other hidden libraries he had spoken of.

Of the previous seven occasions of Cypher’s incarceration, four had resulted from the rebel presenting himself to his captors. The three remaining circumstances were vague, the reports of dubious authenticity, so that Azrael suspected the encounters had been arranged by Cypher but the chronicler was reluctant to admit as much.

He wondered how he would write this latest entry into this particular tale.

Similarly, the reports were unclear on the manner of his departure. Escape from the Rock was impossible, yet Cypher had found freedom seven times before. Azrael had instituted new security regimes and guard doctrine as soon as he had learned from Sammael of the arch-renegade’s capture, but he feared it was not enough. Earlier Chapter Masters must have tried similar strategies, without success.

The only other connecting theme between the encounters was their timing. Every appearance of Cypher happened just before a pivotal moment in the Chapter’s history – the eve of a great victory or defeat.

There were many missing elements of these accounts too. Supreme Grand Master Cariontis had not disclosed why he had despatched the entirety of the Third and Fourth Companies to Trangenia, where they had been wiped out at Clevinger’s Pass by unknown assailants. Equally, Master Dameus shared nothing of the instinct that had guided him to move the Rock to the Akartier System where it met with several of the Successors to intercept a sizeable traitor legionary force breaking out of the Eye of Terror. Again and again, calamity and triumph were presaged by Cypher’s arrival.

Azrael had to know which it was this time. There was only one source that could tell him.

He turned around and saw that the Watchers had anticipated his desire. The wall behind him was broken by a slender arch, beyond which the Deep Stair led into the bowels of the Rock. Half of the creatures had already descended, the rest remaining as escort to the Supreme Grand Master. They held small lamps that glowed with amber light, but still nothing could be seen of their faces. All that showed of them were hands, mostly hidden by the voluminous sleeves of their robes, gloved in a material so black it might have been woven from the shadows in the cosmic depths between stars.

Not for the first time, Azrael wanted to know what was beneath the hoods. Even as the thought entered his mind, he felt he was being observed, the presence of the Watchers becoming suddenly obtrusive and judgemental.

It was always there, that last secret, a subtext in every memoir and chronicle he had studied. The Watchers in the Dark had been part of Caliban, part of the Order, but there was nothing to suggest that they were anything other than true to the Lion. Like those that had borne his title before, Azrael simply had to accept the Watchers as what they were – guardians of an older mystery he would never unveil.

‘Your secret is safe,’ he told them, not even sure they could hear or understand him. Communication was more primal, a shared instinct or desire, a subtle entwining of thoughts.

The Watchers in the Dark were shadows again, as unheeded as the material of the Rock itself. Azrael started towards the revealed stairs and remembered the first time he had descended them.

The dream returned. Seven days had passed since the mantle of Supreme Grand Master had passed to Azrael. Seven nights had come and gone, each bringing with them the same nightmarish apparition.

The tower stood on a hill, broken, windows empty, battlements crumbled.

A flash of lightning, highlighting a face in the lowest slit, hands clasping bars. A plaintive howl split the night air, from no wolf or animal, unleashed from a human throat.

The sky reddened, with flame not a new dawn. An inferno rose up from the ground, its sound the cackle of laughter, the movement of the bright fire like grasping fingers. It surrounded the tower, throwing ruddy light onto ancient stones.

The moans and cries of the man in the tower were piercing, his agony as the flames consumed him more visceral than any experience Azrael felt in waking. In the shrieks he felt his own body burning, his flesh stripped away, soul bared to the licking flames.

He was in the tower, he realised. He must rescue himself.

For the seventh time, Azrael awoke on the cot. The chambers of the Supreme Grand Master seemed strange, still new and awkward. He ran a hand over his chest, wiping away waxy sweat. His fingers followed the ridges and whorls and holes of battle scars, feeling the rigid surface of the black carapace beneath a layer of leathery skin and fat.

By the doorway, a Watcher in the Dark stood, regarding him silently, the glow of red eyes sharp inside its hood. It turned away and walked into the outer room.

This time Azrael followed, finally understanding the summons of the dream.

The Watcher waited patiently as Azrael pulled on his bone-white robe and belted it tight. Symbolic and real keys clattered together, along with the talismans of lamps and hourglasses, amulets of swords and angels’ wings. Centuries of service rendered into symbols with hidden meanings.

Barefooted he padded after the diminutive creature. The chamber door swung wide at his approach, though he voiced no command nor bade the locks to open.

I am still in the dream, he decided.

The sense of unreality continued as he stepped out into the corridor. It was dark. Not just shadowed, but utterly black, save for the glitter of bright eyes lining the passage to his left. The row of light points headed towards the Great Library.

His escort produced a torch from somewhere. It burned with white flame, but its illumination did not reach the lines of creatures flanking Azrael’s path, creating a deeper darkness in which they hid.

The Watcher in the Dark led him on, until they came to the huge double doors of the Great Library. Azrael moved towards the portal but found it barred against him, the Watchers refusing to part ranks. Something – not a sound but some other instinct, a twitch on the nape of his neck – caused him to turn.

In the wall, where he knew there was bare dressed stone, an archway had appeared. The keystone was moulded with the winged sword symbol, its blade broken. The sigil of the Deathwing, Azrael knew. But in this context he realised that it was not for the Deathwing that the icon had been created – the First Company merely borrowed it from a far older time.

Steps led down into the darkness, and into that gloom the Watcher disappeared.

Hesitantly, he followed, just about keeping the dim flicker of the Watcher’s brand in view.

The steps continued for some time and he passed doors and archways, but his guide continued straight down. He would explore these hidden depths given time, but he knew that his present destination lay at the bottom of the stair.

He reached that point and found the Watcher waiting for him. There were lit torches in sconces on the walls, lighting the near end of a rectangular chamber no more than ten metres wide but disappearing into darkness thirty metres away. Azrael proceeded down the hall and more brands burst into life to either side, lighting his path by a few metres at a time.

Iron doors, riveted and reinforced, locked with heavy bars, lined the hall. Azrael heard only the sound of his steps and felt only the beating of his twin hearts. He knew these cells were empty.

The torches brought him to the last cell, set into the end of the hall. There was no door here, no bars. A shimmer of energy three metres by three metres obscured whatever was within, but Azrael could make out the outline of a man, arms upraised as if pleading with unknown gods.

He realised that the Watchers in the Dark had joined him, clustered around him in a semicircle, as though stopping him from retreating from that cell.

The figure inside was unmoving and it occurred to Azrael that he was looking into a stasis field. He could not hear the slightest buzz of power, though, and he wondered if the field was physical in origin at all.

The field dimmed and cleared, revealing the cell’s occupant.

He was tall and broad, for a human, though not as large as a Space Marine. He wore a ragged kilt of stiff leather, revealing that he had undergone extensive augmentation and alteration. Azrael could clearly see the ridged tubes and reinforcements around muscles and bones. The man’s skin had a slightly jaundiced cast to it, evidence of extensive stimulants and steroidal boosters – piping inlaid between his shoulder blades and sprouting from the small of his back paid testament to surgically implanted reservoirs for these substances.

The prisoner had his back to Azrael but his face was in profile. Noble of bearing, but contorted in a pained expression, eyes cast up to the heavens in despair. The glitter of cybernetics lay in his eyes and there were auto-sense-like receivers inserted into the back of his ears.

The field snapped off.

‘…and rightful restitution shall be made! I beseech you, heed my cries, master!’

The man’s lament faltered away, his head cocking to one side as he turned towards Azrael.

‘Ah.’ The prisoner looked surprised. ‘A new one.’

‘A new what?’ demanded Azrael.

‘A new Lord of Aldurukh, of course. What did they call you? Thy name?’

‘Azrael,’ he replied without thinking.

A smile twisted the man’s lips, but there was little humour in his eyes. He flinched suddenly, at some thought or sight unknown to Azrael. The prisoner started to whisper, in no tongue that the Supreme Grand Master recognised.

‘What did you do with the Lion?’ the man suddenly demanded, face contorting into a feral snarl.

‘The Lion is dead,’ Azrael said.

‘Of course.’ The captive slumped, shaking his head. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘That’s what they want thee to think. But he hears my pleas, I know it.’

‘Who are you?’ Azrael demanded.

‘Thou know not?’ The prisoner looked crestfallen at this revelation. ‘Some of the others realised straight away. I am disappointed. Your angels gave me many titles. Your predecessors spat many epithets in my face, but my name is Luther.’

That had been the first time, but not the last.

Without the Watchers to open the path, Azrael descended by a slightly different route, coming to a huge iron gate sealed with a silver lock in the dressed stone wall beside it. He unsheathed the Sword of Secrets and pushed the blade into the locking mechanism. There was a sensation of warmth from the weapon and the lock opened with a clatter of hidden gears and bars. He withdrew the sword and the gate swung open onto the corridor that led to the abandoned cell block.

Azrael came to that cell again, a plain wooden chair set facing the haze of the stasis field. A cluster of Watchers waited in the shadows. Inside, Luther was hunched forward on the bench at the side of the cell, his hands making fists in his lap. What could be seen of his face was a mask of anguish, teeth bared, droplets of spittle from his lips suspended in mid-fall.

Azrael sat down, and as if this was an instruction the stasis field flickered and died.

‘…burning twin moons of life and death, sundering from the world of men…’ Luther’s rant died away as he realised time had moved on. He sat up and looked at Azrael with uncomprehending eyes.

‘Welcome back,’ said Azrael. ‘Four hundred and thirty-eight days have passed for me since we last spoke. Or thereabouts. Warp travel makes it hard to keep track of precise dates.’

The Lord of the Dark Angels had discovered that it helped Luther settle if he was given some sense of the passage of time. From the Dark Oracle’s viewpoint his life had become a stuttering existence of minutes at a time, each period of activity no more than an hour, eked out over ten millennia. Context made the architect of the Calibanite rebellion more coherent. For a short time, at least.

Azrael had read the earliest records of the Dark Prophecies, and it was clear that Luther had never been sane, not from the time he surrendered to the forces of the Lion and was placed in the stasis cell. Even so, his grasp on reality had slipped more and more with each passing century. Azrael considered himself fortunate if he gleaned four or five sentences of cogent thought from his captive.

‘The visions,’ said Luther. His eyes filled with intelligence and recognition. His voice was deep, assured, authoritative. It was the sort of voice Azrael could see himself obeying. The voice of a leader.

The Dark Oracle was a psyker of prodigious talent, though he had never possessed such abilities in the service of the Lion. A gift from the Chaos powers, the old chronicles proposed, in reward for heretical loyalty. Despite his mental puissance, he had never once used his abilities in aggression against his captors.

‘What about the visions?’ the Supreme Grand Master asked quietly, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees.

‘They break mine intellect, Azrael. I sensed the query in thy thoughts. The answer is yea, the visions take a toll upon my mind.’

‘You seem lucid enough now.’

‘A serpentine piece of string to which I cling, how depressing. It will slip from my fingers soon.’

‘You already know why I am here. What can you tell me about Cypher?’

‘My Lord Cypher? He is dead. Slain by the hand of the Houndlord who bore my master’s blade.’

‘You know that is not true. Cypher was saved, as were the other Fallen. What does it mean? Why has he come here?’

‘My Lord Cypher returns to me?’ A look of hope passed across the Dark Oracle’s face, but was swiftly replaced by a mask of paranoia. ‘My companion in treachery, the goad and the hand of my darkest will. He knows that I must confess. But he cannot hear it. Only the Lion can give mine absolution! Only the Lion can name my penance!’

Luther’s words devolved into growling and muttering, a mix of archaic Imperial Gothic, High Gothic and ancient Calibanese. Azrael would usually wait for the fits to pass but anxiety forced him to be hasty. Every minute Cypher was in custody was time that the Chapter could be moving towards a catastrophe.

‘Why has Cypher come here? Why now?’ Azrael demanded, standing up. ‘What does Cypher want?’

Luther fell silent and stood up as well. Though Azrael knew for a fact that the heretic was not even as tall as a Space Marine, at that instant the Dark Oracle seemed to fill his cell. The shadows crowded close about Luther, the lamps in the outer chamber guttering. Azrael sensed agitation from the Watchers in the Dark and realised that several more had appeared.

In the gloom, Luther’s eyes were silver points, like distant stars.

‘The fall of Caliban approaches!’ the Dark Oracle declared. ‘The sky will burn and the ground will tremble and a world will die!’

‘That is an event ten thousand years past,’ said Azrael. It was not uncommon for the Dark Oracle to lament his actions of the rebellion. Sometimes this yielded valuable information, but the digression was unwelcome now. ‘Caliban broke a hundred centuries ago. Cypher. Tell me about Cypher.’

‘The herald sounds the clarion. The dark heart stirs and all will be broken asunder. The past, present and future, that which was, is and will be, united again.’

Luther’s gaze moved away from Azrael, no less piercing, but directed towards a spot on the wall, seeing something that was not smooth-cut stone.

‘I have wronged thee, my Lord! My transgressions are beyond the counting, my wrongs innumerable. Hear my confession, master, and release me from their torment of guilt. I demand justice, punishment for my sins, and the release of my soul! Why won’t thou heed my pleas? Thou listen but do not reply.’

The Dark Oracle fell to his knees, sobbing.

‘He cares not for my lament. Hard as the stone, unfeeling. I will whisper it, and shout it, and whisper it again. I failed you, master. I failed you.’

It was obvious that Luther would be no more use at that time. The shimmer of the stasis field returned the instant the thought occurred to Azrael, freezing Luther in a pose of obeisance and petition, hands clasped and imploring, staring at the wall as though his master was before him. Crystalline tears welled in his desperate eyes.

‘A madman,’ Azrael muttered, turning away. The circumstances gave a venomous edge to the Supreme Grand Master’s thoughts. ‘I hope the Lion’s shade torments you in your sleep, you traitorous dog.’

PENANCE

The penitent’s robe chafed. It was meant to. It vexed Annael as much as the harsh cloth itself, to think that he had been engineered to endure all manner of pain, to survive wounds that would slay lesser mortals, and yet a simple linen tabard could irritate him so thoroughly.

The robe was light grey, bereft of any insignia or design. Despite his physical bulk, this rendered him virtually invisible to his battle-brothers. He ranked beneath even the serfs and knaves. Only servitors were lower in the Chapter’s hierarchy, considered materiel rather than people.

He knelt on the floor of the Black Reclusiam, the chapel set aside for the Ravenwing on those rare occasions when they spent time in the Tower of Angels. The long benches were as old as his armour, the varnish peeled and cracked as he applied another coat of lacquer with a coarse brush. More varnish than wood remained, he thought.

It was the only time he and the other Black Knights were allowed in the Black Reclusiam. Amongst their many bans was sharing the devotionals and recitals conducted by Malcifer for the rest of the company.

He had expected penance, had even desired it. But this penance was like no other he had experienced. No Dark Angel could wholly avoid spending time in the penitentium now and then. Whether caught by the vagaries of the Chapter’s arcane lore or the notoriously fickle demands of the Chaplains – or worse still, the unflinching application of the Rites by Asmodai – it was expected that every battle-brother would spend time in the Reclusiam to acknowledge his sins. Time was spent transcribing the annals of the Chapter or reciting aloud canticles of doctrine and war-prayers. A few days, a week or two.

The Black Knights had disobeyed their Grand Master, the fact could not be denied. Even so, the Black Knights’ incarceration seemed harsh to Annael. From the moment they had returned to the Implacable Justice and presented themselves before Chaplain Malcifer and Grand Master Sammael they had been sentenced to penitent status indefinitely. Only on return to the Rock had they been permitted to perform duties outside the penitentium.

It was serf-work mainly. Scraping the algal build-up from the environmental humidifier intakes. Scrubbing walls and floors. Assisting the Techmarines with oily unguents that stained the fingers. Helping the refectora prepare the nutrigruel, carboloafs and vitamead for the warriors of the companies – nearly a thousand mouths to feed, with the Chapter wholly assembled for the first time in years. The penitents themselves ate in their solitary cells, forbidden from mixing with the other battle-brothers.

Most of it was drudgery, pure and simple. Some of it was dangerous, to a degree. Sabrael and Annael had been sent out into the void to chip ice crystals from a failed plasma exchange, protected by nothing more than antiquated environment suits, attached to the Rock by frayed tethers. Sabrael had quipped that their superiors wanted the Black Knights dead, but Annael had not shared his morbid humour.

The menial tasks were meant to give the penitents time to think on their transgressions and come to repent them. It was not punishment, but opportunity. Freed from the concerns of the battle-brothers, the penitents had the time to focus on their redemption.

So three-quarters of each day was spent. Another five hours were used for study and transcription, the absorption of knowledge, the repetition of the edicts and strictures the slabs on the road to understanding and absolution.

One hour was set aside for sleep and another for two meals and necessary hygienic matters. Annael was used to routine, every Dark Angel was. In that respect, the penance was nothing to endure.

What Annael hated most was the humiliation.

The details of the Black Knights’ crimes were not shared with any other, and any rumour would be ruthlessly crushed by the Chaplains. The good deed performed by Annael and his companions was unknown to the rest of the Chapter. All they saw were grey robes. Transgressors. Tainted and honourless. Annael was bidden by oath to offer no dispute to any accusation or insult levelled at him by his brothers. He was not to speak to them, not even the Supreme Grand Master. Only Malcifer was to communicate with the penitents, the voice and ears by which they would be guided back to their righteous place amongst the ranks of the Dark Angels.

This fact chafed Annael as much as the robe itself. They had saved Sabrael! Yet not a word was he allowed to utter in his defence, ashamed and dishonoured before all.

He had endured the curses of ‘turnword’, ‘sliptongue’, ‘slywound’ and ‘skainbreak’, and without reply. When Brother Varidetus had called him a ‘stinking oath-wretch’ and split his lip with a punch, Annael had accepted this pronouncement in silence. He would harbour no resentment to Varidetus – Annael had inflicted worse on penitents in his time. It was not only permitted, but expected. The punishment of the body went hand-in-hand with the vexation of the soul.

‘Your brush falls idle, Annael.’ Malcifer approached along the gap between the benches, his black robe dragging across the floor Annael had swept at the start of the day. He wore no mask, but his face was just as lifeless. The continual omission of ‘brother’ was another subtle but piercing chastisement. ‘I trust that you were so wrapped in sorrow for your abandoned brothers that it quite overwhelmed you.’

‘My abandoned brothers?’ Annael moved to stand up but a gesture from Malcifer kept him on his knees.

‘The First Company that you chose to ignore while you pursued your personal goal.’

‘I did not abandon them, but time was of the essence.’

‘It was indeed, but time does not twist at your behest any more than your superiors receive their orders from you. There was a mission, in which you were called upon to participate, and in your absence you brought greater risk to the lives of your battle-brothers.’

‘But we saved Sabrael!’ Finally Annael was able to speak the words out loud. It did not make him feel any better, now that the deed was done.

‘The result justifies the defiance, does it?’

Malcifer’s sharp words made Annael realise how petulant the protest sounded. The words seemed hollow, failing to capture the sentiment he had intended.

‘A brother’s life was directly threatened, Brother-Chaplain.’ How could he explain? How would Malcifer, the embodiment of discipline and adherence to the strictures of the Chapter, possibly understand? ‘Are we not meant to act to preserve our brothers?’

‘The matter was brought to the attention of Grand Master Sammael and he disapproved of any such act. You disobeyed not only his desire, but his direct command. You can claim no ignorance of the crime nor cite any reason that supercedes a superior’s order.’

‘How much longer must we pay penance?’ Annael asked, returning to his labour at a gesture from the Chaplain. ‘I am sorry that we had to disobey Master Sammael.’

‘You misunderstand the intent of your penance, Annael.’ Malcifer turned his back on the Space Marine but did not walk away. ‘It is not a punishment, to be meted out from me to you to balance a scale that has been skewed. This penance is for a crime that borders on treason, and save for execution no punishment could be weighed against such sin.’

‘So what must I do?’ Annael laid aside the brush and looked up with desperation. ‘I am sorry.’

‘A meaningless word.’ Malcifer looked back, brow creased with anger. ‘Your apology does not match the spirit in your heart, so save your tongue from the burn of platitudes.’

‘But I am sorry, Brother-Chaplain.’

‘Sorry is an expression of guilt. Your admittance of the facts of your transgression does not equate to repentance. Do you believe you would act differently if presented with the same situation again?’ Annael paused and Malcifer seized upon the hesitation. ‘Your equivocation speaks volumes more than carefully-crafted words! You do not regret your actions, and admit no wrong in them. Until you do so, you have not repented and so there can be no forgiveness.’

The Chaplain walked away up the aisle, head bowed in disappointment, hands clasped behind his back. Annael watched him depart, and only when he heard the hiss of the doors sealing closed did he snatch up the brush and throw it at the wall, spattering the bulkhead with red lacquer.

He instantly regretted the act. Someone – probably him – would have to clean up the mess, and he had defiled the sepulchre of the Ravenwing.

There was no point in simply telling Malcifer what he wanted to hear. The Chaplain was experienced enough to detect the slightest falsehood. Even if that were not the case, Annael could not bring himself to utter an untruth. He did not believe that rescuing Sabrael had been wrong, and events proved that. To admit otherwise would be a tremendous act of cowardice, for his principles but also for his friend.

HALF-LIFE

The hissing, whirring machines, the stench of antibacterial agents and whitewashed walls meant that he was in an apothecarion. After a few seconds’ contemplation of this fact, analysing the background noise and vibrations, the smell, the sounds from beyond the glass door in front of him, Telemenus concluded that he had been returned to the Rock.

He could see himself – what was left of his body – in the door of a metal cabinet polished to a mirror-like finish. He was on a life-support stretcher, nothing more than a head, half a torso and his right arm. Where his guts and legs had been was a mess of tubes, pumps, blood-scrubbers and stimm-feeds.

The glow-globe above was a warm yellow, leaving blotches of darkness in his eyes when he looked away. It was strange to think that even his vision had been damaged, though he had suffered no blow to the head.

‘Such is the intricate nature of your physiology,’ the Emperor said. The Lord of Terra manifested Himself as a small star-like reflection of a sun, in the curved shade of the lamp beside the life-support cot. There was the faint hint of a skull at the centre of the miniature sun, while the Emperor’s corona swayed and flared like hair in a strong wind. ‘A finely honed but delicately balanced system. Without certain agents previously introduced into your bloodstream by organs that are now missing, your visual acuity has returned to that of a normal human.’

A figure appeared at the glass screen of the door – a serf in white orderly robes. He saw that Telemenus was awake, nodded encouragingly and then departed.

‘I was in stasis,’ Telemenus said, though he kept the words inside his head where only the Emperor could hear them. ‘I wonder what happened after Ulthor.’

‘Do not concern yourself with wider events. Your immediate fate must be of more concern. Your body is crippled but you must convince the Apothecaries that your mind is still fully functioning.’

With some effort, Telemenus moved his hand to his chest.

‘I will do all that I can to continue to serve. I swore an oath to fight for You until my death. I will cleave to that oath if I can.’

‘Your will is strong. That much is proven by the fact that you still live. Brother Ezekiel himself declared so. The Chapter makes use of even the most grievously wounded. Only despair will rob you of the chance to serve Me further.’

‘That You have chosen me banishes all despair, Master of Mankind. I take strength from Your indulgence. With Your wisdom to guide me and Your will to sustain me, there is no test I fear.’

There was more movement at the door and a white-robed Apothecary entered, followed by a Space Marine in the red tabard of the armoury – a Techmarine. Telemenus recognised both – the former from the Deathwing, the latter by the bionic appendage that had replaced his right arm and the plasma scars up the side of his face.

‘Brother Temraen, Brother Adrophius,’ he welcomed them. Telemenus smiled. ‘Excuse me for not standing.’

They took the joke with thin smiles, their lips at odds with the concern in their eyes. Telemenus regretted his flippancy, wondering if being so dismissive of his condition made him seem less stable.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Temraen.

It was an odd question. Telemenus hardly felt anything. There was not much left of him to feel. He decided that honesty was the best approach.

‘My hand is slightly numb,’ he said, waggling his fingers. ‘My eyesight has diminished also. Breathing seems laboured and I am fatigued.’

Temraen accepted this status report with a nod. He hummed a hymnal as he checked the gauges on the life-support cradle.

‘That is nothing unusual,’ the Apothecary said, making further notes on the data-slate in his hand. Telemenus desperately wanted to know what Temraen was writing, but said nothing, afraid that undue interest might be taken as paranoia. ‘The loss of your third lung and secondary heart will have that effect. I am compensating with mechanical and alchemical solutions, but we will have to wean you off their assistance eventually. You can function with what remains, but it is better to let your system adapt over time. Any side-effects of the suspended animation induction?’

‘No.’ Telemenus looked at Adrophius. ‘How can I be of assistance, brother-armourer?’

The Techmarine crouched and looked closely at the scars and scabs of Telemenus’s wounds. Expressionless, he stood again and received the Apothecary’s slate to study for a few seconds.

‘Difficult,’ said the Techmarine, though Telemenus did not know the question to which this was obviously the answer.

‘What is difficult, brother?’ asked Telemenus. He became sharply aware of the increased beep on one of the machines attached to him as his heart started to race. He turned his attention back to Temraen. ‘What have you been discussing?’

‘Apologies, brother,’ said Adrophius, focusing on Telemenus for the first time since entering the room, as if he had only just noticed him. The plasma scars on his face, a deep red weal from chin to ear, formed strange spirals as Adrophius smiled. ‘I have been assessing your suitability for prosthetic enhancement.’

‘Can you rebuild me?’ Telemenus asked. He knew that the armourium was capable of bionic wonders at times.

‘No,’ was the Techmarine’s blunt reply. ‘The arm is no problem, of course. Full lower limb replacement is possible. Artificial organs, perhaps with some gene-replacements, are always available. But not all together. Too much nerve and circulatory damage to sustain the cybernetic systems.’

‘Neural conductivity might also be an issue,’ said Temraen. ‘It would be too much for your brain to lay new pathways, especially after the infection you suffered. There was slight necrosis in your right hemisphere.’

‘Even if we could patch all of those augmetics and prosthetics together, your movement, your reaction times, your coordination will all be compromised.’

‘A danger to your battle-brothers,’ added Temraen. Telemenus was not thankful for the clarification but kept any bitterness he might feel suppressed.

‘What can you do?’ he asked. He caught the flicker of the Emperor in the corner of his eye and remained calm, fighting a rising desperation. ‘How can I continue to serve the Chapter? The Emperor? Only in death does duty end. I am not dead!’

‘If the damage were less extensive I am sure the Master of Recruits might have been able to make use of you,’ said Temraen. ‘I understand that your marksmanship is excellent. Perhaps there is still a training role for you, even if you can no longer demonstrate your skills physically.’

‘Stop listing things I can’t do!’ snapped Telemenus, losing his patience. He bit back another angry retort and tried to calm himself. ‘Tell me what I can do. Please.’

‘Gunnery, most likely,’ Adrophius told him. ‘You might never be able to pick up a bolter again, but that marksmanship can still be useful. We can map your neural systems onto a gunnery interface. Predator turret, perhaps? You are Deathwing, they are always looking for good gunners for their Land Raiders.’

‘A sponson gunner?’ Telemenus tried not to sound deflated. It was, after everything, a miracle he would be able to do anything.

‘Subject to a full evaluation,’ warned Temraen. ‘The Master of the Apothecarion will assess your suitability for return to battlefield duties.’

‘If not?’ Telemenus did not really want to know, but had to ask. Better to learn now what his fate might be.

‘Assignment to a warship gunnery position, if there is one available,’ said Temraen. Being wired into the targeting systems of a strike cruiser’s weapon batteries was a dubious honour, but better than the Apothecary’s next suggestion. ‘Or maybe integration into the Rock’s defence array.’

‘I understand.’

There seemed to be nothing more to discuss and the two Space Marines left after Temraen had checked a few more of the life-sustaining systems.

‘I have to prepare for the worst,’ Telemenus said to the Emperor. ‘Oaths sworn demand that I accept whatever duties are assigned to me.’

‘A worthy outlook.’ The Emperor grew bright, moving along the blades of scalpels arranged in a row on a shelf just above Telemenus’s right shoulder. ‘Your tenacity and dedication are a credit. Be sure that the Master Apothecary sees that. The chance to fight at all is better than nothing.’

‘Better than death?’

‘You will know that only once you have experienced it.’

A mischievous thought crept into Telemenus’s head.

‘If anyone knows that, it is You. Imperator Mortis Rex. How was death for You?’

‘Painful,’ the Master of Mankind admitted. ‘But not without its benefits.’

The apparition of the Emperor shimmered into nothing, leaving Telemenus alone. The room felt flat without the presence of his creator. Grey and empty.

‘Only in death does duty end,’ Telemenus whispered out loud.

He looked up at the scalpels and the shelf they were on. He stretched out a hand, fingers clawing for the edge of the shelf. He knew the shelf would not take much to break, even in his weakened state, toppling the surgical knives within reach.

He withdrew his hand, disgusted with himself. He stared at the blank ceiling, trying to imagine what it would be like to be a gunner in one of the Rock’s batteries, never leaving the Tower of Angels, and in all likelihood never again seeing battle.

Eventually exhaustion, and perhaps more of Temraen’s coma-inducing elixirs, claimed him and he fell into a deep sleep.

CYPHER’S TESTIMONY

‘You are not an Interrogator.’ Cypher issued this conclusion as the door closed behind Azrael.

‘I am not.’ The Supreme Grand Master sat down on a stool, opposite the bench to which the traitor was chained. ‘I can fetch one if you prefer. Asmodai. He is very dedicated.’

‘I noticed. Your robes, Deathwing, with officer markings. But I have already met Grand Master Belial. You wear no badge of the Librarium or Reclusiam or armourium. That leaves only one option. I am honoured, truly, Supreme Grand Master Azrael.’

The cell was silent while Azrael studied Cypher. The renegade had his hood drawn back, head resting against the wall in an attempt at relaxation, but his eyes were intent and never left the Lord of the Rock.

Azrael allowed the silence to endure for a few more minutes, face impassive as he waited to see if Cypher would speak. The renegade held his tongue.

‘You told my Chaplains that you had an urgent message for me, for the Chapter.’

‘For the Legion…’ Cypher whispered.

‘I am here. You are here. We should conclude this portion of your visit swiftly and then we can proceed to your excruciation.’

‘If it were that simple, we would all rest easier in our sleep.’

‘This is your first and last caution. I have no interest in this matter. If I tire of your presence I will leave and not return. Asmodai and Sapphon and Ezekiel will wring the truth from you using whatever means they care to try. It will be painful, shaming and terrifying. You might not break, but you will suffer. Either way, if you do not tell me why you are here, if the next words from your lips are not an explanation of your presence, I will get up, open that door and leave you to their cruel attentions.’

A twitch, small but noticeable, moved Cypher’s right eye. A glance towards the door for a fraction of a second before he returned his gaze to Azrael.

‘It concerns the traitor, Anovel,’ said Cypher. He leaned forward and made to place his hands in his lap, but the shackles clamped to his armour did not allow him to move them past his waist. ‘The plot with Astelan, Methelas and Typhus is more than it seems.’

‘No doubt. Will you unravel this mystery for me?’

‘As best I can, but despite what you might believe I am not the architect. I have been deceived by my allies.’

Azrael was not sure whether Cypher’s frankness was a genuine response to the threat of torture or simply playing for time. He had the feeling that the Dark Angels would learn more from an open conversation than extraction by force. Initially, at least. He would indulge Cypher for a few minutes.

‘He believes he is telling the truth,’ Ezekiel’s voice buzzed through the comm-bead in his ear. The Chief Librarian observed the exchange psychically, unobtrusively monitoring Cypher’s thoughts.

‘Continue,’ said Azrael.

‘I led the attack on your Chapter keep on Piscina Four,’ Cypher admitted. Azrael fought the instinct to take a sharp breath. He forced himself to make no reaction at all, though a slight narrowing of Cypher’s eyes indicated that he might have already seen or heard some response Azrael could not suppress. ‘You look surprised, but I am sure the account of Colonel Brade left you in little doubt.’

‘My surprise was due to your open admission to the crime of killing innocent novitiates, as well as their trainers, and unleashing the life-eater virus in an attempt to wipe out the planetary population.’

‘I did no such thing!’ Cypher looked genuinely aggrieved at the suggestion. ‘Methelas was the architect of that particular attempt at genocide. I did not know until we had departed and he boasted of what he and Anovel had done.’

‘Again, he believes that is the truth,’ Ezekiel reported. ‘He has not revealed all that he knows, but what he has claimed is true to his knowledge.’

‘Why did you come to Piscina Four?’

‘So I have been returned to the scene of the crime?’

Azrael bit back a reply, annoyed with himself for revealing this scrap of information.

‘We are leaving the system,’ he said.

‘For the gene-seed, you already know that. It was my part of the bargain, to supply the genetic material that would form the basis of a new generation of legionaries. Astelan was to seize Tharsis. It was perfect. Remote, but technologically capable. I did not expect him to be so… rigorous in his enthusiasm to cleanse the world of opposition.’

‘Another genocide you did not participate in? How convenient.’

‘Let us put aside these mortal notions of morality, Supreme Grand Master. You forget the history of the Legion whose name you have taken. Genocide was not uncommon during the Great Crusade, and the Lion you laud so much was accomplished at its application. Compliance was rarely gained peacefully when he led the Legion.’

‘Tell me about Tharsis, and the gene-seed,’ said Azrael, keen to stay on the topic of Cypher’s plotting rather than broaden the conversation to older times.

‘It was to be a new home world, the start of a new Legion from the combined efforts of Dark Angels and Typhus’s Death Guard. I believe there was some further assistance from a former Emperor’s Children Apothecary, a deviant called Fabius Bile.’ Cypher paused and flexed his fingers as if to return some feeling to them.

‘You claimed that there was more to the plot than you have said, and that the Chapter was under threat.’

‘I did, and it is, but the exact nature of that threat I cannot say. I genuinely do not know some of the details. I believe Anovel has betrayed his allies in order to secure leadership of the new force for himself. That is the extent of my knowledge.’

‘He is lying,’ warned Ezekiel.

Azrael stood up and turned towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Cypher demanded. ‘Why are you leaving?’

‘You are lying to me,’ Azrael replied without turning around. ‘I will waste no more of my time with you.’

‘Wait!’ Cypher shouted as Azrael took a step. ‘Wait!’

‘Why?’ Azrael looked back over his shoulder. ‘So that you can spin more half-truths for me? My Chaplains have the patience for these games. I do not.’

Azrael had reached the door when Cypher spoke again, as though the words had been torn from him.

‘It is a horrifying plan, and would see the Dark Angels destroyed, their legacy ruined. The ruins of Caliban, that’s all I know. Anovel was going to take Typhus and these new legionaries to the Caliban System.’

‘Caliban?’ Azrael turned slowly, masking his concern as his hearts beat a little faster. ‘What business does Anovel have with our dead world?’

‘I do not know, for certain, but I can find out,’ Cypher assured him. ‘I will help you turn Anovel.’

Azrael left the cell, thoughts whirling. He closed the door and stood in the corridor outside, head bowed in thought. Ezekiel joined him, expression pensive.

‘He was telling the truth, at the end,’ said the Chief Librarian. ‘He was worried by what Anovel might be doing. I sensed that he desperately wanted to stop Anovel.’

‘We cannot put them together, not after the disaster with Astelan.’ Azrael shook his head, depressed by the options available to him – take Cypher at his word and ignore the threat he posed to the Imperium or allow the Chaplains their time-consuming and inconsistent methods.

‘Allow the meeting.’ Ezekiel rested a hand on Azrael’s shoulder to reassure him. ‘Astelan is protected by some psychic ward we could never break, but there is nothing that has stopped me sensing the secrets inside Cypher’s mind.’

‘Have you discovered who he is?’ said Azrael.

‘That would require a far deeper scan, one that he would be aware of. Is that what you wish me to do?’

‘Not yet. There will be time enough for such answers when his excruciation begins. For the moment it would be better if we leave him unmolested. We shall allow the pretence of cooperation while it serves us.’ Azrael looked back at the cell door, picturing the warrior within. The Fallen disturbed him. His confidence was not the posturing that Azrael had seen in so many other traitors. There was surety in his thoughts. Azrael nodded. ‘Tell Sapphon to arrange the meeting. Asmodai is not to be informed. I need no further debate at this time.’

‘I commend your decision, brother,’ said Ezekiel, his bionic eye glowing red in the gloomy passageway, the psychic glint of gold in the other. ‘Repentance is earned, not given. It requires effort and sacrifice, and no small amount of risk, if it is to be of value.’

Azrael looked at his Chief Librarian and remembered the accounts of how the young Ezekiel had been found – imprisoned and alone on a world that had been held in the sway of the Dark Gods. That he had undergone horrific treatment due to his abilities had been clear, and he had withheld retribution against his captors by refusing to use them. If there was any Dark Angel alive that knew about effort and sacrifice, of the mental strength to endure the barrage of trials each day brought to the members of the Inner Circle, it was the warrior Azrael had accepted as his closest advisor, and in some small part as his friend.

‘Thank you, brother,’ he said, replicating the gesture of Ezekiel, hand to his shoulder in a gesture of unity. ‘A storm comes upon us but with your aid I will chart the fairest course back to safety.’

‘With you to lead us, brother, we gladly follow into the tempest.’

Ezekiel broke away and marched off along the corridor, leaving Azrael alone with his dark thoughts.

THE TRAITOR STRIKES

There was to be no repeat of the mistakes made in the handling of Astelan, that much Sapphon had sworn to himself. He had received his instructions from Azrael, via Ezekiel, without complaint but he harboured many misgivings in secret. There would be no concealed communications and they certainly would not be left alone together.

Armed with what he had gleaned from Azrael’s conversation with Cypher, Sapphon began by confronting Anovel alone. If he could confirm any of Cypher’s testimony, and perhaps convince Anovel that his secrets had already been divulged, it might be possible to avoid bringing the two of them together at all.

One of the guard rooms in the lower halls of the Rock had been cleared, providing more space than the cells of the dungeon. The chamber had been emptied of all furnishings save for the banner with the Chapter symbol on the wall opposite the door and two benches, now with the addition of bars to which the prisoners could be chained.

Anovel had already been secured when Sapphon entered. He had typically Calibanite features – narrow cheeks, dark hair cropped short and sunken brown eyes. His thin lips were set in a look of determined defiance, brow creased by a scowl as he scanned the room. He wore a sleeveless robe of dirty white linen, his wrists bound by bronze-coloured manacles secured by a length of chain to the bench. The bench itself had been bolted to the stone of the floor in a dozen places.

Two Deathwing Knights flanked the Fallen, clad in bone-white power armour for the occasion. Sapphon dismissed them with a word and waited until they had gone before he met Anovel’s gaze.

‘We captured Cypher.’

This simple declaration elicited a rapid series of emotions from the prisoner, all written across his face in a succession of expressions. First there was scepticism, then doubt, then anger and then doubt again. Eventually Anovel mastered himself and his frown of distaste returned, jaw moving as he ground his teeth.

Sapphon smiled.

‘I see that it is a name known to you.’

‘A title.’

‘What was that?’ Sapphon was taken aback by the interruption.

‘Lord Cypher is a title.’ Anovel met Sapphon’s stare. ‘A revered position of the Order.’

‘The Order no longer exists. The title is meaningless. As is your resistance.’

‘The Order lives on, in our hearts and minds.’

Sapphon did not reply to this immediately.

The Order, the knightly organisation that had been ruled by Luther and then by the Lion, had been destroyed along with Caliban. Most of the Fallen had mentioned it during their confessions, the majority had been members – even those that had originally hailed from Terra had been accepted into the ranks during Luther’s rebellion. Anovel had been the first to claim that the Order had somehow survived, even if only in spirit. Sapphon was in two minds whether to pursue this new course of inquiry or stick to his original track.

‘Cypher is intimately acquainted with your plans, and has proven very helpful,’ he said, deciding to continue on the theme with which he had opened. ‘Piscina Four, Port Imperial, Tharsis. He has been involved every step of the way.’

Anovel said nothing and continued to glare at the Chaplain.

‘I am here to inform you that we are not interested in the details of your confession, we have them already. You are not here for intelligence, but as a first and last opportunity to repent the sins you have committed and earn yourself a swift and honourable demise. When I leave this room, that offer is ended.’

‘You know nothing of honour, bastard of the Lion.’ Anovel spat on the floor and sneered.

‘Probably not. It would be wise, however, to keep a civil tongue when you are with my fellow Interrogator, Asmodai. He is less tolerant of such abuse. We have forsaken honour in our quest for the truth. A quest that can free your soul from the damnation that currently ensnares it. I really am here for your sake, not mine.’

‘Allow me to signal my appreciation,’ said Anovel, his hands forming an obscene gesture. ‘You cannot open your mouth without lies spilling forth.’

‘Let me tell you of lies, friend Anovel. You have been deceived. Betrayed. We know that you made a bargain with Typhus to secure his Death Guard a new home world. You were once an Apothecary and would be guardian of the gene-seed for this new Legion. Gene-seed, in fact, that you and Cypher stole from our Chapter Keep on Piscina Four. The Sacred Bands of Tharsis and the “Divine” of Port Imperial were to be the first batch of recruits. In the meantime your world would be protected by engineered soldiers provided by the adepts of Fabius Bile. His biomechanical alterations are particularly distinctive, combined with the blessings of the Plague Lord whom you serve with Typhus.’

The certainty on Anovel’s face was slipping as Sapphon continued the litany of facts the Chaplains, Ravenwing and Deathwing had unearthed in the last year.

‘We captured Methelas as well, you see. The corruption in him is grotesque, I am sure you’ll agree. But despite your fair appearance I am sure that we would find the Mark of Plague upon you somewhere if we looked closely enough. Perhaps inside…’

Anovel’s posture changed dramatically as he leaned away from the Interrogator-Chaplain, his eyes returning to their search of the room, seeking some exit that did not exist. Clearly Cypher’s additional information was correct, to a point.

‘Astelan was captured more than fifteen years ago. He told us about Port Imperial but we could not find it, until we learned of its precise location from another traitor in your ranks. Your vile trick at Piscina Five did not work. Our battle-brothers were strong and refused to leave the keep in further pursuit. They sacrificed themselves to stop the omniterminus virus from spreading. Someone left us a clue in the databanks, a spoor to follow.’

‘You lie!’ Anovel bellowed, in desperation rather than defiance. ‘We swore oaths of brotherhood to each other. We would be the founders of the Death Angels, a new beginning for us all. None of the Order would betray that trust.’

‘They all betrayed that trust!’ snarled Sapphon in reply. It was time to let Anovel see exactly what would be the penalty for further refusal to cooperate.

Sapphon smashed a fist into Anovel’s jaw, almost knocking him from the bench. As he righted himself, the Chaplain unleashed a punch with the other hand, flattening the Fallen’s nose into a bloody mess. He stepped back, panting.

‘You have one chance to spare yourself further pain and humiliation. Either Cypher or Methelas, or one of your many lieutenants we captured at Tharsis, will tell us your intent at Caliban. It is in our code to allow you the first right to make this final confession. You say we know nothing of honour, but we know that it is you that forsook it ten millennia ago. If you wish to restore it, if you wish to save your soul from the dark abyss, you must make this last admission. If you refuse, you will be dealt with and we shall learn what we need to know from the others.’

A sly smile crept across Anovel’s face. He wiped his split lip with the back of a hand and spat blood.

‘You are lying about having the others. They would not confess to something they know nothing about. It would invite only further punishment when their falsehood was revealed.’

‘So you admit that there is a plan at Caliban? There is something to conceal?’

Anovel shook his head but his sudden surge of confidence was punctured by the realisation that he had been caught by the simplest of traps.

‘I am not lying. If you want further proof, I can offer it.’

Sapphon moved to the door and spoke to the two guards outside. The door swung outwards to reveal Cypher, clad in his war-plate, hood down, hands manacled before him with the length of chain dangling to his knees.

‘No!’

Anovel heaved at his bonds, the muscles in his arms like boulders as he strained against the chains and bolts. After several seconds he sagged, falling to his knees with his arms stretched behind him by his chains.

The Deathwing Knights led Cypher into the room while Sapphon closed the door.

‘Wait,’ he told the Knights as they readied the chain on Cypher’s wrists. Sapphon had no intention of letting Cypher and Anovel speak. It was enough that the Fallen Apothecary knew that the Chaplain was not lying about having Cypher in his possession. ‘Take him back.’

The two renegades looked at each other. Sapphon heard and saw nothing untoward, but Anovel’s expression changed from anguish to one of resignation. He pushed himself to his feet with a surge, a loud cracking as muscles railed against chain, snapping the bones in his wrists and hands so that they slipped free.

Cypher twisted, dodging the grasp of the Knights as they rose to their feet. With a deft movement he looped the chain of his manacles over Anovel’s head and twisted his body, lifting the other Fallen from his feet over his shoulder. Sapphon heard the snap of vertebrae from several metres away and knew it was too late even as the Knights overpowered Cypher and took him to the ground.

Sapphon dashed along the chamber as one of the Deathwing Knights repeatedly clubbed a fist into the side of Cypher’s head and the other pulled apart the links wrapped around Anovel’s throat. The Fallen’s face was already purple and his head lolled unnaturally to one side as he was rolled away.

‘Get him out!’ Sapphon roared, jabbing a finger at Cypher, who was still conscious, barely. He was laughing quietly as blood streamed from half a dozen cuts to his face and head.

Kneeling beside Anovel as Cypher was dragged away, Sapphon knew there was no point calling the Master of the Apothecarion. No mortal force would save Anovel now. As the Interrogator-Chaplain watched, the curse of Anovel’s infernal pact with the Lord of Decay manifested. His skin turned to dry flakes and fell away from evaporating flesh and fat. Muscles withered into a dry husk like ancient tree roots and organs sagged, his chest and belly flattening in a few seconds.

Disgusted, Sapphon retreated, one hand clamped over his mouth as a cloud of yellow dust escaped the corpse’s lungs and puffed in a cloud from Anovel’s open mouth.

He bumped into someone and turned sharply in surprise.

Ezekiel was there, one eye a golden orb of blazing energy.

‘Witchery,’ the Librarian said calmly. The eye dimmed and focused on Sapphon, and the lenses of the bionic replacement of the other adjusted with a whirr and a click. ‘I will ensure the remains are cleansed properly. You will need to speak to Brothers Cragarion and Galbarad about the strange events they have witnessed today. There is also much to be explained to the Inner Circle, Brother Sapphon.’

‘Lord Azrael must be informed of what has happened.’

‘He will be.’ Ezekiel sighed, a sad look on his face. ‘This is most unfortunate. Along with the misadventure involving Astelan, it seems that of late you have erred greatly in your endeavours.’

‘But I was under orders from the Supreme…’ Sapphon’s voice trailed off as he understood what was happening.

With Belial and Asmodai both looking for signs of weakness in Azrael, this was no time to drag him into a fresh failure. More than ever, with Cypher captured and some plot unfolding that threatened to doom the whole Chapter, the Inner Circle required stability. Sapphon was already a marked warrior, his record far from blameless. Another transgression on his part would almost avoid remark had it not involved such a high-profile prisoner. Sapphon bowed his head, accepting his fate.

‘I was acting of my own accord in bringing Cypher and Anovel together. I hope the Supreme Grand Master will see fit to forgive my error of judgement.’

CONFESSION AND REJECTION

Seeing Sabrael in his full regalia as blademaster took Annael by surprise. The Black Knight stood amongst several other warriors of the Ravenwing, his robes black, a golden sword emblazoned on the chest, the hood edged with red and silver thread. The Blade of Corswain had even been returned to him, despite the threat from Tybalain that Sabrael would never carry the artefact weapon again. He looked as if the events in Streisgant had never happened, laughing easily at his own wit while the other warriors shook their heads in mock disappointment at some poor jest.

As his surprise subsided, Annael felt a stab of anger. It had been Sabrael’s hot-headed behaviour that had led to his capture and the subsequent need for a rescue mission. Now he had been returned to the company, forgiven, and Annael was still being punished.

He leaned on the handle of the mop he had been using to clean the deck outside the Land Speeder bay, wondering what silvery words Sabrael had slipped from his tongue to earn early release from his penance.

As one of the Ravenwing warriors turned, Annael saw that it was Casamir. He was not in the robe of a Black Knight – apparently his confirmation as a member of Sammael’s elite had not yet been ratified – but he was clad nonetheless in Ravenwing robes, instead of the penitent’s garb he had last been wearing.

Annael wanted to march over to them and demand how they had bought such leniency. He was stopped only by the thought that to speak to anyone save for Malcifer was another transgression that would simply set back his cause. As much as it pained him to watch his companions returned to the brotherhood, he could not get involved.

Casamir ignored him and passed into the armoury bay when the group split, while Sabrael headed in the opposite direction, not even casting his gaze towards his friend. The others walked past Annael with scowls. Brother Zafaen almost strode into Annael, forcing the penitent to push himself into the bulkhead to avoid the collision.

Annael cast his gaze downward, avoiding any accusation of confrontation with the battle-brothers. When they were gone, seized by a fit of anger, Annael snapped the mop in his hands and tossed the pieces along the corridor with a snarl.

He instantly regretted the action, wondering what would have happened if anyone had seen. It was a childish act, unbecoming of a Space Marine. He swiftly retrieved the splintered parts, took up his bucket and headed back to the store chamber where they were kept. Stowing the mop and pail, Annael headed up through the Rock to return to the Reclusiam of the Ravenwing.

Malcifer was there, kneeling in front of the altar table, head bowed. The Chaplain looked around at the breathless entrance of Annael. Seeing the frustration written across the Dark Angel’s face he stood up and held out a hand. He beckoned Annael to approach.

‘You are grievously vexed, Annael.’

‘I wish to repent,’ the penitent replied, falling to his knees in front of the Chaplain. ‘I committed a grave act of disrespect to my brothers and superiors. I acknowledge the shame it brought upon me, and beg the forgiveness of you, my mentor, so that I might return to my brothers in honour.’

Malcifer looked at him for some time, lips pursed in thought.

‘Why do you repent?’ he asked.

‘My soul burns with the shame of my sin. If there were a way, any way I could scour this feeling from my flesh, I would do it.’

‘The scorn of your former brothers is a harsh blow to weather. You understand why they disdain the penitent so much?’

‘I have no honour. The penitent’s robe is a symbol of my guilt for all to see.’

‘For all to see?’

‘I wear my status upon my back each day, Master Chaplain. What could be plainer to see?’

‘So you accept the punishment of your peers?’

‘And my superiors,’ Annael added hastily.

‘And do you think you have made sufficient amends to those that you have wronged?’

‘Amends? I do not understand.’

‘The duties you carry out, they are a service to the Chapter, to the brotherhood of the Dark Angels. In performing them you make restitution for the offence to their honour.’

‘I wish to restore my honour, Master Malcifer. What more must I do to prove I am sorry?’ The anger returned, but Annael was careful not to direct it at the Chaplain. ‘Others have been forgiven, I saw them today. Sabrael, the catalyst for my dishonour, wears the full robes again. Casamir, fellow penitent guilty of no lesser crime, stands garbed as a battle-brother beside him.’

‘Do you wish that Sabrael is held to greater account?’

‘I do not understand.’

‘Do you consider your dishonour to be the fault of Sabrael?’ The question was quietly asked, but Annael was not fooled by Malcifer’s apparent civility and innocence.

‘A series of events occurred directly as a result of his actions.’

‘Speak plainly!’ Malcifer’s rebuke caused Annael to flinch. ‘A “series” of events? At least give voice to your crime. You must take responsibility for it. You disobeyed your Grand Master! You pursued a personal desire above the needs of your commander and your battle-brothers. Do you think that Sabrael is guilty for your loss of honour?’

Annael did not know what else he could say. Malcifer gave him no longer to compose a reply.

‘Do you remember what I told you of repentance?’

‘I do. I sincerely wish we had not disobeyed the order of the Grand Master.’

‘Do you feel guilty for what happened? Do you accept the blame, solely and on yourself?’

‘I…’ Annael could not lie. Malcifer was trained to spot the slightest falsehood and Annael was not accomplished at subterfuge. ‘I feel that in the circumstances my choices were limited.’

‘Do you deny that you were instigator of this sorry affair?’

‘If Sabrael had not been captured, events would have run very differently.’

‘And your Huntmaster? What of his guilt?’

‘He took the lead. It was natural to follow.’

‘Yet you spoke out to convince your brothers to act with you. You appealed to their brotherhood, corrupted it to your selfish goals.’

‘That is not how it happened!’

‘That is exactly what happened!’ Malcifer bellowed in reply, making Annael cower before the righteousness in his voice and manner. ‘By your testimony and others. You hoped to rescue Sabrael from the moment you discovered that he had been taken. Would you have been so vehement in your arguments for the sake of Sergeant Polemetus, or Brothers Garbadon and Orius? You wanted to rescue a friend, one with whom you share a closer relationship than with your other brothers. It clouded your judgement and it clouds it still.’

‘What do you want from me?’ snarled Annael, his anger breaking through like water rushing through a breached dam. ‘Why won’t you accept my apology and answer my confession?’

‘What have you confessed?’ Malcifer said, voice almost a whisper. ‘That you feel guilty? That you want your punishment to end? Shall I tell you why Sabrael wears the black of the Ravenwing once more?’

Annael said nothing, stewing in his frustrated impotence. Nothing he did or said would change Malcifer’s mind. It seemed the Chaplain had chosen to push Annael to the limit, though why he did not know.

‘Sabrael apologised in person to both Tybalain and Sammael. He had agreed not to contest the Blade of Corswain at the next trials. He knelt before this very altar and swore anew the oaths to his Chapter and company. Most of all, he accepted that he was not deserving of forgiveness. He did not plead or try to bargain or rationalise his act. He accepted his weakness of character and thanked me for my forbearance on previous transgressions.’

It did not matter, to Annael’s mind. Sabrael was always able to spin his words as a weaver creates beautiful cloth. From Annael’s mouth the same claims made by his brother were like the crude canvas of his penitent’s robe. Malcifer was deaf to his intent, his desperation.

‘In short,’ said the Chaplain, ‘he repented. He sought no return to honour, no cessation of punishment, just the simple act of forgiveness from those he had wronged. He did not try to earn it or buy it, he simply allowed himself to hope for it.’

‘Do you not hear me? Have I not professed my guilt enough for you?’

‘I told you before that your guilt needs no confirmation. Your regret is based upon the application of your penance, which you yet insist on viewing as temporal punishment rather than spiritual opportunity.’

The rage would be held in check no longer. He dared not lay hands on his superior. Instead, with a wordless shout Annael seized the closest bench and threw it across the Reclusiam. The pew crashed into the wall, splinters showering one of the battle-trophies hanging there, a standard from the Ullissa campaign four thousand years old.

‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, realising what he had done. He fell to his knees again, hanging his head in shame. ‘I am unworthy.’

Malcifer showed no sign of anger. His expression had become that of a benevolent older brother.

‘Trust me, Annael. I am watching. I am listening. You are making good progress, but do not dwell on what you have done or what you are doing. Study the doctrine of the Chapter and resolve what you will do. The key to redemption lies not in the past but the future. Admit your failings and seek to balance them in thought and deed.’

The Chaplain walked away, heading to the main door. Annael felt broken, exhausted more than if he had been fighting for weeks on end. It was almost impossible to contemplate carrying on, returning to the others to bear their barbed words and sneers of derision.

Almost, but not wholly impossible.

Annael pushed himself to his feet and took a deep breath. The future, Malcifer had said. His first task was to clean up the mess he had made of the shrine. Fighting back the weariness in his soul, he turned towards the door, straightened his back and settled his shoulders.

He would endure.

CENSURED

‘I do not defend my actions with claims of success,’ said Sapphon, ‘but I would ask the members of this council to review in full the transcript of what occurred. Before he died, Anovel confirmed much of what was alleged by Cypher. That they had been in collusion was already likely, and Anovel’s acts on seeing the other Fallen provide incontrovertible proof that they were in cohort with each other.’

‘And incontrovertible proof that you overstepped your authority once again, Master of Sanctity.’ Belial glowered at Sapphon, who made every effort not to look to Azrael for support. It had been the vote of the Supreme Grand Master that had made Sapphon the Master of Sanctity and the reason was now becoming clear. Sapphon would willingly compromise himself for the good of the Chapter, even if it meant falling on his sword when required.

The Deathwing commander was going to continue but Sapphon had already heard enough and decided that even if he was going to take the fallout from Azrael’s decision, there was no reason not to go down fighting.

‘I have every authority, Grand Master, in the remit of my rank.’ He gritted his teeth, giving extra vehemence to his words. ‘I am the Master of Sanctity, the spiritual guardian of the Chapter. On Tharsis and Ulthor I bowed to your authority in strategic and military matters. In affairs of the soul and the Fallen, you do not command, you obey.’

Belial faltered, cowed by Sapphon’s uncharacteristic bullishness. The Chaplain looked around the table and saw that the other company captains were equally taken aback. Setting an example with Belial, thought by many to be a natural successor to Azrael should fate unfold in that direction, reminded the rest of the Inner Circle of their place in the hidden organisation of the Chapter.

‘Whether the right to do as you did belonged to you is not under discussion.’ This came from Master Eradon, the Tenth Company captain. Alone amongst the Inner Circle he sported a beard, blond and cropped short. He tugged at the facial hair as he continued. ‘How you exercise that authority on behalf of the Chapter, and whether you should retain it, is the cause for this conclave. A succession of poor decisions have dogged your elevation to Master of Sanctity, and perhaps that is an appointment that must be reviewed.’

All present turned their attention to Azrael. He sat at the head of the table, hood raised so that nothing of his face could be seen. He said nothing and waved for Sapphon to continue.

‘For the benefit of all, might I remind the council of the words spoken by the Supreme Grand Master during the last full conclave.’ Sapphon glanced at Azrael who leaned forward, disapproval on his face as it was revealed by the movement, no doubt sceptical about Sapphon’s reasons for dragging up his past utterances. The Master of Sanctity tried to provide what assurance he could with a glance before he activated a vox-servitor by his side. The half-man started to speak, mouth opening and closing monotonously, nothing more than a flesh puppet. From its slack lips emerged the recorded voice of Azrael.

‘Let it be known that the war on Piscina progresses swiftly to conclusion with the might of the Chapter ranged against greenskin and rebel alike. However, the conflict has much delayed us in the pursuit, as I suspect was intended by those that instigated the attacks on Kadillus and the destruction of the fortress here. The gene-seed was stolen by Anovel, I conclude, and to what end we already know. I consider the thwarting of this plot to be of the utmost significance, while the Ravenwing and Deathwing can stand ready for fresh duties.’

Sapphon allowed these words to sink in before continuing.

‘“The thwarting of this plot to be of the utmost significance” was the Supreme Grand Master’s assessment of the situation. I accept that errors were made in the prosecution of this duty, but contend that despite these setbacks we succeeded in eliminating the threat posed by the machinations of Cypher, Astelan and the others. They are dead or in our custody, there is no possible way in which their plans can be carried out.’

‘Astelan is still loose,’ said Sammael.

Sapphon was surprised. He had expected the accusation from Asmodai. As it was, the Master of Repentance was strangely silent, perhaps keen that the manner of Astelan’s escape, and Asmodai’s part in it, was not reviewed again. Though there had been no formal discussion, the members of the Inner Circle from the ranks of the Reclusiam were upholding their mutual honour.

‘You voted with me to use him as a lure on Tharsis,’ Sapphon replied quickly.

‘I did, and it was a mistake. I will admit that in front of my peers. Can you do the same?’

If it had been another Master than Sammael that asked the question, Sapphon would have suspected a trap of some kind. The Master of the Ravenwing was as independent of thought as his company was rigid of command, and had no alliances and no obvious agenda within the Inner Circle. Even so, it left the Master of Sanctity in a difficult position. To continue to defend a decision that looked to have gone wrong would make him seem pig-headed. To admit it was a mistake would invite censure.

‘We lost Astelan, but we gained Anovel and Cypher. On balance I believe we made the correct decision.’

‘Cypher gave himself up,’ said Sammael. ‘I would hardly list that in our achievements of that day.’

‘Would he have been there had we not brought Anovel and Typhus?’ countered Sapphon. The question was left hanging.

‘And on balance,’ Belial picked up the thread of the conversation, ‘do you believe allowing Cypher contact with Anovel was the correct decision?’

Again, Sapphon had to resist the instinct to look at Azrael. He masked the urge by looking at the Dark Angels assembled, meeting their gazes, accusatory, neutral and supportive. His eyes rested on the Supreme Grand Master for a second and then turned to Belial.

‘It was a mistake. Poorly conceived and executed without forethought. Allowing Cypher to kill Anovel removed a lever which we could have applied during his interrogation. At the least we should have spent more time beforehand exerting traditional methods on Anovel to see what he might reveal.’

Belial opened his mouth to speak but Sapphon raised a hand to silence him and turned to Azrael.

‘As I understand it, this conclave was mustered to discuss what we are to do with Cypher. It seems to be moving towards a trial by hearsay. If I am to be charged with transgressions against the Chapter, let them be plainly known.’

‘We must understand what has happened with Cypher if we are to chart a new course,’ said Ezekiel. ‘No accusation has been made, brother.’

‘In which case might I present some conclusions I have drawn from this unfortunate incident?’

A nod was the only reply from Azrael, who settled back into his chair, face disappearing into the shadow of his hood once more.

‘Cypher allowed himself to be captured precisely to silence Anovel. He knows exactly what the plan-within-the-plan was going to be. Anovel was killed because of his complicity. I saw the look in his eye as his neck was broken. He was resigned to the fate, willingly laying down his life to protect Cypher.’

‘Or possibly the plan,’ said Asmodai, speaking for the first time since arriving. ‘We cannot ignore the possibility that Tharsis was simply a diversion or staging ground, and that whatever was due to occur at Caliban might yet come to pass.’

‘How could that be? We have the prime conspirators here,’ said Sammael. ‘Unless you believe Astelan capable of continuing the plot on his own.’

‘Typhus still lives,’ said Sapphon, ‘and who can say how many Fallen are involved, directly or at the periphery? Master Asmodai is correct, we must proceed as if Cypher’s warning is genuine.’

‘Voluntarily believe the lie he spun to gain access to Anovel?’ Belial sounded exasperated. ‘How much further down this blind alley do you wish to drag us?’

‘It makes no sense that he would be captured unless he believed he had a means to escape,’ said Master Balthasar. The captain of the Fifth Company held out a hand towards Ezekiel. ‘Brother-Librarian, how is it that you did not detect any murderous intent from Cypher?’

‘I scanned him only passively. There are techniques to mask one’s thoughts from such casual detection. You all know some of them, such as reciting the battle hymnals, visualising maintenance routines, other exercises that occupy the conscious thought. Cypher used such a technique to disastrous effect.’

‘This motivation seems unlikely,’ said Master Eradon. ‘Why silence Anovel at the cost of one’s own freedom? Cypher cannot escape the Rock, he has made his last mistake.’

Sapphon could say nothing of what Azrael had revealed in the Hidden Chamber, of the previous seven occasions when Cypher had been in custody and yet managed to regain his freedom. Nor could any of the others privy to that knowledge, and so it left them without evidence to argue against the seeming impossibility of Cypher getting away from the Tower of Angels.

‘I concur,’ said Lexicanium Merlith. ‘We are in danger of creating ghosts out of thin air. We are treating Cypher with too much respect. Strip him of his armour, apply brand and blade and see how willing he is to suffer for this supposed ploy.’

There were nods and murmurs of assent from others around the chamber. On the face of it, the Inner Circle was prepared to believe the threat had ended. Master Eradon, the Scout Company captain, voiced as such.

‘I propose a vote. The motion is that the latest expedition of the Ravenwing and Deathwing has recovered the primary conspirators in a plot to seed a new force of traitors on the world of Tharsis. In defying this they have taken valued captives in the Hunt and also protected the future stability of the sector. Does my summary find approval with this conclave?’

‘A vote is called,’ Azrael said. ‘The conclave will make known its will. White signifies support for Master Eradon’s assertion and the conclave is concluded. Cypher will be submitted to all the usual means of excruciation. The Rock will continue to its current destination and the Chapter shall divide into such campaign forces and companies as required by its forthcoming commitments. Black signifies disagreement. The conclave will continue until a different course of action is determined and a fresh vote taken to approve it.’

The lights flickered out, leaving the participants in pitch darkness. In his left hand Sapphon had the black ball, the white in his other. It occurred to him that there was little to be achieved by continuing the discussion with the full Inner Circle. Whatever happened next with Cypher would be of the most clandestine nature. Although he disagreed entirely with Eradon’s assessment, it made no sense to drag out the proceedings. Finding the channel carved into the surface of the conclave table with the fingers of his right hand, he allowed the white ball to slip from his grasp and roll to the receptacle at the table’s heart. The black he slid into a gutter at the edge of the table, destined to be gathered with the other discarded votes in front of Azrael. He listened to the sound of the balls clicking and rolling through the mechanism of the table.

Silence fell. The vote was concluded.

The lights came on at a hidden command from Azrael. The Supreme Grand Master activated the counting mechanism and the crane arm swept out to the central receptacle and retrieved the votes within. Azrael separated the balls into two slots before him.

‘The white outweighs the black,’ Azrael announced. ‘Master Eradon’s proposal is approved. We shall recommence our usual duties.’

Only then did Azrael look at Sapphon. The Master of Sanctity saw the intent that the matter was far from concluded. Sapphon replied with the subtlest of nods while the others left the room. Whatever he needed to do next, even if he had the tacit approval of his lord, the Master of Sanctity would be acting entirely on his own and would be expected to bear full responsibility.

As it always is, he thought.

UNDER SCRUTINY

Sapphon watched through the grille of the cell door as Asmodai plied his bloody talent on the body of Cypher. The Fallen had submitted to having his armour removed without argument, though Asmodai had issued a stern warning regarding the sword – a warning issued with such vehemence that Sapphon might have concluded Asmodai was wary of the blade, if such a thing were possible.

With the same meekness, Cypher suffered the blows and cuts laid upon him by Asmodai. The Interrogator-Chaplain seemed inspired, eyes alight with the challenge of breaking the will of the thrice-cursed. Sapphon had seen him many times before, in a semi-hypnotic stupor most of the time. Now Asmodai was relishing every moment of the excruciation.

It was just the first few hours of what promised to be a very long process, but even so Sapphon was impressed by the stoic silence of the prisoner. His body was no stranger to injury. The scars that crisscrossed and punctured his flesh were testament to millennia of battle.

Cypher lay on the slab and stared at the ceiling, looking at some faraway place in his own mind. He barely flinched as flesh was parted by blades and skin seared by brands.

Sapphon was no stranger to these cells and the activities for which they existed. It was rare these days that he took up the cruder instruments of interrogation, preferring instead to use manipulation of the soul and psyche, and the talents of the Librarium, to prise the secrets from those that came to him. Unlike Asmodai, he was interested more in the secrets of the Fallen than their confessions. Perhaps that was why he lacked a single black pearl to his name – the reward given to a Chaplain for each Fallen brought to repentance. When they had revealed their secrets to him, when they were ready to admit their sins, Sapphon lost interest and was willing for others of the Reclusiam to complete the bloody deed.

Despite this experience he found the spectacle of Cypher’s excruciation bordering on the uncomfortable. The Fallen was barely present, only the odd grimace to show that he felt anything at all. In contrast, Asmodai was a grunting, snarling, bestial thing of the shadows. Not once had the Interrogator asked a question in the hours since his arrival. These opening stages were not about the truth, they were about demonstrating the pain that was to come, the pregnant threat of the dire instruments lined up on the shelf next to the captive. It was the proof that any and all measures would be used without mercy.

If there was any expression on Cypher’s face, it was sorrow. A profound sadness in his eyes, brought about by whatever imagined vista he looked upon rather than his current plight. Looking more closely, Sapphon realised why the scene did not sit right in his mind. Cypher’s twitches and lip curls of pain had nothing to do with the ministrations of Asmodai – the Fallen’s reactions were purely to slights occurring in his mind.

All this contributed to his unease, but there was one other thing that gave him misgivings about the current situation and he resolved that he should speak to Asmodai about it. Given the delicate balance of affairs both with Cypher and the Inner Circle, Sapphon wanted to be as honest as he could with the Master of Repentance.

Sapphon entered quietly, earning a glance from Asmodai. The Master of Sanctity gestured to his fellow Chaplain and indicated that they should step outside. Asmodai wiped his hands on a bloodstained cloth and followed Sapphon back into the corridor.

‘Have you ever witnessed the like?’ said the Master of Sanctity when the door was closed and the grille shuttered.

‘Never,’ admitted Asmodai. ‘Aside from his physical resistance, he seems to me as one that has no more left to lose, nothing worth defending. The Fallen cling to their lies and betrayals as definitions of themselves, and are only too eager to spout their vile beliefs to those of our calling. He makes no defence, raises no objection to his treatment.’

‘Perhaps he thinks he deserves it?’

‘That would be remarkable. It would also be against every impression he had given me so far, up to the murder of Anovel. He has secrets, every Fallen does. He killed his ally to keep us from learning them. Maybe he is certain he can resist all excruciation.’

‘Or he has another plan,’ said Sapphon, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘You recall his history, as Azrael related it?’

‘You think his manner stems from confidence that he will escape?’

‘We must consider the possibility. There is also one other matter I wish to bring to your attention.’ Sapphon opened the grille again and stepped back. ‘The far corner, on the left, where the shadows from the brazier fall.’

Frowning, Asmodai looked into the cell. He stepped back in shock and darted a look at Sapphon.

‘I have never…’ The Master of Repentance was lost for words, stunned by what he had seen.

Sapphon said nothing as he closed the slit, glimpsing again what he had seen a few minutes earlier. In the darkness of the corner were two embers, eyes in the shadow. A Watcher in the Dark.

‘It is without precedent,’ he said. ‘Never has a Watcher shown any interest in an excruciation before.’

‘None that exists in our records,’ Asmodai added quickly, obviously referring to the journals spoken of by Azrael. ‘Perhaps there is an account elsewhere. Could the Watchers be the means of his escape?’

‘I would rather not speculate. But it is clear to me that we must pursue a different strategy. Physical incentives are having no effect, no matter how deftly applied.’

Asmodai shook his head, brow furrowing.

‘You are going to talk to him, yes?’ the Chaplain growled. ‘Do you learn nothing?’

‘I must,’ Sapphon said with a shrug. ‘But we must be of accord this time. I require no oath nor will make any demand by my rank. I want you to listen and apply your own assessment. You are wrong about me, I do learn, and so I rely upon you to stop my judgement being led astray. We will listen together and we will decide what to do together. Will you grant me that grace?’

Asmodai was almost as shocked as when he had seen the Watcher. His stare searched Sapphon’s face for any sign of treachery, but found none. The Master of Sanctity had been entirely earnest in his approach. After accepting the blame for the fiasco with Cypher and Anovel, on top of the machinations with Astelan, Sapphon needed Asmodai as an ally not an enemy.

‘The Supreme Grand Master needs us to find answers, and swiftly,’ Sapphon added. ‘What we learn must be for the ears only of those that Azrael entrusted in the Hidden Chamber. Do you agree?’

Asmodai glanced at the cell door, thinking of the captive within, and then nodded in reply to Sapphon’s question.

‘The vote of the conclave was in error,’ Asmodai said. ‘The scheme we unearthed might well be continuing and our only key to its mysteries is Cypher. I expect I could bludgeon the truth even from such a reticent soul, but your methods may prove swifter. The Supreme Grand Master cannot afford to pander to the niceties of the Inner Circle.’

The Master of Repentance opened the door and signalled for Sapphon to enter.

‘I will wait here,’ Sapphon heard the other Chaplain say as he closed the cell door.

Cypher was looking at Sapphon intently, his eyes following him as he moved around the slab-like table and stood beside the Fallen’s head. Blood spilled from dozens of cuts and there was bruising around the chest and ribs – there would be no evidence of either in the morning, due to the quick healing of a Space Marine’s physiology.

‘I am sorry,’ said Cypher, surprising Sapphon. ‘The death of Anovel was regrettable. Dishonourable.’

Sapphon was not sure how to respond to this. He had expected more silence, not an admission of guilt, despite the obvious nature of the crime. Beneath a crimson mask, Cypher’s face seemingly showed genuine contrition.

‘A trap was being set,’ Cypher continued. ‘Anovel was just a pawn in a greater scheme.’

‘You told me he was going to betray his allies.’

‘He was. In fact, he has. The deed is done, his death changes nothing except to silence him.’

‘But you know his secrets, I think. Secrets that condemn you.’

‘I am condemned already by history,’ Cypher replied. He glanced away. ‘The list of charges you bring against me is long indeed, is it not?’

‘You are the thrice-cursed,’ said Sapphon. The epithet seemed trite, irrelevant now that he was face to face with the man it had been placed upon. Calling one’s enemies bad names seemed a petty act, but so useful for inciting the necessary hatred in others. ‘I appreciate your candour. Let us start with the most fundamental questions. Do you deny that you took part in the rebellion against the Lion?’

‘That is of no importance, Master Sapphon. We could trade words for a lifetime concerning my allegiances and still be in discord. You are just following the form of your colleague, Asmodai. You may invite him in if you wish, what I have to say needs to be heard by you both. I needed to know that you would listen.’

Sapphon looked towards the door and gave a nod to Asmodai looking in through the grille. For some reason the Master of Sanctity then glanced to the corner where the Watcher had been standing, perhaps seeking permission or reassurance. He did not know why. Whatever the cause of Sapphon’s curiosity, the Watcher in the Dark had vanished. Whether this was implicit approval of the current proceedings or entirely unrelated, Sapphon could only guess.

Asmodai closed the door with a firm hand and waited on the threshold, not trusting himself to move within reach of the bound Fallen. His displeasure at being apparently summoned was already writ in his reddening face.

‘Choose your next words very carefully,’ said Sapphon.

‘Perditus,’ said Cypher.

‘Is that a curse?’ snapped Asmodai.

‘A world,’ Cypher said, resting his head on the stone table. ‘One that I first heard of during the time you now call the Horus Heresy.’

‘What is on this world?’ demanded Sapphon.

Cypher smiled with genuine warmth of recollection.

‘The key to Horus’s defeat and the salvation of the Dark Angels.’

REPULSED

Deep in the heart of the Rock was the chamber of the Master of the Forge, head of the Cult Mechanicus amongst the Techmarines of the Chapter. He was the driving force behind the machinery of the Tower of Angels – literally. On ascending to his rank, each Master of the Forge forsook an independent life and became part of the systems that controlled the Rock, a conscious biological intelligence monitoring nearly the entirety of the Dark Angels fortress-monastery. This ranged from plasma reactor to void shields, environmental stabilisers to the artificial gravity network. It also included the extensive security systems of the Tower of Angels, meaning that very little passed unnoticed by the Master of the Forge.

Such surveillance made it necessary for Sapphon and Asmodai to approach Sammael in clandestine fashion, arranging to meet the Grand Master of the Ravenwing in the Hidden Chamber now that Azrael had revealed its location.

They rendezvoused just after the first sermons, when Sapphon had completed the mass for the Deathwing and Sammael had finished the hymnals with the Ravenwing. The chamber was devoid of features and Watchers, even the inscription on the floor and ceiling concealed in the absence of the Supreme Grand Master. Had anyone by some miraculous coincidence stumbled upon the chamber by accident, it appeared utterly uninteresting – perhaps an old storeroom for the dungeons.

‘Interesting,’ said Sapphon as he stepped across the threshold into the empty room. Sammael was already there, pacing impatiently where Azrael’s library had been revealed. ‘Greetings, Grand Master. Our apologies for engaging in subterfuge again but we must speak on a delicate matter.’

Sammael stopped and looked at both of them.

‘When the two of you come together as one voice, I know it is time to be concerned.’

‘It is true that we rarely see eye to eye, Brother Sammael, which should tell you of the importance of our request today.’

‘Request?’

‘We need you to take the Ravenwing to the Perditus System,’ said Asmodai. ‘As soon as possible.’

‘Impossible.’ Sammael shook his head. ‘Azrael has already issued orders to my company for when we arrive at the Phyleaides Cluster. The Implacable Justice is to conduct initial scouting operations against the Varsine to establish their strength and disposition.’

‘A secondary consideration,’ said Asmodai, earning himself a frown from Sapphon. ‘We have intelligence that Perditus hides a secret from the Chapter’s ancient history.’

‘A secret? I have never heard of Perditus. What is the source of this intelligence?’

‘A recent interrogation of the Fallen, Methelas,’ Sapphon said quickly, before Asmodai could respond with the truth. The Master of Repentance opened his mouth to deny this but shut it again without protest. ‘Perditus is a small Adeptus Mechanicus station that houses a powerful weapon which may be used against the Dark Angels in the near future.’

‘Why come to me rather than the Supreme Grand Master?’ Sammael stared at Asmodai. ‘It is not like you to circumvent the Inner Circle, brother.’

Asmodai looked uncomfortable. Sapphon knew he could not answer on his fellow Chaplain’s behalf without raising Sammael’s suspicions further. The Master of the Ravenwing had a keen nose for intrigue even though he was virtually incapable of it himself beyond the basic secrecy required by the Inner Circle.

‘We do not wish to make another blunder in full scrutiny of the Inner Circle,’ Asmodai replied eventually, seeking some truth he could fix upon. ‘The claim by the Fallen must be investigated but we would rather not distract the entire Chapter.’

Sammael eyed both of them and then shook his head again.

‘Do not think me a fool,’ said the Second Company commander. ‘This claim comes not from the lips of Methelas but from Cypher. It is writ clear on your faces that you conspire and it occurs to me the source of your intelligence must be held in doubt or you would go directly to Lord Azrael.’

Sapphon exchanged a look with Asmodai, who seemed relieved that their pretence had been ineffective.

‘Your insight is as acute as ever, brother,’ said Sapphon. ‘But let not the source detract from the possible value of the knowledge.’

‘How can I not?’ Sammael, jaw clenched, turned away and flexed his neck, trying to relax. ‘He tricked you into allowing him the opportunity to kill Anovel. He allowed himself to be captured by my Black Knights. There is some hidden purpose to this, and I will not place my company directly in the line of fire. From Port Imperial to Ulthor to Tharsis my Ravenwing have suffered casualties. I will not risk the rest of my warriors with such an obvious trap.’

‘Your company? Your warriors?’ spat Asmodai. ‘They are Space Marines of the Dark Angels, not some personal household troop!’

‘And yet above me, the only authority to which they bow is the Supreme Grand Master,’ Sammael snapped, turning back. ‘If you wish to go to Perditus, it must either be with the whole Chapter or you must convince Azrael to issue an order that despatches my company to almost certain extinction.’

The Master of the Ravenwing stalked past them towards the secret stairway down to the dungeons. He stopped at the top step and looked back.

‘To preserve the honour of your positions, I will grant you the courtesy of one day to make good this arrangement with Lord Azrael. After then, I will approach him with what has transpired today and I expect him to demand full censure from the Inner Circle. How dare you try to drag me into your conspiracies and lies!’

Sammael stormed down the stairs, leaving Sapphon and Asmodai looking at each other.

‘That could have gone better,’ said the Master of Sanctity.

‘If we had been open from the outset and not attempted deception, do you think he would have been persuaded?’ asked Asmodai.

‘The Ravenwing have been hurt of late, he is not wrong. Sammael feels the pain of his company and his caution is understandable.’

‘The Ravenwing are ever the first blade drawn, the first weapon thrust towards the enemy. It is their lot to face the strength of the parry alone. If Sammael has lost the daring on which we rely, his company is no longer suited to its purpose.’

‘Keep such thoughts to yourself, brother!’ Sapphon grabbed Asmodai’s arm in a tight grip. ‘We may not yet have made Sammael an enemy to our cause, but if you attack him he will defend himself at our expense.’

‘This is why I detest these games of half-truth and misdirection,’ said Asmodai. He pulled his arm free. ‘I agree with Sammael, we must approach Azrael and speak plainly of what we have learned. You are too close to this mess and I freely admit I am too belligerent. Let the wisdom of the Supreme Grand Master prevail.’

‘How the times change us,’ Sapphon said with bitterness. ‘You challenge Azrael at every opportunity but now you scamper to hide beneath his mantle.’

‘I will accept no weakness from others. I swore no oath to uphold our agreement, you made that clear. If I see no reason to continue with this concealment there is nothing to prevent me making known what has happened.’

‘You need a reason to investigate a probable threat to the Chapter?’ Sapphon stepped close and dropped his voice, even though they were alone in the Hidden Chamber. ‘In ten thousand years Cypher has only come to us eight times. Eight times! That’s less than once in a millennium! We will never have this opportunity again. And you want another reason to go to Perditus?’

Asmodai thought about this for a few seconds and conceded Sapphon’s point with a solitary nod.

‘Context is paramount,’ said the Master of Repentance.

‘And we must create the correct context for the other Masters of the Hidden Chamber.’

‘The Masters of the…’ Asmodai looked around the room. ‘You have named our little cabal?’

‘It seemed appropriate.’ Sapphon shrugged. ‘Do you have a better suggestion? The Innermost Circle, perhaps? The Hub?’

‘You busy yourself with strange thoughts at times, Sapphon. I do not envy you the machinations of your fertile brain. If you wish to call our grouping the Masters of the Hidden Chamber, that is your business. I will trouble myself with greater matters, such as how we are going to convince our brothers to accept an expedition to Perditus.’

‘That will be my concern, brother. I will assemble the Hidden Masters.’

‘I prefer that. It is shorter.’

‘Then we have accord.’

A LAST GAMBIT

‘He seems…’ Sapphon was not sure of the word to use to describe Cypher’s behaviour over the previous hours. ‘Cooperative? Forthcoming?’

Azrael looked at Sapphon from behind his desk, hands laid flat on the wood. The Supreme Grand Master seemed calm, despite the intrusion by Sapphon. Azrael stood up and seemed to regard his personal banner, hands behind his back.

‘We cannot change our destination to Caliban, not on the word of a traitor and proven liar.’

‘I understand, master. He must know this, and yet he still insists that we must act. Our fate lies at Caliban, he claims.’

Azrael inhaled deeply. He did not turn around, but his voice became taut.

‘Each day I must weigh impossible decisions, Sapphon. To uphold my oaths to protect the Emperor’s domains and to prosecute war against His enemies, or to hold to those secret oaths I swore to the Inner Circle to prosecute the Hunt for the Fallen until we have erased the stain upon our honour.’

He turned, still not looking at Sapphon, and lifted a few sheets of printed flexitrans from his desk.

‘Thousands have died in the last hour, across the Phyleaides Cluster. The Varsine Bloodflock is in full migration. Four worlds have already lost millions. The Emperor’s loyal servants, slaughtered by xenos filth. Millions more will die even if we could stem the Bloodflock this minute. The regiments of the Astra Militarum do what they can but they are too slow to chase down the Varsine. The Imperial Navy is stretched too thin to protect every system. We must find and destroy the worldnest or whole sectors may be lost.’

Now he looked at Sapphon, with intensity not anger. ‘You want me to delay our intervention on the untrustworthy assertions of an admitted traitor?’

Sapphon met his Chapter Master’s inquiring look with a regretful one.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How many millions more will die in the centuries to come if the Dark Angels do not survive to protect them? How many billions if, as Cypher claims, the Unforgiven will be destroyed in their totality? Not by aliens, or heretics or mutants. By the Imperium. By our fellow Space Marines. Civil war, Lord Azrael. On a scale we cannot imagine.’

Azrael said nothing, his look demanding more from Sapphon. The Lord of the Rock wanted to be convinced, but had not yet been given sufficient reason to act.

‘Once in ten generations, turmoil such as this tears at the Imperium,’ said the Master of Sanctity. ‘Aside from a few of our most revered warriors interred in the sarcophagi of their Dreadnoughts, there is one alone that has witnessed all of these events. He is in one of our cells and requests an audience with you.’

Sapphon leaned across the desk, resting on his fists.

‘This is not one of those days when you must weigh the Hunt against our broader duties. Today the Hunt and the protection of the Imperium are the same. I do not ask that you act, merely that you listen. I could relate Cypher’s arguments here and now, but it is better that you look into his eyes and listen to his voice, not mine.’

‘And if I remain unconvinced by his testimony?’

‘We kill Varsine and I speak no more of Cypher.’

Azrael considered this, laying down the reports from Phyleaides back on his desk, using his finger to neaten the pile.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘One last audience.’

The two of them made their way down from Azrael’s chamber near the pinnacle of the Tower of Angels into the depths of the dungeons in the Rock beneath. They reached the stretch of corridor where Cypher was imprisoned, nearly a quarter of a kilometre long, and empty of all other Fallen.

‘Where are the Deathwing that should patrol these passages?’ demanded Azrael as he noticed the guards’ absence.

‘I am sentry alone,’ said Asmodai, emerging from the shadows of one of the watch chambers adjoined to the tunnel. ‘We can trust no other.’

‘You approve of my visit?’ said Azrael, surprised.

‘The salvation of the Dark Angels could be at hand, Supreme Grand Master. Others may misunderstand my motives, but the erasing of the ancient shame has always been my goal.’

‘I see,’ said Azrael. He looked at the closest cell door. ‘He’s in here?’

The two Chaplains nodded in reply.

‘He says he will only speak to you alone,’ said Sapphon.

‘He is restrained,’ added Asmodai. ‘He presents no danger.’

Azrael darted an aggrieved look at the Master of Repentance and opened the cell door. Silhouetted against the glow of embers from within, the Supreme Grand Master stopped on the threshold.

‘I will listen to what you have to say.’ His words were addressed to the cell’s inhabitant, not the Chaplains outside. ‘If you persuade me you are telling the truth, I will act on your assertions. If I am unconvinced, I will have you executed. Are you willing to submit to these terms?’

There was a pause that seemed to last for some time to Sapphon, but must have been only a couple of seconds.

‘Yes.’ Cypher’s voice seemed distant.

Azrael pulled the door closed with a thud that resounded along the empty corridor. Sapphon and Asmodai looked at each other and retired to the guard room to await the decision of their lord.

THE CANKER OF DOUBT

The pick shrieked as its head rebounded from the metres-thick ice clustered around the coolant exchange. Annael hefted it back over his shoulder and swung again. The ferrite tip caught in a jagged crack and split a chunk of ice a metre thick. The outer part fell away to the decking at Annael’s feet. He crouched and tossed it aside. Stepping back, he lifted the pick again.

He had laboured for twelve hours and twelve hours more would not tire his superhuman muscles. The monotony of the first six hours had threatened his sanity. It was as though he had been locked in with his own thoughts just as he had, metaphorically speaking, been locked in the coolant exchange ducts by his penance.

Into the seventh hour he had started to daydream. He had thought at first that his catalepsean node had been triggered, causing half of his brain to slumber. In fact it had been caused by something far more prosaic – boredom. A concept almost alien to the Space Marines, whose lives were filled with training, duty and attendance to their brothers even when not in combat.

His idle thoughts had little space to roam. His childhood was an indistinct blur, his earliest recollections of any depth coming from his days as a novitiate of the Chapter. For the next four centuries he had been a battle-brother of the Dark Angels. A warrior cast in the mould of the heroes of ancient times. An unrelenting life of bloodshed and honing deadly skills.

Such experiences left little to the imagination. Flights of fancy were heresy.

Yet somehow Annael’s unencumbered mind had managed to find a place to wriggle free of catechisms and hymnals, bolter drill and armour maintenance doctrine.

He had imagined a forest. The trees of dead Caliban, where the Lion had hunted great beasts and earned himself the rank of Grand Master amongst the knights of the Order. Annael had pictured himself as a knight of the Order serving beneath the Lion, joining him on the Great Hunts. They had been lauded and feasted on their return to Aldurukh, the very tower beneath which his tireless arms now swung again and again and again.

The Lion was magnificent – an amorphous individual in his daydream, his features reminiscent of Lord Azrael and Belial and Malcifer and Sammael – the resemblance not simply superficial, as the primarch combined the authority, resilience, wit and daring of all four. Annael felt joy just to stand in the Lion’s shadow.

He had dreamed of destriers. Hardy-bred steeds of flesh and bone rather than plasteel, the forefathers of Black Shadow and the other bikes of the Ravenwing. Whimsy distracted his thoughts at this time, to wonder if the machine-spirit of Black Shadow had been offended by Annael’s actions. Did the steed share in his shame, shunned by the other bikes and speeders of the company until its master made penance?

Even in the fantasy of his daydream, Annael could not escape the crushing humiliation of his punishment. In the depths of his despair, he found the means to make himself feel even more wretched – he dreamed that he had disappointed the Lion.

The Grand Master of the Order looked on him with benevolence, but there was also dismay in the primarch’s eyes. Annael felt that gaze upon him and there was no greater punishment that could be meted out.

He wept, his soul torn apart by the thought that he had failed the Lion.

‘Annael.’ A hand touched him on the shoulder. ‘Annael!’

He looked up through tear-filled eyes. For a moment his vision swam and he thought he looked on the face of the primarch. It resolved into the features of Malcifer, crouched over him with concern knotting his brow.

‘Master Chaplain?’ Annael croaked. He realised that he must look a sorry state – curled around the pickaxe like an infant, head resting on a lump of ice. He sat up, wiping a hand across his face.

Malcifer stood up and Annael sprang to his feet, embarrassment coursing through him. He tried to stand to attention but hours of lying on the ice had numbed his muscles and he stood lopsided, silently cursing his weakness.

‘Do you know why I sent you here, Annael?’ the Chaplain asked.

‘To clear the ice from the coolant exchange, Master Malcifer,’ Annael replied.

Malcifer gave him a condescending look.

‘That ice has been here for millennia. Do you really think it needs to be cleared?’

Annael thought about this, his gaze moving from Malcifer to the jagged frozen liquid and back again.

‘To break my spirit?’ he ventured.

‘What use is a Space Marine without spirit? Come, Annael, what has happened to you in these last few hours? Speak from your soul.’

‘I dreamed that I failed the Lion,’ Annael confessed.

‘Just a dream?’

The Dark Angel looked deep into Malcifer’s eyes. Trying to interpret this question. He gained no insight from the impassive stare.

‘A realisation,’ Annael said eventually. ‘Acceptance of what I have done.’

‘And what have you done, Annael?’

‘I failed. I brought shame to myself, to the squadron, to the Black Knights.’

‘And how did you feel?’

Annael bowed his head and looked at the floor.

‘Less than worthless. It was not that the Lion was angry with me. Or even that he was disappointed. There was something else.’ He looked at Malcifer and gritted his teeth. ‘He gave me a particular look. It seemed as though he no longer trusted me, and it was the most grievous wound I have felt.’

The Chaplain folded his arms and nodded, but said nothing. Annael realised he was supposed to continue. Rather than attempting to marshal his whirling thoughts, the Black Knight gave voice to them as they occurred, trying to find some sense in the stream of ideas.

‘If the Lion does not trust me, nobody will. The bond of brotherhood, my honour, the oaths sworn, they were all meaningless in that instant. Once broken, never repaired. No word I could utter could heal that injury, could mend that fracture. All that I had done before was as naught. Dust scattered by the wind. All that I would do was tainted, marred by the doubt of my lord.’

The anger Annael had felt for weeks was no longer in his breast. He tried to find it, the spark of outrage that he had been treated so poorly, but nothing of his defiance remained. Something else was missing too. He looked sharply at Malcifer, confused by the sensation.

‘I do not feel sorry,’ Annael admitted.

‘Oh?’ Malcifer rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. ‘Why is that?’

Annael tried to articulate the feeling. He started several times before he could find the right words.

‘It no longer matters what I did. The deed was unimportant. The betrayal…’ He felt the confession stick in his throat. A look at Malcifer, open and honest, forced it out. ‘I was a Black Knight. I was to be above reproach. Others looked to me for inspiration, for guidance, for honour. We disobeyed… That is, I disobeyed Sammael, and in that act I cast doubt on his commands. If the Black Knights are above obeying orders, why not the other Ravenwing? What of the commands of the Supreme Grand Master, the instructions of the Chaplains? Loyalty is not flexible. Obedience, true obedience, is absolute.

‘Doubt is a canker. You have warned us so many times that perhaps I no longer heard the sermon. When Sammael issues an order to me, will there be doubt in his thoughts? When the other brothers see me, will doubt erode their respect for the position I occupy? Even my squad-brothers, even with Sabrael, though we acted in concert, can we trust each other again?’

Malcifer accepted this with a thoughtful nod. He stepped towards Annael and his hands moved to the Space Marine’s, lifting them to Annael’s chest. Annael felt the intensity in the Chaplain’s stare as though it was the glare of a Land Raider’s lamps, blinding him with its strength. He felt that strength flowing into him, his fists clasped in Malcifer’s hands, the beating of his twin hearts suddenly fierce in his chest.

‘What do you have to say to me, Annael?’ asked the Chaplain.

Annael felt as though his soul was burning him from the inside out, flushing cleansing flames through his body. Dishonour, shame, weakness. Everything that he reviled, everything that he hated about himself that he had not accepted, it was all purged. The greatest punishment had been within and it was strength, not weakness, that brought it forth.

‘I repent,’ he whispered, lowering to his knees. He kissed the Chaplain’s knuckles and closed his eyes.

‘Do not be afraid. Declare it to me. Let the universe know the mettle of your soul, Annael.’

‘I repent,’ he said again, louder. He felt a tug from Malcifer, lifting him to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw that the Chaplain was smiling. Annael grinned, astonished by the emotion flooding through him. He had thought this moment would be sombre, a dour instant of indignity and disgrace. Instead, he lifted his voice in a joyous shout. ‘I repent!’

‘Truly you do,’ said Malcifer, stepping away. His smile was replaced by a sincere expression, and the gravitas spread to Annael, his own happiness fading to a more sober mood. ‘Welcome back, brother.’

ANCIENT DEEDS

Cypher had been moved from his interrogation chamber to a detention cell. There was very little difference – the absence of the Chaplains’ excruciation implements and the fact that the prisoner was chained to a cot rather than a slab. Even so, it irked Azrael that Cypher had managed to dupe not just Sapphon but also Asmodai into alleviating his circumstances in promise of knowledge. The Supreme Grand Master had huge reservations about the Master of Repentance’s attitude, but he had thought he could always rely on Asmodai to give short shrift to any of the Fallen. Apparently he had been wrong.

‘Your doubt is obvious, and I cannot blame you for harbouring such sentiment.’ Cypher stood, his ankle manacled to the leg of the bed. He spread his arms in supplication. ‘The consequences of our last meeting were drastic.’

‘An understatement. They were appalling.’

‘And you will never believe another word I say.’

Azrael hesitated, remembering what he had told the Fallen before entering.

‘I am dubious of every word that falls from your tongue. But I promised I would give you this last chance to vouch for the usefulness of your continued life. On my honour, such as is left of it, you have my word that I am not wholly deaf to what you have to say. I will give you fair hearing.’

‘You claim to have little honour left, but you have never broken an oath, nor have you done anything less than your utmost to uphold the name and standing of the Dark Angels. You would have been a fine seneschal to the Lion.’

The Supreme Grand Master tried hard not to let this praise affect him, but the sincerity in Cypher’s voice made it impossible not to feel a small swell of pride. Azrael pushed it to the back of his mind.

‘Empty words.’

Cypher’s lip turned down and he looked away, sighing. Azrael did not speak, but he chose not to harry the prisoner to continue. The Fallen was deep in thought.

‘The dishonour was not yours,’ he said, still staring at the floor. ‘Whatever misdemeanours you feel you have perpetrated in the cause of the Hunt, you have atoned for a hundredfold by your dedication to the Imperium. The crime was not yours, not any of the Dark Angels that now bear the burden of shame.’

‘No, it was you, and the other Fallen. You turned on the Lion. That act is the wellspring of our dishonour.’

‘And yet you carry that shame as though your robes were made of lead. I have met many of those you call Fallen. Some are vile creatures, like Methelas, who have descended into the pits of the darkness. Some retain their honour, caught up by good faith in bad superiors, given no chance to make amends for being used and discarded. Some are twisted, but believe in all their soul that they were on the right side of the argument. Many were willing, but many were not.’

‘I would expect you to make apology for your fellow traitors.’ Azrael crossed his arms. ‘I hear nothing that exempts you from our condemnation or merits any comment.’

‘I ask for another indulgence, Lord Azrael.’ The Fallen’s use of the title confused and irked Azrael. It was uttered with respect, or seemed to be, but sounded alien from the mouth of this treacherous dog.

After a few seconds Azrael realised that Cypher was being literal, asking for permission to continue. The Supreme Grand Master waved for him to carry on speaking.

‘To understand how your brothers might be saved, you must understand the journey that has brought you here,’ said the renegade.

‘So you are to recite to me the history of my own Chapter?’

‘Not at all, but to remind you of the part I played in it. Whatever the chroniclers have recorded in secret, I can tell you much of what has happened and what it is that you seek to repent.’ Cypher sat down and indicated for Azrael to do the same – there was a stool beside the door. Azrael ignored the invitation. ‘I have stood in the Hidden Chamber. I have walked the Forever Passage. I have in my time seen most of the Tower of Angels, as prisoner or guest.’

‘Yes, that is a matter I would have you clear up for me. How do you intend to escape this time?’

‘I do not.’ Cypher sat forward, earnest. ‘The Rock is a void-borne fortress, escape is impossible. I intend to leave your company the same way I left the company of seven prior Supreme Grand Masters. With your permission, perhaps even your blessing.’

Azrael laughed, shocked by this incredible assertion. Cypher smiled, sharing his humour.

‘I am going to let you go, is that what you are telling me?’

‘Yes.’

It took a few more seconds for Azrael to control himself. As the last of his laughter died away, the Supreme Grand Master sat down.

‘Tell me, thrice-cursed, what wisdom you have for me. What do you know of the atonement of my gene-brothers that I do not?’

‘It was not the turning of the Fallen that sealed the fate of the Dark Angels for ten thousand years. If you could see with eyes undimmed by the lies of your forebears you would know the truth, see the last ten millennia for what they are. Nearly half of the Legions joined Horus. They have been forgotten, their memory denied to the common people of the Imperium, their primarchs half-whispered names of devils and slain traitors.

‘And there were those within the Legions recorded as loyal defenders of the Emperor that did not remain true to their oaths. They split with their brothers and gene-fathers, for Horus or personal gain, or were tricked into selfish acts by promises from the agents of the Dark Powers.’

‘There is rumour of such in the oldest annals,’ said Azrael. ‘It does not compare to the crimes of the Fallen.’

‘No, it does not. But also, the fact that your ancient records contain such knowledge proves that the other Legions that suffered such treachery in their ranks were of no mind to conceal it. Those that remained loyal used the evidence of deserters and defectors to reinforce their dedication to the Emperor. But in the annals of the Space Wolves and the Ultramarines, in the spoken mysteries of the White Scars and the halls of records on Baal Secundus, where does it speak of the Fallen?’

‘Nowhere!’ Azrael was alarmed by the thought that the Dark Angels great secret might be known to anyone outside the Unforgiven.

‘A secret kept for ten thousand years. Not strength drawn from division, but shame. A shame multiplied every day by your denial to the Imperium and yourselves. The crime for which you must atone is not the turning of the Fallen, but the decision to conceal it. That first lie, that the Dark Angels had remained loyal, told to the primarchs of your brother Legions. Years later, a second lie, even greater than the first, told to your own warriors. When I returned to warn that the Fallen were not dead, I hoped for openness, but instead my news was greeted with distrust and secrecy. Every lie begets a new secret, every secret begets a new lie. If you capture all of the Fallen, if this moment I was to repent every sin I have knowingly committed against the Lion and the Emperor, your shame would not be ended. You carry it in your souls, not the Fallen.’

Azrael resisted the urge to get up and strike the corrupted Dark Angel, and shook with the effort.

‘Why do you take such umbrage at my words?’ said Cypher. ‘Dismiss them as the ranting of a Fallen. The seeds of doubt sown wildly by a traitor. You cannot argue, because in your soul you know what I say is true. Every warrior that bore your title, Supreme Grand Master, carries the guilt not of the Fallen but of every Chapter Master that has chosen a path of deceit rather than honesty.’

‘And that would save us? To confess to ten thousand years of manipulation and secrecy? The Unforgiven would be declared Excommunicate Traitoris. Not even our cousins in the other Chapters would side with us. All of the Imperium and the Adeptus Astartes would hunt us down.’

‘And your pride would force you to defend yourselves, rather than meekly accept your execution as you should. Deluded to the end that you were in the right, a curse on the Imperium spat from the lips of the last Dark Angel to die to a righteous blade.’

‘And what is this to do with you and Astelan and Caliban? Is it your blade that will hunt us?’

‘You misunderstand me. I would save you and the Imperium this fate. No good comes of forcing the truth into the light. Only by your own admission of guilt will you ever be free.’ Cypher stood up, a hand extended towards Azrael. ‘No matter what you think of me, I am a Dark Angel too. The same gene-father’s blood runs in our veins. We are so alike, creations of the Emperor, but your blindness sets us light years apart.’

‘You think that I would trust you?’ Azrael asked.

‘No,’ said Cypher. His expression was fierce as he continued. ‘You must never trust me! There is no oath that I will keep, no power that I can swear by that you can hold me to. I am the thrice-cursed, liar, traitor and enigma. The more I assert I am telling you the truth, the less you should believe me.’

‘But you ask me to believe you now? How can you say such a thing and then expect me to stay here and listen to your lies?’

‘I am not asking you to believe me. That would be fruitless. Open the door.’

‘What?’ Azrael glanced towards the heavy cell door.

‘Please, I am chained, I cannot escape. Open the door.’

Azrael, frowning, stood up and did as he had been asked. He swung the cell door out, revealing the corridor. The Supreme Grand Master stepped back in shock. Instead of the empty passage he had been expecting, he was confronted by dozens of glinting red eyes in the gloom.

Watchers in the Dark, at least thirty of them.

The air was filled with the same sense of dislocation he had felt when he had been taken to see Luther for the first time, as though a fog hung across his senses. He glanced to the left, seeing the flickering light of the lanterns in the guard room where Sapphon and Asmodai waited. Azrael could see them now, talking to each other, but moving with extreme slowness, their gestures changing by tiny degrees, lips opening and curling with tectonic speed.

To the right the corridor stopped abruptly, two hundred metres short, and a huge hydraulically-locked door barred further progress.

‘They wish us to follow.’

Azrael turned at the sudden voice at his shoulder, hands rising to protect himself, but no attack came. Cypher rubbed feeling back into his wrists, his bonds laid out behind him on the bed and floor.

‘Not my doing,’ the Fallen said quickly, lifting his hands in surrender as Azrael took a step closer. ‘It was their act.’

Azrael thought he understood the strange nature of the Watchers now, or at least had an inkling of the source of their power. Space was something they could rearrange at will, creating stairs and corridors and gaps between walls whenever needed. He had no doubt the portal was real, somewhere else in the Rock, but for convenience they had brought it close for him.

‘Do you know what is inside?’ Azrael said, looking at the forbidding door in front of him. It was reinforced with heavy bands. Ancient symbols of the machine cult were etched into the metal, with no sign of tarnish or weathering. ‘Is this what you were going to tell me?’

‘I have no idea what this place is,’ confessed Cypher. ‘I answered only the urge from our small friends, an instinct that we needed to meet again.’

‘Then there is only one way to find out,’ said Azrael, striding forward. The Watchers parted before him.

HEIRLOOM OF THE LION

The door opened with a hiss, swinging inwards to reveal a metal-lined hall within. For an instant Azrael thought he had seen the chamber before, but the memory would not stand still for scrutiny, constantly changing in slight details. It was a dream, he realised. One that had come to him again and again but not until now had he remembered it.

Like most of the dungeon beneath the Tower of Angels, the cathedral-like space was lit by electric lanterns, at least fifty of them casting a yellow glare across the hall’s contents. The walls, nearly a hundred metres apart, were covered in stacks of machinery and monitors, so that the bare metal was hidden behind banks of dials and levers and flashing lights and coils of cabling and pipelines. The precise position of each mechanism seemed slightly out of place, ajar with the dream-memory.

Gantries and walkways, steps and ladders were arranged around something that had always appeared as a blur in his dreams, with sensor probes, monitoring dishes and scaffolding further enmeshing the centre of the warp device.

The thing itself was there, clearer than anything else. A sentience, or at least semi-sentience that had been quietly calling to him for a century and more. It was a perfect sphere of marbled black and dark grey, with flecks of gold that moved slowly across its surface. Ten point six seven metres in diameter – how he recalled the exact dimensions the Lord of the Rock did not know – it was made of some exotic material beyond comprehension.

Two protuberances extended from the sphere, one at each pole, each only a few centimetres long. The rounded nodules touched against circuit-covered plates stationed above and below the device, which in turn were linked by a dizzying web of wires and cables to the surrounding machines.

Azrael could feel the thing regarding him with some alien sense. He was not sure how he could tell, nor how the warp device could sense him in return. He looked at it and felt another flash of memory. Savage humans clad in red rags, wailing and screaming praises to the sphere. He brought death to them, slaying dozens.

‘Careful, brother!’

Ezekiel’s sharp words cut across Azrael’s daydream, bringing him back to focus on the reality of where he was.

‘How did you come to this place?’ he asked the Librarian.

‘By the same manner as you,’ Ezekiel replied. He glanced back at the crowd of twinkling eyes in the darkness outside the doors. ‘I was summoned. It seems I arrived just at the appointed hour. You are correct, this thing perceives us. It is psychic, connected to the warp, but in no way I have ever encountered before. I sensed its energies leaking into your mind, but I cannot penetrate its depths.’

‘Nor will you ever,’ said Cypher. ‘No probe or drill or psychic exploration has ever revealed its mysteries.’

Azrael noticed a corpse, almost invisible amongst the tangle of cables on the floor. The body was that of an old man. More than old, ancient. His skin was as thin as paper over fleshless bones, hair and beard so long that they must not have seen a blade in all of his life.

There was something in the back of the body, a pipe that snaked into the darkness, another set just below his neck.

It was then that Azrael heard the faint flutter of a heartbeat amongst the buzz of machines and the crackle of charging power cells. He hissed in disgust as the dead man’s chest began to rise and fall. He would have sworn that the old man had been a cadaver, no breath or pulse in him, but now the frail body twitched.

He sat up, moving jerkily like a badly-controlled marionette. The eyes were glassy, the limbs moving stiffly. With a glance at the alien orb, Azrael saw the golden motes moving more swiftly than before, forming brief patterns in the dark swirl.

‘You have returned.’ The man’s voice was cracked, barely audible, devoid of emotion, his face featureless. A hand raised and waved erratically.

‘What?’ said Azrael, snarling as he turned on Cypher. ‘What abomination is this?’

‘It is not of my doing,’ said the Fallen. ‘Your predecessors imprisoned it here rather than returned it to Perditus as they claimed.’

‘You make no sense. What is it?’

‘It is called Tuchulcha. That is about all that I can say, and that it was pivotal to the Legion during the Horus Heresy. It can be very cooperative, though it is disturbing to deal with.’

‘It’s a daemon,’ said Ezekiel.

‘Not strictly true, young Ezekiel,’ the servitor-avatar croaked, turning its withered form towards the Librarian. ‘I am a lens, you could say. It no more makes me a daemon than looking through a window makes you glass.’

‘What are you?’ said Azrael, stepping forward until he was within arm’s reach of the puppet-servitor. He could not imagine that the animated man did not suffer somehow from this ordeal, and flexed his fingers at the thought of snapping his neck to end the mockery of life.

‘I am Tuchulcha, Lord of Angels.’ The corpse-servitor looked up with rheumy yellow eyes. It took a couple of seconds for Azrael to realise that the warp-thing was using the title in address to him, not in reference to itself. ‘I am the everything. Everywhere. I was once Servant of the Deadly Seas. I was a friend of the Mechanicum. For a time I was ally to the Lion.’

‘You are evil,’ said Cypher. ‘You thrive on turmoil and bloodshed.’

‘Some have tried to destroy me, Lord of Angels. Physically, it is impossible, nor should you desire it. All things desire me. The one they call Typhon covets me, but I am not what he thinks I am. I do not wish to be destroyed.’

‘Typhon?’ Azrael looked at Cypher for an explanation.

‘Calas Typhon, once First Captain of the Death Guard. You curse him as the one called Typhus.’

Azrael’s mind whirled. Ever since his ascension to the Deathwing he had grappled with mind-bending tales from the time of the Horus Heresy, of secrets and lies within lies and secrets. There had been no mention in any of the annals of the existence of Tuchulcha. Azrael studied the machinery around the warp device, his eyes narrowed.

‘Why did they bring you here? Those that came after the Lion?’ Azrael looked at Cypher again, feeling more out of his depth than at any point in his long life. He detested the fact that he was at the mercy of the mercurial renegade. ‘What did they intend?’

‘They coveted me. All things covet me.’ The corpse-puppet grimaced, pulling back cracked lips and revealing toothless gums in an attempt at a smile. ‘I am desirable.’

‘They feared releasing it, I would guess,’ said Cypher.

‘Guess? I thought you know this thing?’

‘Of it, that is all. I did not know it was here. The Watchers told me. Showed me. I felt it, through them. However it is that they communicate.’

‘What do you want?’ Azrael asked Tuchulcha, addressing the orb rather than the servitor. ‘Why have you been revealed now?’

‘I want to make you happy.’ Azrael saw that the puppet’s gaze was not directed at him, but at Cypher. ‘I thought I did. You do not seem happy. Why are you not happy?’

‘Ignore it,’ Ezekiel said quickly, stepping in front of Cypher. He darted a worried glance at Azrael – an expression the Supreme Grand Master had never seen before on the face of his Chief Librarian. ‘We must find some way to destroy it.’

‘You cannot.’ The servitor let out a dry laugh. ‘If I could be destroyed, I would not exist. If you wish to be rid of me, all you have to do is take me home.’

‘Perditus?’ said Cypher.

‘I am not handing this abomination back to the Adeptus Mechanicus,’ said Azrael. ‘I have no idea what it is, but it is clearly too dangerous to allow it to be free.’

He looked at Tuchulcha, wondering what was inside that strange globe, where it had come from and who, if anyone, had made it. ‘Why Perditus, what is there for you?’

‘Salvation.’ The servitor sagged. ‘Release. For all of us. But not Perditus. Home. The world you called Caliban.’

Azrael could not speak for several seconds, mastering his anger at this assertion. In his place Ezekiel spoke.

‘Caliban is no more, destroyed. You must know this if you knew the Lion.’

The puppet-corpse tilted its head to one side.

‘It does not have to be.’

‘What does not have to be?’ demanded Ezekiel.

‘Caliban does not have to be destroyed. With my help you can save your world. And the Lion.’

FAREWELLS AND REGRETS

Waking with a start, a burst of energy flooding what was left of his body, Telemenus opened his eyes and discovered that he was not alone. Three others stood around the life-support system, their bulk almost filling the rest of the small med-chamber.

He did not recognise them at first. It took prompts from the Emperor – who appeared as the reflection of a golden griffon in the glass pane of the door – to remind him of their names.

‘Galadan… Caulderain.’ He looked at the third and fond recollections rushed up from the depths of his memories. Telemenus smiled. ‘Daellon!’

He had thought his squad-brother dead. His last memory before awaking on the Penitent Warrior had been of the gigantic daemon swatting Daellon aside with its skull-headed flail. He looked at the robe-clad warrior and saw no sign of bionics or serious injury.

‘You saved my life, putting yourself in the path of the daemon to take the blow meant for me. I can never repay the debt I owe even if I had all my limbs remaining. Would that I had the means to reciprocate.’

‘My Terminator suit, praise its spirit, protected me from the worst,’ Daellon said, guessing Telemenus’s thoughts. He came forward and gripped his battle-brother’s hand. ‘If only your war-plate had been so faithful.’

‘I live,’ said Telemenus. ‘It protected me just enough for that.’

He saw sadness in the eyes of his fellow Deathwing.

‘You look as though you attend my funerary rites. Why so leaden with sorrow?’

They looked at each other, waiting for another to speak. Caulderain it was that took the lead, swapping places with Daellon.

‘The Apothecary woke you for us, so that we might say farewell,’ said the sergeant.

‘This need not be farewell, brothers!’ Telemenus raised his hand and attempted a shrug. ‘This small form takes little enough life to animate. This does not have to be a last parting.’

‘For us it may be,’ said Galadan. ‘The Rock returns to Caliban. Some devious plan of the Fallen that might see us all destroyed. The Deathwing go to war and you will not be counted amongst our number. Even if we survive, you will not fight beside us on the line again.’

The announcement struck Telemenus as hard as the blow that had cut him in half. He closed his eyes and looked away, his jaw clenched so that he made no sound of despair. Mastering himself in a couple of seconds, he looked back at them.

‘I live to serve the Emperor and the Lion’s shade. There are many that went to Ulthor and ended their duty there. I am grateful to continue in my service.’

‘Other than the obvious, is all well with you?’ Daellon looked concerned. ‘Forgive my saying, brother, but you seem… humbler.’

Telemenus laughed. He saw a golden flash in the glass of the door as the vision of the Emperor regarded him with eyes of fire.

‘It would be a break of faith not to learn from such a catastrophic experience. I understand my weaknesses and see why my behaviour vexed my superiors at times.’ Telemenus’s thoughts caught up with what Galadan had said. ‘The Deathwing travel to Caliban? A momentous time, and a testing one also. I wish that I could fight alongside you, my time with such esteemed brothers seems woefully short now that it has passed.’

‘I would have your keen eye in my squad,’ said Caulderain. He glanced at the others. ‘Your absence lessens us, the whole company, in strength and in spirit.’

‘Perhaps you did not realise, but we took heart from your achievement,’ said Daellon. ‘To fight beside one with the marksman’s honour gave us all pride. You allowed us to share in your triumph.’

That was not how everyone saw matters, thought Telemenus. He thought back to Sergeant Arbalan, trapped inside the daemonflesh of the city on Ulthor, and his last words to Telemenus.

‘Do not make me beg,’ growled Arbalan, staring at Telemenus from his flesh cocoon.

‘Perhaps if we found a Librarian, he could cleanse the taint from you,’ Telemenus suggested, though he knew it was a hopeless situation.

‘Telemenus, come closer.’ The Space Marine complied with Arbalan’s request as Daellon stepped away. When the sergeant spoke his voice was a whisper. ‘There is more to being a great warrior than shooting straight. You have been a disappointment to me and to the Grand Master since you arrived. It is not patience or skill that you lack, it is humility, and that is why we have been scrutinising you so closely.’

‘You think that I show promise?’ Telemenus was confused, unsure whether Arbalan was praising him or criticising. ‘The Grand Master pushes me harder than the others because he senses what I could offer?’

‘No.’ The sergeant’s lips were almost nonexistent and his skin all but a mask but he still managed a dissatisfied expression. ‘With training and armaments like yours, any warrior can serve with distinction in the First Company. Remember, you are not special.’

Telemenus recoiled as if shot, stepping away from the sergeant. He shook his head.

‘Now, which one of you is going to end it for me?’ The sergeant grunted in pain, baring decaying teeth and blackened gums.

‘I will, damn it,’ said Daellon.

‘No!’ Telemenus stepped in front of his companion and raised his storm bolter, aiming at Arbalan’s face. He met the sergeant’s stare, knowing that Arbalan could see nothing of his expression past the helm of Telemenus’s armour.

‘At least I know you can hit me from that distance,’ Arbalan snarled, unrepentant to the end.

‘You deserve this,’ said Telemenus. ‘I owe it to you.’

He fired.

He had thought about Arbalan’s assessment in the few lucid waking moments he had experienced since being saved by Temraen and Librarian Ezekiel. The veteran had been correct, Telemenus was not special. He deserved no greater praise than any of the other thousand brothers of the Chapter.

‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he said. It occurred to Telemenus whether such respect would have been forthcoming if he had not almost died at the hands of the enemy. Was it shameful that he had not died, lingering on as a burden to the Chapter? Would it not have been better if he had joined the ranks of the Honoured Dead? It seemed as though he heard the eulogy of his own funeral ceremony, but he tried to accept the thought as it was intended. ‘It gratifies me to know that despite my behaviour at times I am remembered fondly by my brothers.’

There was little else that could be said that would not seem maudlin or ridiculous and the three Deathwing Space Marines made to leave with simple goodbyes. Daellon waited after Galadan and Caulderain had departed.

‘There is no justice in what has happened to you, brother,’ he said, looking Telemenus directly in the eye. ‘I see the hurt, the wounds that cannot heal. Were it not forbidden I would grant the grace you gave Sergeant Arbalan. They are going to place you back into stasis, until your final duty is decided. I cannot imagine the half-life you will have to endure, but know that you were meant for a fate better than this, an end more remarkable.’

‘We cannot all become Masters and legends, brother. Fear not for my soul, and feel no sorrow for me. Be content with the punishment of the enemy and know that I will always stand beside you in thought if not deed.’

Daellon took a deep breath and laid a hand on Telemenus’s shoulder.

‘Stay strong, brother.’

‘Fight hard, die well,’ Telemenus replied. He uttered the words without irony.

Daellon left him, though he spent a few seconds speaking with one of the medicae serfs, who looked at Telemenus several times, shaking his head.

He felt fresh drowsiness pulling him into a stupor and knew that when he awoke he would know the life ordained to him for the rest of his span. Sustained by elixirs and mechanical systems, his service would continue for several centuries yet.

‘Are you afraid?’ the Emperor asked, returning to the skull face He frequently assumed during their conversations, glimmering at the heart of the glow-globe above the table.

‘They shall know no fear,’ Telemenus replied. ‘Did not Guilliman quote You in his famous speech? I dare not defy one of Your edicts, and so I shall know no fear.’

Despite these brave words, he could not deny a degree of apprehension as the Emperor faded from view and he slipped into the darkness.

PART THREE

CALIBAN

OLD ALLIANCES

‘Circles within circles within circles,’ Azrael said to Ezekiel, shaking his head. The two of them had met in the Hidden Chamber to discuss the next step in dealing with Cypher and Tuchulcha. ‘The last thing our Chapter needs is more secrets, but there is no alternative. Sapphon and Asmodai were right to exclude the bulk of the Inner Circle from discussions about Cypher. The Hidden Masters, Sapphon calls us. And now, Tuchulcha. We cannot allow anyone else to know that the Rock has been harbouring some kind of half-daemon for the last ten thousand years! But I do not trust Cypher to–’

‘Something has happened,’ Ezekiel said suddenly, interrupting Azrael. He looked around the chamber, his good eye twinkling with golden power. ‘We are no longer in the warp.’

The Supreme Grand Master had felt nothing, no soul-wrenching transition from the immaterial to the material. He knew better than to ask the Chief Librarian if he was sure.

‘How is that possible?’ he said instead.

‘The sphere,’ Ezekiel replied with a look of concern. He closed his eye for a few seconds, an auric glimmer shining through the lid. When he opened it, his brow furrowed even further. ‘The whole fleet has been moved into real space.’

‘Our Navigators reported that the warp was unusually calm, with a swift-running current that has guided us speedily to Caliban faster than any journey before. Do you think Tuchulcha was responsible?’

‘I would suggest that the only way to be sure is to ask it, but I wouldn’t advise that. We should spend no more time with the abomination than is necessary.’

‘I agree. It clearly has some objective of its own, as does Cypher. What of the Order of Crimson Knights? They were supposed to follow us from the rendezvous at Arcadus.’

‘They have been transitioned too. I also detected more ships, in-system and approaching through the warp. There’s a lot of turbulence in the wake of our exit, it’s impossible to tell distance or numbers.’

Both the Space Marines were fully armoured, as was standard protocol while traversing the perilous warp. Azrael activated his vox and hailed Master Issachar, who was the current Master of the Watch.

‘Issachar, make your report.’

There was a lengthy pause before the Third Company Captain replied, somewhat hesitantly.

‘We have dropped out of warp space, Supreme Grand Master. With all of the fleet. And we are far inside the system delineation for a tolerable warp jump. I don’t know how it happened. We just… appeared.’

‘Call all stations and ships to full battle-readiness.’

‘Already done, Lord Azrael. The instant we emerged, the Master of the Forge detected several other warships in the system. Analysis shows that seven cruiser-class and larger ships are from the Consecrators Chapter, the others are unidentified, presumed hostile.’

‘Transfer all details to the station in my chambers.’ Azrael cut the connection and turned his attention to Ezekiel. ‘How did the watch-monitors not detect a sizeable enemy fleet entering our hallowed system?’

‘The monitors are attuned to detect warp emissions. Perhaps, like us, the enemy entered by means other than a standard warp breach.’

This answer added to Azrael’s concerns as he stalked towards the steps that led past the Great Library to his chambers. He realised that Ezekiel was not following and looked back.

‘I need you at my side at all times, brother. I cannot navigate the rough waters of this crisis without you.’

‘As you wish, Lord Azrael.’ Ezekiel caught up with his superior and looked up the steps. ‘I would swear there are more secret stairs and passages in this place than those plainly known!’

‘Very likely,’ said Azrael, beginning the ascent. ‘One might be tempted to think our forebears on Caliban had something to hide long before the schism.’

‘Please, brother, do not joke about such things. We have enough conspiracies to occupy us already.’

They continued in silence, winding their way up through the Rock until they came to the corridor that held the Great Library and Azrael’s rooms. Entering the command chamber of the Supreme Grand Master, they discovered Issachar’s report waiting on a screen for them. Azrael scanned it quickly.

‘The energy signature detected at the heart of the unknown fleet seems familiar,’ he said. He activated the interface servitor wired into the back of the desk. It was nothing more than a head affixed to gimbals angled from a recess in the wall. A sallow-skinned face regarded him with blank glass eyes, coiled cables trailing from its temples.

‘Input data criteria,’ it droned from an artificial voicebox, lips sealed with loops of red wire. Azrael felt a quiver of distaste, reminded of Tuchulcha’s puppet.

‘Search archives, reverse chronology, seeking matches with latest scan report.’

‘Searching.’

While the servitor accessed the depths of the archival storage banks, Azrael examined the status report in more detail. The Consecrators were on a trajectory taking them on a circumspect route around the system, keeping a long distance between them and the unknown fleet. The unidentified ships numbered between five and seven capital-class ships, with twice that number of escorts. They were coming around Caliban’s star and were heading towards the former location of the Dark Angels home world.

‘Cease search,’ Azrael said sharply, remembering where he had seen the sensor readings before. ‘Those energy outputs are the same as those that Belial uploaded from the databanks of the Streisgant citadel. He said it was identified by Astelan as the Terminus Est.’

‘The plagueship of Typhus,’ said Ezekiel. ‘That is not surprising. His role in this crisis has yet to be identified but he is intimately involved. It seems that Sapphon and Asmodai were right. The capture of the Fallen, the ones we thought were architects of this plot, has not curtailed its execution. Others still at large continue the scheme.’

‘Tuchulcha said that we could save Caliban, but I cannot see how that is possible.’

Ezekiel was lost in thought for several minutes while Azrael continued with the report. A vid-connection from Issachar flashed across the screen. The Supreme Grand Master stabbed an armoured finger onto the acceptance key, apprehensive of what the Master of the Watch might say.

‘Report,’ Azrael snapped.

‘Unknown fleet is retiring, Supreme Grand Master. They are turning back from our axis of advance. Also, we have received a hail from Grand Master Nakir requesting a rendezvous.’

‘Nakir is here?’ Ezekiel said quietly, as surprised as Azrael by this news. Chapter Master Nakir of the Consecrators was something of an enigma even amongst the mystery-wreathed warriors of the Unforgiven. ‘Your message has brought forth the Master of Souls from the catacombs of the Reliquaria. These must be dire times indeed.’

‘Tell Nakir to make all speed for the Caliban nominal point, he is welcome to join us in the Tower of Angels. Extend the same invitation to Chapter Master Dane aboard the Flame of Galandros.’

Azrael silenced the link and moved from the command chamber to his office, Ezekiel on his heels. He sat down behind his desk, the reinforced chair creaking in protest at the weight of his war-plate, and rested his hands on wood polished smooth by generations of Supreme Grand Masters.

‘What do we tell them? Dane and Nakir?’

‘I suppose the truth is not an option,’ replied the Chief Librarian. Azrael raised an eyebrow, not sharing his companion’s moment of humour. ‘No need to mention Cypher or the warp-thing. Divinations have led us here. The Terminus Est and the importance of the location is enough of a threat to justify mobilising the Unforgiven in force. Dane will follow your lead and will not pry deeply.’

‘I am surprised by his response almost as much as by the Consecrators’ presence. They have suffered many casualties in their latest campaigns. Almost reduced to half strength by several accounts.’

‘As I said, Dane is utterly loyal to you, Lord Azrael. He would lead his last warrior into the teeth of the enemy to uphold the honour of his Chapter in your eyes.’

‘Let us hope that will not be necessary.’ Azrael leaned back, rubbing his forehead. ‘You are right, Dane is not the issue. Nakir will be more inquisitive.’

‘The perils of allowing Interrogator-Chaplains to become Chapter Masters,’ said the Librarian. ‘They always want to delve deeper than is required.’

‘You speak of divinations. What have you seen with your second sight, brother?’

‘The Hooded Death, but such doom is a constant companion to the Dark Angels. Of late, little else.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Disturbingly so. I wonder if it is connected to the warp effect conjured by Tuchulcha. The flattening of the warp might isolate us from the ripples of astropathic signals and the swirls of events yet to occur.’

‘We have enough uncertainty, adding the vagaries of warp sight to the list of obstacles we must overcome is unhelpful.’

It occurred to Azrael that there was another gifted with prophecy who might have more to say about the unfolding events. Not another living soul knew about the existence of Luther, Ezekiel included. There were already too many threads starting to unravel from the Unforgiven’s tapestry of lies to introduce that particular bombshell to the Chief Librarian.

‘Do you need me for anything else, brother?’ asked Ezekiel, noticing his superior’s distraction.

‘One moment more.’ Azrael clenched his fists on the tabletop. ‘I will not jeopardise the future of the Imperium to save this Chapter. We must hold higher regard for mankind. My instinct tells me that our enemies are seeking some means to reveal the nature of our history to opposing forces within the Imperium. If we fail here, if the true legacy of Caliban is made known, we must accept the judgement of our peers and allies.’

‘You would allow the Dark Angels to be executed?’

‘Not just the Dark Angels, all of the Unforgiven.’

‘Let us hope it does not come to that pass,’ said Ezekiel, shaking his head. ‘Better to concentrate on achieving victory than worrying about the consequences of failure. After all, this entire incident is based on the tales of a self-admitted traitor and an alien warp-sphere. I am simply engaging each problem as it arises and hoping that we will see an end to both of these inconveniences.’

‘Whatever Typhus desires here, we will deny it to him. Perhaps we have already succeeded. He runs now, afraid to test his might against the guns of the Rock. I do not expect he will find his bravery soon.’

‘That may be so, but if he seeks something here, he will return. We cannot mount such a strong guard forever, he knows that our eye must be drawn elsewhere in time.’

‘Why now? What circumstances have arisen that makes this plan, whatever it is, feasible now?’

‘Who can say?’

‘I was hoping that you might be able to.’ Azrael forced a smile. ‘You are my Chief Librarian, after all.’

‘Conjunctions, both astral and cosmic.’ The Librarian closed his eye and bowed his head. ‘We near the end of the millennium, a time of great upheaval and devastation. Long in our minds has this time loomed, bringing darkness and destruction. But should we survive the trials ahead, should the soul and strength of the Dark Angels endure the onslaught, we shall emerge into a new age of light, renewed and redeemed.’

The thought that it was possible that the burden of so much secrecy might be lifted from his shoulders lightened Azrael’s mood. There was always turmoil. There was always an obstacle to overcome. Such was the nature of penance. Redemption was not earned with words and deeds, but with toil and blood.

‘Conjunctions, you say?’

Ezekiel opened his eye and nodded solemnly. Azrael stared at him, trying to pierce the inscrutable veil across his companion’s thoughts. His gaze flicked from one eye to the other and back. He was not sure which he disliked the most. The bionic eye made him feel like a target. The other eye burrowed into his soul even when lit by dry wit.

‘It is several days until we reach the Caliban nominal point,’ the Lord of the Rock said to cover his unease, looking away. ‘We will gather the full Inner Circle and apprise them of the plan.’

‘Which is?’

‘To hunt down Typhus and destroy him. Only then can we be sure whatever secret he seeks is safe from his clutches.’

Ezekiel accepted this without comment. Azrael could think of nothing more to say and dismissed the Librarian. Left on his own, the Supreme Grand Master turned his thoughts to the promises of Tuchulcha. Could it really be possible to save the Lion? And if so, what price was worth paying?

THE HONOURED HALF-DEAD

A piercing pain in the back of Telemenus’s head shocked him into wakefulness.

In a box. More accurately, a metal coffin.

Without legs he had no means to tell how long the box was, but it was just a little wider than his broad shoulders. Steel pins pierced the flesh and bones of his arm and chest, holding him in place. He could feel something rubbing at the small of his back – or at least, where it had once been. Just about the same area where the interface of his black carapace used to connect to his battleplate.

His head was similarly fixed, he discovered as he tried to turn towards the sound of drilling just behind his left ear. He came to the conclusion that the irritating noise was the bit on his skull.

His vision cleared further, his focus extending beyond his immediate confines. Smudges of red resolved into Techmarines. Three of them, including Adrophius. The white robes of two orderlies from the apothecarion flanked Temraen, whose own overalls were covered in viscera.

The Apothecary noticed that Telemenus was awake and glanced down at the grey and red filth staining his uniform.

‘Don’t panic, we haven’t removed more of you. The opposite, we’ve had to extend the nervous system and coronary network.’

‘It hurts,’ grunted Telemenus, feeling a stab of pain in his left shoulder. He could not see what was happening.

‘Unavoidable,’ said Adrophius, disappearing behind the Space Marine. ‘We need the nerve endings active to get the best connection.’

‘It feels like I have regrown my spine,’ said Telemenus. ‘It is not comfortable.’

‘A feedback effect from the neural system. When we’ve made a few more joins you’ll think you have arms and legs again. It allows for more stability.’

The pain returned, more severe than anything he had felt before, even the slash of the daemon’s blade through his body and the fire of the tainted infection. Every part of him was nailed, stretched, twisted and bent, as though he was a rubber doll being stuffed into a space too small to contain him.

The Techmarines and orderlies busied themselves with ratchets and suction pumps, fleshwelders, saws, soldering irons and small spanners. One of them inserted a screwdriver under Telemenus’s ribs and he felt his breastbone tightening. He hissed his disapproval and the Techmarine gave him an apologetic look.

‘It will get worse,’ warned Adrophius from out of sight. ‘Once we activate the integration systems your whole body is going to come alive. Literally your whole body, even the parts you no longer physically possess.’

‘I must warn you that there is a significant threat to mental stability,’ added Temraen.

‘You mean I might go insane?’

The Apothecary nodded and Telemenus wondered how bad could it really be? He had been sliced in two and dealt with the consequences. Being hooked up to a gunnery control system could not be so much worse.

And then he screamed.

Electricity pulsed through his brain, setting synapses afire. Blood vessels flared, atrophied matter brutally kicked back into activity. His eyes were fit to burst, the lights of the armoury bay a shocking white. His ears filled with such a clamour and wailing that he could not hear the rising shriek that passed through spittle-flecked lips that felt like they had been sprayed with acid.

The pain grew even worse, moving from the tip of his head down into his chest. His remaining heart thundered so roughly he thought his ribs would crack. His aorta seemed to swell to the size of the corridors of a battle-barge, the rush of blood surging through him making every artery and capillary vibrate with pain.

Rescued lungs filled with scalding liquid. He could feel a searing sensation moving down the bronchial tubes, coursing across the alveoli like an intense forest fire. He tried to breathe out, to extinguish the flame inside, but he had no diaphragm. Instead, pistons wheezed into life, ramrods pushing up into the flesh of his lungs, while intercostal muscles reinforced with bands of plasteel strained against the sudden pressure.

Telemenus felt something in his throat and coughed, the spasm sending ripples of agony down into his chest. A gobbet of phlegm the size of his fist flew out of his mouth. Taking in a deep draught of air, he smelled anti-infection spray. The taste of his battle-brothers’ sweat rolled over his tongue like thick droplets. The iron tang of blood filled his thoughts.

Just when he thought the pain would subside, the technological phantom limbs returned, sending shockwaves back up through his nervous system. Two waves of agony met along his spinal column, crashing together to create new heights of pain.

Telemenus caught himself panting, taking hurried breaths between bellowed obscenities. He wanted to claw at his tormentors, to tear out their eyes and rip off their arms for what they had done to him. He thrashed at his bonds but he and the coffin were one and the same, indivisible.

The Techmarines and Apothecaries shared worried glances and spoke quickly to each other, but their words were lost in the roar of blood that filled Telemenus’s ears. Through the din he thought he could hear alarms shrieking a two-tone warning. He did not know whether they concerned him or some exterior threat. Temraen reacted with a syringe almost as thick as Telemenus’s thumb, jabbing a ten-centimetre reinforced needle into the Space Marine’s chest.

For an instant cool water washed away the fire. Cleansing. Calming.

But only for an instant.

The pain flooded back, crackling along missing toes, shattering shin and thigh bones that only existed in his mind. His pelvis, now in memory, split apart with a harrowing crack, then turned to dust inside his flesh.

He started to lose sight of his fellow Dark Angels. A mist concealed them, scarlet, obscuring their faces. A terrible foreboding filled him as the shapes of his brothers receded into the red fog.

He was alone, left to die in torment in a whirlwind of blood.

Telemenus tried to form words with lips that refused to obey. Kill me. He tried to beg. Kill me. He tried to howl. Kill me!

Despair gripped him, his mad anger becoming a terrible grief. Fear had been expunged by the attentions of the Tenth Company sergeants and the Chaplains. Hate had been poured into the void left behind. Hate for the enemy. Hate for the mutant, heretic and alien. That hate turned upon Telemenus now, left with no other course to follow.

Arbalan was correct, he was nothing special. Worse than that, he was a coward. A loathsome wretch of a hollow creature. He had failed as a Space Marine and brought shame to all that wore the colours of the Dark Angels.

‘I cannot abide the selfish,’ said the Emperor, appearing as a raven with wings of dripping blood, merged with the tornado that surrounded Telemenus.

‘I am sorry,’ sobbed the Space Marine. ‘I am not worthy.’

‘I choose who is worthy,’ the Emperor replied.

The bloody whirlwind slowed and stopped, dissipating into a golden fog. The Emperor became an eagle during this transformation, wrapping His wings about Telemenus. His feathers soothed the pain that made the Dark Angel’s limbs tremble.

Limbs.

Telemenus looked at himself, fully formed, created anew by the miracle of the Emperor. Where the wings passed, ravaged flesh became perfected. He felt the hot breath of the Emperor on his face, His golden beak centimetres from his nose.

‘You will survive this,’ the Emperor insisted. ‘Prove to me that you are strong. Uphold your oaths.’

Telemenus relaxed.

In that moment his fears and cares and pain lifted like sparkling motes from his body, a shimmer of silver that drifted away with each breath from his lips.

His vision returned briefly, eyes still swimming with fluid. Telemenus thought he recognised the face of Belial staring down at him. It was either another hallucination of his madness, or the Deathwing commander had come to gloat at the final failing of his most disappointing warrior.

Even as these dark thoughts clouded his mind, Telemenus felt himself falling back into the grip of dread. He fixed upon the stern expression of the Grand Master, forcing himself to remember the first time they had met after Telemenus’s ascension to the Deathwing.

He laughed. What a fool he had been. He had denied his faults in the face of the Grand Master, rather than accepting the truth of the accusations. Pride. Pride that Belial had seen. Pride that Arbalan had detested.

Where now was pride? In a ravaged body about to become the organic component of an anti-torpedo battery or lance array?

Pride made him fight. Pride brought the pain.

Telemenus released the burden of his pride with another silvery exhalation. It mattered not where he was, what he did. He was a Dark Angel. He would serve the Lion’s shade and the Emperor in whatever way was required. It was not in his power to choose the noble fate.

He was no hero.

Telemenus realised his eyes were closed. At least, he felt they were closed and opened them. What greeted him was a complex vision akin to the telemetry display of his old Terminator armour. He could feel other senses – audio pick-ups, pressure gauges, kinaesthetic attitude relays – and somehow knew that he was standing.

He looked left and heard a whine of servos. He was greeted by the smiling faces of Temraen and Adrophius. Belial was with them, stern but not scowling for a change.

They seemed short. Smaller than Telemenus remembered. He assumed that he had been mounted in a high position on a wall or perhaps hanging from the ceiling.

Other sensations disproved this belief. He could feel limbs, just as clearly as he had felt them during the Emperor’s caress. He felt strong. He felt whole.

‘Can you hear me?’ asked Temraen.

‘I can,’ Telemenus replied. He was shocked by the volume of his voice, thundering from an external address amplifier.

‘We will have to perform more specific audio and ocular tests, but for now confirm that you can also see us,’ said Adrophius.

With a thought, Telemenus zoomed in on the Techmarine’s face. He could see the pores, the beads of sweat, tiny scars and abrasions from sparks let loose by forgework. His view flickered through several different spectral scopes and settled on x-ray. Adrophius’s left arm was extensively rebuilt with bionic parts and there was a sheath cladding the upper part of his spine.

‘I can see very well.’ Telemenus enjoyed the rolling boom of his new voice. ‘What has become of me? What will my duties be?’

Belial stepped forward, looking up at Telemenus.

‘You will continue to fight for the Chapter.’

Telemenus noticed the shadow he cast across the floor of the armourium. It swathed Belial in his Terminator armour. Blocky, at least four metres tall, almost as wide. His chemical sensor picked up the taint of exhaust on the air. He had no arms, not as a man might. On his right shoulder was a weapon with two long barrels. A twin-linked lascannon. The left mount sported a chamfered, armoured box which he now recognised as a multiple missile launcher.

‘A Dreadnought?’ he said, incredulous. ‘You have placed me into the armour of a Dreadnought.’

‘Yes,’ said Belial. ‘Such shall be your burden, to fight on for the Emperor and the Dark Angels.’

‘Why?’ Telemenus asked. ‘You cannot believe me worthy, surely?’

‘I can. You earned the marksman’s honour, a remarkable achievement. The Chapter cannot waste such a skill. You have swapped bolter and storm bolter for lascannon and missile launcher, but I expect you to employ them with the same precision. You will support your brothers with these weapons, protecting them with your firepower as these plates of ceramite and adamantium protect the carcass you have become.’

Belial stepped back, and crossed his arms.

‘More than that, you have proven yourself capable of upholding the honour of this armour. There are few with the will to survive the bonding process. Ezekiel vouched for you, after your ordeal at the hands of the daemon. It was your spirit that drove the warp-disease from your body. He said you would prevail and he was correct. Your battle-brothers brought petition unasked-for, so that you might fight with them again on the line. Brother Daellon in particular praised your tactical skills and awareness. He claims that he would not have survived Ulthor without your aid and insight.’

‘I…’ Telemenus was lost for words, which he knew must appear somewhat odd for a hulking war machine that could obliterate battle tanks and wipe out whole squads of troops. ‘I will extend my gratitude to them, when I have the opportunity.’

‘You will repay their faith with attention to your battle-duties,’ Belial said sternly. ‘You are still a warrior of the Deathwing, but much more than that. They will look up to you, even my Knights whom you have revered as heroes. You must lead by word as well as deed. Fight with honour at their side.’

‘I will,’ said Telemenus. It was almost overwhelming, but it would be dishonourable to dwell on such a boon. As Belial had said, the only true way to honour his brothers and Chapter was in battle. After such misgivings over what fate held for him, the thought that he would again walk the field of battle with his brothers brought a surge of happiness. He tempered it quickly, knowing that not only was he now a powerful engine of war, but also a figurehead that others would follow. He had become an embodiment of the Lion’s will and the strength of Caliban. ‘I will honour this armour with my oaths. I shall be the fist that breaks armies, whose blows topple fortresses. More machine than man, perhaps, but always a battle-brother.’

‘Good. There is still much that must be done before you are battle-ready, and I believe that we do not have long to prepare. I will leave you for now, but will return soon.’

Belial strode away, leaving Telemenus to ponder what this meant. Daellon and the others had spoken of fabled Caliban, but Telemenus had no idea how long he had remained in suspended animation. It could have been days or years. He would need to learn what he had missed.

His thoughts turned to the Emperor, who had been his guide and shield throughout the whole ordeal since his wounding. He wondered whether his internment into the Dreadnought sarcophagus signalled the end of the intervention of the Master of Mankind.

He need not have worried. Where Belial had been moments before, the shadow of a great two-headed eagle stretched across the ground.

‘I will never leave you,’ the Emperor told him.

AN ENEMY REVEALED

Carried through the void by arcane engines, the Rock powered towards the zone of space that the metriculation systems claimed had once been the orbit of Caliban. The attendant fleets of the Dark Angels, Knights of the Crimson Order and the Consecrators spread out across several hundred thousand kilometres from the bastion of the Unforgiven. Eleven battle-barges, eighteen strike cruisers and more than three dozen rapid strike vessels, fast patrol destroyers, torpedo corvettes and other escort-class warships created a sphere of guns around the remnants of the Lion’s home world.

As they advanced, the Terminus Est and the rest of Typhus’s plaguefleet withdrew, maintaining a separation of at least five hundred thousand kilometres. It was clear that the traitor commander had no intention of leaving the system unless he was forced, but for the moment Azrael was content to secure the orbit of Caliban and plan his next move.

Over ten thousand years the asteroid remains of ancient Caliban had spread along the planet’s former orbit, creating a dense field containing tens of thousands of pieces of planetary debris and a cloud of dust and gas that extended for several thousand kilometres further.

While the other ships maintained their cordon at a distance, the Rock ploughed into these crumbling remains, its navigational field flaring as it shunted aside the ancient planetary matter. Larger pieces of celestial debris still held haunting reminders that the swirling rocks had once been an inhabited world. Though pocked and cratered and cracked by impacts and collisions, after ten thousand years the void had not erased the towers and battlements of ancient fortresses. The tumbled ruins of arcologies kilometres-tall spun as moons around the splintered remains of their foundations. Bridges, roads, viaducts, canals, aqueducts and rivers still etched their lines across floating chunks of debris five kilometres across, like scratch-marked runestones of the gods.

The artificial gravity field powered from the innards of the massive fortress-monastery attracted the smaller asteroids. To avoid the nav-shields overloading from so many impacts, the aegis field was set to allow these through, whereupon they were blasted into atoms by point-defence turrets built to defend against gunships and landing craft – weapons that to this day, as far as Azrael knew from his readings, had not fired in anger for ten thousand years. Even so, by the time the Rock had pushed into the heart of the stellar field it was orbited by several dozen satellites ranging from fist-sized to a few metres across.

In a blaze of lasers and tracer bullets, thrusters letting out plumes of white fire, the fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels came to a slow stop.

‘Positional nominal null point established, Lord Azrael.’ The Master of the Forge’s voice blared from the command spire’s speakers with a mechanical rattle. ‘System orbital dominance established.’

Unlike the bridges of the starships around it, the Rock’s central strategium needed no servitors to monitor the metriculation systems. In the first instance, everything was coordinated through the semi-cyberised mind of the Master of the Forge. A few Space Marines oversaw the offensive and defensive systems, aided by a small company of Chapter-serfs, while other unaugmented human auxiliaries attended to communications and scanner stations.

The spire was not quite at the pinnacle of what had once been the Tower of Aldurukh. The very summit of the edifice was a broken mess of toppled towers, blocked corridors and collapsed halls – a scar from the Age of Heresy left in place as a mark of honour to the fortress. Rumours abounded through the lower ranks of what might lurk in those lofty turrets and galleries. As he had risen to the position of Supreme Grand Master Azrael had slowly learned that there were far greater and more disturbing mysteries than the ghost stories of pre-transformation novitiates and Tenth Company Scouts.

Huge windows, each ten metres high, surrounded the octagonal command deck at the heart of the chamber. Massive columns held up the great vaults of the ceiling, each keystone forming the mount for a lantern as tall as Azrael, filling the space with a pale blue light. From his position atop a stepped dais at the centre of the strategium the Supreme Grand Master could see up into the void of space and out across the barren expanse of the Rock.

The fortress-monastery extended several kilometres from the Tower of Angels, incorporating the three central curtain walls of old Aldurukh. Like the other remnants of Caliban that now filled the view, the Rock was dotted with reminders of the ancient civilisation that had given rise to the Order and later sustained the Dark Angels.

Dormant gun towers and empty barracks blocks, outer defensive works, docks and ports, all had survived the great upheaval of the world, protected by the mighty Gorgon’s Aegis – the powerful energy shield that had sheathed Aldurukh and its foundation during the cataclysmic battle between the Lion’s followers and the Fallen.

Azrael could not help but turn towards the pinnacle of the tower and look upon the collapsed roofs and broken walls of the summit. There the Lion had battled Luther while war raged in orbit and on the surface of Caliban. How that confrontation had ended, not even Luther would say except to insist that the Lion still lived on, his shade haunting the Rock.

Azrael considered his last audience with the Dark Oracle.

The last Grand Master of the Order was calm, sat on his bench facing Azrael on his stool outside the cell. The Supreme Grand Master was not lulled into any confidence by the apparently cogent expression of his prisoner – there had been many times Luther’s sedate exterior had broken in moments to reveal the madness within.

‘It is coming quickly, the death of a world, the end of hope,’ the Dark Oracle said quietly, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. His eyes were fixed on Azrael. ‘The vultures gather, each hoping to pluck a morsel from the corpse.’

‘Whose corpse?’

‘Fair Caliban’s corpse, of course. We are but mites on her beautiful skin. A dermal infection. A parasite. We offended her, delving deep wounds into her flesh to fill with our nests. We thought to gouge her secrets from her and she turned on her children.’

‘You destroyed Caliban, with your treachery,’ Azrael snapped. Circumstances allowed him no patience at this time. ‘What of Typhus? Why has he come?’

Luther was surprised by this question, sitting up with a frown.

‘Calas Typhon, the seedbringer, the plough and the harvest. The circle of fecundity. He comes for me, but I am already here. Thrice-cursed, thrice-cursed, thrice-cursed. Why always thrice, dear Azrael? And now a new triumvirate of scavengers, picking over the devastation to see what prizes they can find.’

Azrael stood up to leave but Luther stood up also, eyes imploring.

‘Let Caliban die…’ he whispered. ‘Leave her in peace.’

It had not gone well from there, leaving Luther a raving mess and Azrael none the wiser about Cypher or Typhus’s plans. All that he had been able to gather from the madman’s ranting was that Caliban was about to fall, just as he had said before. Looking at the broken pieces of the planet around him, the Supreme Grand Master knew that it was a warning ten thousand years too late.

A clarion rang out across the command tower, turning all eyes towards the main doors. The huge double portal wheezed open to reveal a striking figure clad in black war-plate and a long white cloak. He wore his helm, crested front to back with a red brush. The sigils on his shoulder pads were almost completely obscured by a plethora of purity seals made from crimson wax and streamers of script-covered parchment. More of the seals fluttered from his greaves as he strode into the command hall.

His armour was a mix of archaic marks from the time of the Imperium’s founding and the Horus Heresy – pieces of Mark Three and Mark Four combined, studded with bonding rivets across the chest. A knightly helm taken from a suit of ancient Crusade Armour – officially designated Mark Two – completed the battleplate. What should have been a strange ad-hoc mix had been rendered into a beautiful suit of wargear by the artificers of his Chapter. The black enamel shone like oil, the gold that edged his breastplate and gilded the rivets sparkled in the lamps of the command tower.

Behind him came five Terminators, as black-clad as their lord save for helms of off-white to symbolise brotherhood with the Deathwing. Like their commander, their armour was a mix of styles and types, gathered from armouries and forgotten Legiones Astartes depots scattered across the galaxy. They bore with them the Chapter standard of the Consecrators, and several other artefacts from their hidden fortress-monastery known as the Reliquaria – chalices, sceptres and a bronze-sheathed staff topped with a winged blade.

‘Grand Master Nakir,’ Azrael called down to the new arrival. ‘I bid you welcome to the Tower of Angels.’

With some unheard command, Nakir ordered his honour guard to remain where they were. He ascended the steps swiftly, and it was only when he reached the command platform that Azrael realised how tall the Chapter Master was. He had twenty centimetres on Azrael, a difference that felt even greater with the swaying crest on his helm.

Nakir drew his sword and lowered to one knee. Taking the blade in both hands, he wordlessly offered it up to Azrael. The Supreme Grand Master examined the weapon keenly. It was of superb craftsmanship, and with surprise Azrael recognised the black material of the blade. It was the same as the weapons wielded by himself and Belial – the Sword of Secrets and the Sword of Silence.

‘A Heavenfall blade?’ said Azrael. Nakir stood and offered the hilt of his weapon. The Supreme Grand Master took it, the grip feeling comfortable in his fist, the weight as balanced as his own blade. ‘Incredible. Where did it come from?’

‘It was gifted to Grand Master Orias, first lord of the Disciples of Caliban.’ The Consecrator’s voice was quiet and gravelly, almost a growl. ‘He fell in battle against the orks of the Quolon Pass. I recovered it three decades ago.’

‘I have read of this weapon. The Sword of Sanctity.’

‘I would return it to its proper master.’

‘It has found its proper master,’ said Azrael. He handed back the sword. ‘It is not only yours by right of recovery, but you would bring honour to the cousin of my own blade.’

Nakir took the weapon and sheathed it with a nod. He glanced around the command tower and then reached up to remove his helm. It came free with a hiss of escaping air. Nakir’s face was surprisingly young, gaunt to the point of skeletal. His eyes were a piercing blue, at odds with the mop of black hair on his scalp. His brow was tattooed with an Imperial aquila in black, and a broken blade in red adorned each of his cheeks. There was a scar across the front and right side of his throat and evidence of an implant – the wound that gave him his distinctive voice.

‘I have longed to set foot in the Tower of Angels for my whole life,’ Nakir said, looking around again, this time drinking in his surroundings, eyes wide with awe. It was a strange contrast to the severe figure he cut when wearing his helmet. He returned his gaze to Azrael and his expression hardened. ‘A silver lining to the storm that brings me here.’

Nakir had been an Interrogator-Chaplain before his ascension to command of the Consecrators, the so-called Master of Souls. Even now a symbol of his past hung at his waist, a wooden rod in the shape of a small crozius arcanum, studded with six black pearls. Each was a trophy of a Fallen made to repent, a remarkable feat for any Dark Angel, and almost unprecedented in one of Nakir’s short service. He led a Chapter dedicated to unearthing the secrets of the past. A penetrating stare threatened to strip away the layers of deceit in which Azrael was forced to wrap himself. He had dealt with the likes of Asmodai and Sapphon for decades, but felt himself being opened up by the Master of Souls.

‘A dire time, but you have my utmost gratitude for your presence,’ he said to move the conversation in a different direction. ‘I must admit that it was a surprise, particularly to find out that you personally led the force.’

‘When the Chief Librarian of the Dark Angels issues a rallying call on behalf of the Supreme Grand Master, it penetrates even the sepulchre of the Reliquaria. That the muster was to be at Caliban added even greater weight to the missive.’

‘Of course.’

The Caliban System was technically protected territory of the Dark Angels, forbidden to enter without invitation even for the Successors. However, Azrael knew that there had been occasions when the Consecrators had sent missions into the remnants of the Legion home world in their quest for the ancient heirlooms of the Lion. Nakir probably knew more about those times than even Ezekiel. Azrael considered whether it would be profitable to see if Nakir knew anything about the existence of Tuchulcha, but dismissed the idea. It was too dangerous to invite any inquiry in that direction.

‘Has Grand Master Dane arrived?’ asked Nakir. ‘Can the conclave begin?’

‘He will remain on his battle-barge, commanding the fleet,’ said Azrael. He had thought it better to host only one Chapter Master at a time. Dane was an accomplished fleet commander, and giving him control of the assembled warships allowed Azrael to concentrate on other matters. ‘I expect your flotilla to follow his lead, in absence of any direct command to the contrary.’

‘The Consecrators are a sovereign Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes,’ Nakir replied soberly. ‘We will consider any requests from yourself or Master Dane on their individual merits.’

‘Of course,’ said Azrael, and then caught the hint of a smile from Nakir. He responded in kind. ‘Far be it from me to ever suggest that the Successors of the Dark Angels should be beholden to a cause beyond their own duties, or hold loyalty to any other than the Emperor.’

‘Lord Azrael!’ The shout came from Carlion, one of the Dark Angels overseeing the surveyor systems.

‘Report,’ Azrael replied, moving to the edge of the command dais overlooking the sensor consoles.

‘The enemy fleet has changed course. New heading brings them directly towards us.’

‘They are attacking?’ Nakir held up a hand in apology as Azrael darted him an irritated glance at the interruption. ‘Apologies, the instincts of command.’

‘Good instincts,’ said Azrael. He returned his attention to Carlion. ‘Confirm course and speed, do they suggest an attack?’

‘The enemy are still accelerating, it’s not certain if they will settle at battle speed.’

‘Signal Grand Master Dane to muster the fleet for defence of the Caliban nominal point. It could be an attempt to lure us away from where we are. The Rock will remain in position. Capital ships to form the main line of battle. I want escort squadrons arrayed to intercept any breakthrough.’

‘Confirmed, Supreme Grand Master. Relaying your orders to Grand Master Dane.’

‘Your last communiqué confided that the enemy fleet is commanded by Typhus,’ Nakir said quietly. ‘Even with the Terminus Est he is hopelessly outgunned. What does he think he can achieve?’

‘I have no idea, but let us not be caught by surprise. You will remain here for the time being. Please defer command of your ships to Dane.’

‘Of course,’ said Nakir, his confusion obvious. ‘Why am I not returning to my ship?’

‘I must hold council with my Masters and I would leave you in charge of the Rock.’

Nakir’s surprise was matched only by an almost childlike delight that crossed his face. It lasted only an instant until he tempered his response and slowly nodded with an attempt at gravitas. Even so, Azrael could see his companion swallowing hard, evidently coming to terms with the magnitude of what had been asked of him.

‘I am honoured,’ said the Consecrator. ‘I will repay your faith in me.’

‘I am sure you will acquit yourself with distinction, Grand Master.’

Azrael turned and had descended a few steps towards the lower level when the great doors slid open once more, revealing Ezekiel. The Chief Librarian entered without ceremony, expression agitated. Azrael met him halfway down the dais.

‘What brings you forth from the Librarium, brother?’

Ezekiel cast a glance up to Nakir and then spoke, leaning close to whisper so that no other could hear what was said.

‘Tuchulcha touched my mind a few minutes ago,’ the Librarian said. ‘It warned that we were not alone. I summoned a coven of my brothers and we performed a deep scan of the warp. There are nearly thirty warships in the immaterium close to the Caliban System. They are shrouded by some warp-spell, which blinded our usual sweeps. Definitely not friendly.’

‘Thirty?’ Azrael caught his voice rising in shock. ‘Thirty warships. Why have they not broken from the warp? We are still seven or eight days from a safe transition point, they cannot be of assistance to Typhus, surely?’

‘We also detected another dozen or more Successor ships, all within a few light years. If the enemy do break into real space, reinforcements are only a handful of days away at most.’

‘This situation is rapidly escalating. But it still does not explain why Typh–’

Azrael stopped when Ezekiel took a step back, eye widening as it turned gold, a hiss escaping from gritted teeth.

‘The warp spews forth its vile filth!’ the Librarian snarled.

‘Lord Azrael! Detecting massive interspatial break!’ Carlion’s warning came just a second later.

‘On display!’ Azrael bellowed, dashing back up to the command podium. He glanced back to check on Ezekiel. The Chief Librarian was following at a more sedate pace, his eye still ablaze with psychic power. ‘Show me, now!’

Two of the windows darkened and hololithic projectors sprang into life, painting a view from the external visual scanners. The view moved left and right for a few seconds and then panned upwards to centre on a point a few thousand kilometres above the line of attack followed by Typhus, roughly halfway between the two fleets.

The starfield wavered as though water rippled over a lens. The pinpricks of light started to oscillate, some growing larger, others disappearing, a few becoming bright red. They swirled and danced, spinning around each other, leaving vermilion trails.

A tear appeared, the prismatic energy of the warp ripping through reality in a multicoloured blaze. Silhouettes wavered in the brightness, casting long shadows into the real universe that blotted out more stars. The gash lengthened and widened, as though invisible fingers prised open the edges.

‘They are coming through,’ snarled Ezekiel, reaching the top of the command dais. He leaned on the rail, one hand held to his temple, eye screwed shut. ‘Something on Typhus’s ship… A bridge between the warp and…’

He sank to one knee, golden tears running down his cheeks, face contorted with effort. Nakir took a step forward but Azrael pushed past and crouched beside Ezekiel.

‘Where?’ Azrael demanded, grabbing the Librarian’s arm. ‘Where does the bridge end?’

Ezekiel took in a shuddering breath, teeth bared. He pushed himself upright and opened his eye. In the golden orb Azrael saw a flicker of reflection – an immensely bloated daemonic creature with a dozen fanged maws and a thousand eyes. Yet beyond the daemon, inside its immaterial form, he saw a vast worm, coiled about the core of the daemon, feeding on its own tail.

‘Here!’ said Ezekiel, grabbing Azrael’s shoulders, staring deep into him. ‘Through the lens!’

Alarmed, Azrael spun back to the hololithic display. The shadows in the rift had resolved into the crude shapes of warships – cruisers and battleships that poured from the breach in two lines astern.

Some looked normal – several of them patterns of ships that Azrael had seen before, others that he recognised from the old databanks. Most were bizarre conglomerations of starship and warp-matter – vessels mutated by daemonic possession and twisted with Chaos energy. They followed the largest of these, a black star of filth-encrusted stone and metal in perverse mockery of the Rock, an anarchic mass of jutting towers, splintered spires and immense barnacle-like growths.

The outer edge of the Consecrators fleet was closest to the warp breach, their ships turning towards Typhus’s vessels. The plague-star ploughed into the cordon of escort ships that had been protecting the capital ships. Purple light flared from arcane weapons and void shields burned blue against the blackness of space. A destroyer detonated in a plume of plasma as its reactor overloaded.

Torpedoes raced towards the Chaos ship and weapon batteries sparkled as they opened fire in return. Nakir watched with fists held to his chest, lips tight, eyes narrowed as the ships of his Chapter tried their best to manoeuvre to counter this new threat.

‘All ships, engage the new fleet!’ Azrael bellowed. ‘Transmit attack order to all vessels!’

‘We have to go,’ Ezekiel said, his composure returned. His intent stare conveyed his meaning more than words. The lens. Tuchulcha.

‘Nakir,’ said Azrael, but the other Chapter Master was fixed on watching the first stages of the battle unfolding on the main display. ‘Nakir!’

The commander of the Consecrators looked round, clarity returning.

‘You are in command. My warriors will already be responding to attack protocols. Coordinate with Dane and ensure that we do not get caught between the two fleets. Ignore what I said earlier, the Rock will directly engage the enemy. We need all of the firepower we can muster.’

‘As you will it, Supreme Grand Master,’ Nakir replied, saluting with a fist to his chest. He was about to say something else, perhaps to ask where Azrael was going at this critical moment. Nakir glanced at the Dark Angel and his Chief Librarian and thought better of it. ‘The Lion shall guide my ire.’

‘I am sure he will,’ said Azrael as he hurried down the steps beside Ezekiel. He glanced at the Librarian. ‘There is one that knows more than any of us, I am sure. Fetch Cypher. Bring him to the sphere.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Ezekiel as they stopped at the grand doors, waiting for them to open. ‘The two most unreliable elements in this whole crisis and you wish to bring them together again.’

‘The Watchers did so before, I must trust to that thought. Have we any other choice?’

DARK TALONS

The emergency launch clarion continued to blare as Annael hauled himself up the steps onto the wing of his Dark Talon. He paused there and shouted across to Sabrael, who was climbing into the cockpit of the aircraft behind him.

‘Any briefing?’

‘Not a word from the Huntmaster,’ Sabrael called back. ‘Perhaps the Supreme Grand Master dropped something out of a window and needs us to pick it up.’

‘Good to hear that penitence has not improved your wit,’ Annael replied. Sabrael’s canopy hissed closed around him. Annael looked around for Tybalain and saw the Huntmaster in a heated discussion with Grand Master Sammael. The Lord of the Ravenwing was very animated, his hands moving with rapid chopping gestures and thumping one fist into the other.

Annael stepped into the cockpit and lowered himself into the seat, an interface jack slotting into the spine of his armour where his backpack usually nestled. The thick armourglass canopy snicked into place around him, forming a pressurised cocoon.

‘Vox-check.’ Tybalain’s voice was a snarl over the communicator in Annael’s ear. The squadron sounded off one by one. ‘Immediate launch. Interdiction and elimination. Destroy all available targets.’

Annael’s hearts started to beat faster when he heard this. The Rock was under attack! He wrapped his fingers around the control column and started the aircraft’s engine. There were no more pre-flight checks to make – the armourium deck crews kept every aircraft in the flight bays ready to launch at a moment’s notice. Only one last system needed activation.

Annael flipped open the plastek cover of the rift cannon firing stud. This simple action connected the main reactor to the dormant warp core situated just beneath him. Though he had never seen or heard of an incident involving a malfunctioning core, there had always been rumours and stories. When he had moved to the Ravenwing his old squad brothers had joked that he would be sucked into the warp by a rift cannon misfire.

He had laughed back then. He was not laughing now as red lights sparkled into life across the display in front of him. Almost immediately they turned amber and after three seconds the rift cannon system was green across the board. He could feel the steady thrum of the coolant systems beneath him, slow and steady, like the Dark Talon’s heartbeat.

While he had been doing this, the servitors and armourers had left the bay, leaving only the Dark Talons of the Black Knights. The lighting dimmed to a ruddy twilight, allowing the auto-senses in Annael’s helm to adjust to low light.

A siren sounded, audible even through the canopy. The huge gate that held back the vacuum of space slid up, immense chains and gears cycling to either side. The exterior pressure gauge dropped as the air in the flight deck rushed out, taking with it a few pieces of machine-cult detritus – empty unguent cans, discarded rags stained with sacred oils, litany-papers that had been removed from ammunition belts and replacement parts.

The launch bay was located in the lower parts of the Rock, delved into the foundation stone itself, half a kilometre from the Gate of Woes where the Fallen were taken to the dungeons. The invisible wall of the Gorgon’s Aegis was close at this point, extending only two hundred metres from the surface of the fortress-monastery. Annael had expected to see an expanse of stars, perhaps even the local sun. Instead, when the gate had fully opened he was confronted by a swirling melee of asteroids, panning and crashing together, some smaller than his Dark Talon, others several times bigger than the Rock.

‘Lion’s blood,’ cursed Nerean.

‘They want us to launch into this?’ said Sabrael. ‘That is a truly awful joke.’

‘Cease the chatter, launch commands have been issued,’ said Tybalain. It was clear from his tone that he had raised objections and been overruled by Sammael. ‘Initiate launch sequences.’

The hum of the engines increased to a whine as the five Black Knights powered up vertical thrusters. Annael’s craft lifted two metres from the floor, wobbling slightly as the systems warmed up.

Tybalain led the way, easing his Dark Talon forward, nose dipped slightly, the main engines glowing with a faint blue light. Annael slid into place next, followed by Sabrael, then Calatus, and Nerean took up the last place in line.

The Huntmaster hit the boost controls and white fire flared into life, powering the Dark Talon out of the bay. Almost immediately, Tybalain pulled his aircraft into a steep climb to avoid an asteroid just a few hundred metres outside the bay gate.

‘Wait!’ snapped Sabrael as Annael was about to hit the forward thrust ignition.

A jagged piece of rock spun past the opening, three metres across. Annael saw what looked like a pair of legs standing on a pedestal – the remnant of a statue.

He had no time to remark on this sight. There was a clear opening of several hundred metres ahead. The Black Knight fired the main engines and was launched out of the flight bay, his warsuit compensating for the immense acceleration.

The moment the display indicated he was free of the gate, he pulled back on the control column, guiding his Dark Talon after Tybalain. His eyes searched the surrounding space, taking in the unfolding spectacle.

Beyond the immediate asteroid cloud, the darkness was split with trails of plasma and fire while flickering traceries of laser lances crisscrossed the heavens. He could see the sparkle of gun batteries firing on distant ships and the azure halos of blazing void shields.

Rolling his craft, he looked back at the Rock. Gigantic trios of cannons, each capable of hurling macro-shells larger than his aircraft, pounded out their wrath, their thunderous ire silent in the void. Asteroids turned to dust as the bombardment guns cleared an opening through the debris, the explosions filling the Dark Talon’s scanners with splashes of energy. Lance batteries projected slicing beams of red energy that slashed across the asteroid field, opening fire paths for massed torpedo tubes and rocket silos to pour forth their deadly projectiles.

In seconds he had reached the limit of the Gorgon’s Aegis and ascended from the protective bubble of energy. The Dark Talon’s proximity alarm shrieked into life, the circular scanner display almost whited out with signal returns.

Impact danger ahead

Impact danger to port

Impact danger ahead

Impact danger to starboard

Impact danger ahead

He silenced the whining of the collision detection system, stabbing at the runekey with a snarl. Relying on his boosted reflexes and the vector thrusters of the Dark Talon he followed the jinking twin blue stars of Tybalain’s engines, rolling and curving around the intersecting courses of the asteroids.

He entered a trance-like state, his hand on the column and feet on the rudder pedals moving unconsciously in response to the data-stream entering his auto-senses, easing the Dark Talon through the gaps, ascending and descending, accelerating and decelerating as easily as if he were on foot. His head was in constant motion too, checking every angle, calculating the vectors of the incoming asteroids. The flash of firing thrusters illuminated spinning chunks of rock passing just a few metres from the canopy. Occasionally he unleashed bursts of fire from the hurricane bolter arrays under the wings, obliterating smaller chunks of rock and masonry that spun into his path.

A flash of blue to starboard caught his eye. Sabrael accelerated past in a display of flying that matched his skill with a bike. Like an insect darting from one spot to another, Sabrael’s Dark Talon thrust forward and then stopped, it spiralled and rolled, twisted on the spot, dropped and rose, every manoeuvre seamlessly woven together as though rehearsed a thousand times.

Annael tried not to think too much about his own more mechanical responses. Engaging his conscious mind would stunt his reaction time. Sabrael was showing off, and with good reason. There was no need to get drawn into some kind of exuberant contest that Annael could never hope to win. Rather than allow himself to be annoyed and distracted by his companion’s antics, he let his Dark Talon drift in behind his battle-brother, making it easier to admire his dazzling skill.

Eventually they broke free of the asteroid cloud, accelerating into open space on plumes of plasma. Annael increased the magnification of his auto-senses to maximum and looked around.

Half the sky appeared to have been swallowed by a gigantic pulsing maw of multicoloured light. Annael’s auto-senses flickered with static as they tried to interpret the impossibility of the scenes playing out beyond the split veil between reality and the warp. It almost blinded him with nonsensical swirls and flashes of black and white, forcing him to look away.

The closest enemy vessel looked like an armoured comet with jutting spines of gun batteries and pylons that crackled with unnatural energy. It was at the centre of a circling line of strike cruisers and battle-barges – their colours marked them out as coming from the Dark Angels and Consecrators. A quick glance at the scanning array confirmed that the Implacable Justice was amongst the ships tackling the immense foe. Annael spared a thought for the brothers and serfs aboard the Ravenwing’s strike cruiser.

With it were several light cruisers, cruisers and battleships, and complex, interlaced lines of battle were forming as the vessels of both sides joined the fight, each trying to bring their greatest weight of guns to bear on the enemy. Salvoes of torpedoes glittered between the closing fleets, accompanied by the small sparks of interceptor engines and gunship plasma drives.

A second wave of renegade ships were circumnavigating the Space Marine fleet, ignoring the vessels attacking the doom-star and its flotilla to head directly for the Rock. An immense warship led this next attack, dwarfing the battle-barge of the Knights of the Crimson Order that moved to intercept with its attendant strike cruisers.

Obviously the enemy flagship, this vessel reminded Annael more of the daemon-city on Ulthor than a spacefaring craft. Though here and there he saw expanses of tarnished metal and cracked ferrocrete, the bulk of the battleship seemed to be swathed in an impossibly thick green-brownish-grey hide puckered with scars and lesions. Weapon batteries sprouted like fungal growths, and atop its dorsal ridge was mounted a turret like the bombardment cannons sported by many Adeptus Astartes vessels.

Most striking was the prow. It was split like the tusks of a gigantic beast, the launch bay between gaping wide in a rippling mouth lined with fangs, lit by a ruddy glow from within. Annael was sure he saw impossibly vast eyes squinting from wrinkled sockets above the opening, but his attention was quickly drawn back to the ruddy maw as something that appeared as a cloud of flies issued from its hellish interior.

Following the battleship was a line of cruisers of various sizes and designations, many of them as perverted as the ship that led them. They broke from their line-astern formation, spreading out behind their flagship, a few launching torrents of torpedoes towards the Rock. The flight bays on several others spewed out fighters, as yet too distant to make out individually, looking like sprays of bright spores unleashed into the void.

The Knights of the Crimson Order turned to face this threat, disgorging their own torpedoes, flights of Storm Talons and Thunderhawks issuing from their bays. Looking to the left and right, Annael saw other Dark Angels craft jetting across the void with the Black Knights – Nephilim fighters and Dark Talons piloted by his Ravenwing brethren, supported by Thunderhawks in the bone-white livery of the Deathwing and the dark green of the battle companies.

Everything the assembled Chapters could put into space was now converging on the approaching enemy fleet.

The initial waves of enemy fighters bypassed the escorts at the periphery of the fleet, as intent on the Dark Angels fortress-monastery as the ships that launched them. Tybalain signalled for the Black Knights to assemble in a delta formation, a spearhead with the Huntmaster at the tip, separated by just a few kilometres.

As they closed with the leading edge of the incoming cloud of enemy craft, Annael saw that there seemed to be a mix. Some were more like drop pods, roughly spherical with ribbed bodies, trailing streamers of flesh-like entrails. Spurts of gas from flexing valves and puckered orifices manoeuvred the craft, albeit poorly. The clusters of blister-like protuberances at the tip of each pod put Annael more in mind of a bomb or torpedo than a fighter.

The other craft were definitely more akin to interceptors, although rather than thrusters and jets they had four splayed reflective panels shaped in the likeness of fly wings, their bulbous bodies striped red and black like enormous wasps. Scintillating Chaos energy propelled these craft, leaving glistening trails across the void like slugs.

‘Attack order remains,’ Tybalain told them. ‘Follow my lead.’

The Nephilim were more suited to the interceptor role and sped past the squadrons of Dark Talons, missiles streaking from their wing mounts, lascannons flaring, Avenger bolters spewing rounds across the void.

Following Tybalain, the Black Knights climbed and rolled, avoiding the first clash of craft that erupted in bursts of purplish warp energy and the detonation of rockets and bolts. Glittering wings shattered and armour splintered as the squadrons swept past each other with a deadly exchange of fire.

‘Target the pod-missiles,’ Tybalain commanded, pitching down towards the wave of ordnance following the Chaos fighters.

The spore-torpedoes were not very manoeuvrable, each seven or eight times larger than a Dark Talon. It was simple enough for Annael to pull in behind one of them and target the hurricane bolters. He let loose a short salvo and watched the bolts disappear into the tangle of tentacles and flanges that flailed from the pod-bomb’s tail. The scanner registered the detonation, but there was no visible effect. A few pieces of shell-like carapace bounced from the canopy, leaving mucus threaded across the armourglass.

Drawing a long breath, Annael powered up the rift cannon. He could feel the heartbeat of the warp chamber increase from its steady pulse to a bass throbbing. It felt as though the Dark Talon wanted to open fire, trembling with anticipation for the moment.

Adjusting his attitude to rise above his target by a few dozen metres, he modified his aim towards the front of the pod-missile.

‘Imperator protectiva,’ he muttered and pressed the rift cannon firing stud. ‘Judicio magna Leo.’

He felt a jolt surge through him as the warp chamber opened, flooding the focusing array beneath the nose of the aircraft with unnatural power. A scintillating beam of energy surged from the crystal-lensed muzzle of the rift cannon and shot across the void. Where it struck the spore-bomb a warp rift several metres across sprang into being. The impossible intersection of real and unreal dimensions shredded the crusted growths, tearing out the tip of the projectile.

Annael was already pulling up when a ripple of black fire exploded from the rift, growing into a cloud of purple flame that consumed the rest of the spore-missile and threw out a shockwave that reached the Dark Talon in less than a second. The expanding sphere of fire engulfed Annael briefly, throwing his craft into a yawing spin to port. Attitude warnings wailed while he wrestled with the column, the fire’s passing wiping the debris from the canopy and leaving a greasy smear in its place.

A few seconds later and pieces of shrapnel-like shell clattered against the hull and wings, leaving centimetre-deep gouges in the ceramite that hissed as if burning with acid.

The other Dark Talons were thinning the number of projectiles streaming towards the Rock, but more flycraft were closing in, launched by the more distant Chaos ships. The iridescent detonation of rift cannons lit the void with flashes of blue and green and red, followed by the sickly detonations of the spore-missiles.

Annael’s surveyor systems were warning him of the incoming enemy but he focused on the task at hand, targeting one spore-torpedo after another, firing the main cannon and moving on to the next target. Around the Black Knights, the Nephilim and flycraft duelled while Thunderhawks smashed through the swirling dogfight, their lascannons, heavy bolters and battle cannons scything through fighter and ordnance alike, thick armoured plates sparking with shell impacts and sorcerous energies.

In a brief lull while the sides parted and he searched for a fresh target, Annael checked on the whereabouts of the enemy capital ships. He looked up with concern as the gargantuan bulk of the enemy flagship blotted out the stars just a few hundred kilometres away. Smaller turrets that lined its necrotic flank like clusters of bristles opened fire with shells and plasma blasts.

‘Break away!’ snapped Tybalain. The jets of the Huntmaster’s Dark Talon slid him away from the flagship with bursts of cobalt flame.

Annael did likewise, the vectored engines hurling the Dark Talon into a steep turn as he slammed a steering pedal, his power armour protecting him against the inertial forces pulling at the aircraft. The battleship’s fusillade streamed towards the Black Knights and other craft of the Ravenwing as the squadrons split and peeled away from the incoming storm of fire.

A rocket almost as big as his aircraft sped past Annael, passing just a hundred metres from his port wing. A second later he realised that its course took it directly towards Nerean.

‘Nerean! Evasive action! You…’

The warning died on his lips as the proximity sensor of the anti-craft projectile activated, detonating its plasma warhead. Nerean’s Dark Talon was engulfed by a flash of pale blue energy, the brightness of the miniature star darkened to a grey by the dampening of Annael’s auto-senses.

In an instant it was gone, leaving half of Nerean’s craft spinning away, its warp chamber fitfully spewing white and red sparks, sheared almost cleanly down the middle with the molten edge still glowing. Of the pilot, Annael saw shattered pieces of war-plate tumbling from the breached cockpit.

More projectiles were incoming. There was no time to mourn for their lost brother as the Black Knights powered their craft away from the vengeful cannons and missile launchers of the enemy battleship.

‘Orders incoming from Chapter Master Dane,’ Tybalain warned them. There was a pause of several seconds and then an unfamiliar voice crackled across the vox.

‘All starside assets are to withdraw to close defence positions. The Rock is under attack. Defence of the prima monasteria is paramount. Show no relent!’

Rolling his Dark Talon so that he could see the fortress-monastery, Annael looked up and saw that several cruisers from the death-comet’s fleet had broken through the line of the Consecrators. The Gorgon’s Aegis was a crackling ovoid of crimson around the Tower of Angels as lance beams and macro-shells slammed into the energy shield.

Following close behind a wave of torpedoes, he could see the glimmer of landing craft and drop pods.

ONLY IN DEATH

Belial had not exaggerated when he had warned Telemenus that he would see action again soon. It had not been four days since he had regained consciousness in his new armoured form and now the Rock was under full assault.

He stomped into the main sally gate on the southern wall – it occurred to him only now that it seemed odd to refer to the Rock’s original facings now that it was adrift in the void – and joined a contingent of two Predators in the livery of the Third Company, and a Redeemer-pattern Land Raider in the colours of the Deathwing. It felt strange to be considered part of an armoured counter-attack, though his new war-plate boasted defences the equal of a battle tank.

The inner gate slammed shut behind them, plunging them into a ruddy gloom. Telemenus would have drawn in an apprehensive breath had his lungs not been a maze of pumps and pipework controlled by the Dreadnought armour’s automatic systems. The lack of physiological response left him feeling calm, almost aloof.

Moving the focal point of his visual array to the left he raised his lascannons in a salute to the Land Raider crew. The sponson gunner on the near side saw the gesture and replied in kind, dipping the flamestorm cannon.

Telemenus felt the rumble of the outer portals splitting open and started to move forward. Light spilled through the widening gap, bright and flickering, stark shadows dancing across the cracked ferrocrete roadway that led out of the ancient fortress.

He stepped out beneath a sky of red lightning. The Gorgon’s Aegis was an almost solid wall of power, rippling and buckling as the fire of half a dozen warships poured down onto the fortress-monastery. Banks of defence lasers unleashed searing white beams in reply and silos spat forth missile after missile, filling the sky with contrails. Anti-air turrets pounded out a steady beat of shells, the detonation of airbursts like black blossoms against a dawn horizon.

Dark blurs against the ruddy heavens fell fast through the vacuum. New constellations appeared as dozens of drop pods fired their retro rockets, their claw-like forms heading for the main citadel while slab-sided drop-ships descended steeply towards the barren ground surrounding the Tower of Angels.

The Predators sped past on the left, moving off the flat course of the rock, bumping over the rocky ground, their weapons tracking distant targets. The Land Raider peeled off to the right, heading to bolster the defence of the outer fortifications where its close-ranged weapons would provide invaluable support to the Devastator and Tactical squads holding the line.

Telemenus’s role was very different. He headed along the road for half a kilometre, to where he found Sergeants Caulderain and Arloch with thirteen more Terminators waiting for him. The Deathwing warriors turned and raised their storm bolters and assault cannons to acknowledge the presence of the Dreadnought.

‘A timely arrival, venerable brother,’ said Arloch. Telemenus still felt slightly ashamed at the title, thinking it unearned, but it was as much an address to the Dreadnought suit as its occupant.

‘A welcome return,’ added Caulderain. The sergeant pointed with his power blade towards a jagged breach in the outer wall ahead, a hundred metres from the peripheral gate at the far end of the road. ‘The enemy are moving on this point. We will defend it to the last. Frater fidelis ad morbidum.’

‘Well met, brothers. I did not think I would see the day the Rock itself suffered the insult of enemy assault. It is our task to set right the affront and admonish the offenders.’

‘The enemy are almost upon us,’ said Arloch. ‘Such sentiments of reunion can wait for quieter times.’

‘They can, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus. The automated guns on the towers of the gate ahead opened fire, slicing lascannon beams down into an unseen enemy beyond. ‘The enemy are hasty for their punishment.’

The Dreadnought and Terminators made all speed for the breach, leaving a cloud of dust drifting in their wake as they lumbered up to the breached wall. The defence line was almost twenty metres thick, the storerooms and guard chambers within exposed by some catastrophic blast ten millennia ago.

The edge of the Rock was no more than a kilometre and a half away. The empty plain, that might once have been fields or training grounds, was alive with warriors and vehicles. Burning wrecks of drop pods and landers lit the scene with the glare of flames. Traitor Space Marines in livery of tarnished white formed squads and advanced on the Tower of Angels, their filth-encrusted vehicles lumbering from the holds of drop-ships beside them.

Telemenus’s scanners told him that the sky above was relatively clear of objects. Chapter Master Nakir had been wise enough to order the close-defence turrets to secure the area behind the wall, destroying anything that entered the few hundred metres closest to the citadel. At least the Dark Angels only faced the foe to their front and did not have to fear an enemy dropping onto them or behind.

While the Terminators entered the ruin of the wall, seeking some means to ascend to the upper battlement, Telemenus strode into the breach itself. A crater several metres deep provided obvious cover, and he moved to the lip closest to the enemy, placing a broken piece of wall several metres long to his left, protecting his flank from attack in that direction.

His targeters were already filling his mind with an array of potential marks, both infantry and vehicles. Nakir’s last orders had been to hold the line and buy time for the Chapter to muster. Telemenus mentally prioritised all armoured targets and suddenly his vision changed, the lascannon and missile launcher aiming reticules concentrated on the vehicles he could see.

He spied two enemy Dreadnoughts, each disgorged by its own drop pod three hundred metres away, slightly to his right. One was armed with a pair of heavy bolters and a crackling siege hammer, the other with a single multi-barrelled cannon and a flail that sparked with purple lightning as it swung back and forth. They would be the first into the breach if allowed, able to traverse the rubble-strewn crater to clear the way for the transports.

He fired both weapons at the cannon-armed Dreadnought. The lascannon struck instantaneously, slashing into the left leg of his target. The joint buckled and it swayed for two seconds before the limb gave way entirely. The anti-armour missile hit as the Dreadnought toppled forward, splitting open the armour of the enemy’s cannon mount.

More missiles flared from above and to Telemenus’s right – some of the Terminators had cyclone launchers mounted across the carapace of their battleplate and were sending streams of rockets into the advancing legionaries.

The enemy did not return fire, but concentrated on closing the distance as swiftly as they could. A spearhead of Dark Angels vehicles burst from the gate to Telemenus’s right, their autocannons, assault cannons and lascannons concentrated on the Traitor Space Marines converging close to the road. The gates closed behind them and they formed up as a mobile fortification of their own, two Land Raiders acting as towers to the wall of Predator tanks between them.

It occurred to Telemenus that, but for Belial’s intervention, he might have been interred into one of the gun mounts of that forlorn squadron. After a moment he corrected himself. He watched their firing patterns and realised that there were no crews aboard. The vehicles’ machine-spirits had been left to operate independently.

He understood why as the weight of the enemy attack came to bear. Anything on or beyond the wall would be sacrificed for time. There would be no retreat. His auspex systems were overloaded with the number of signals – more than four hundred power-armoured warriors were advancing on this front alone, and the sky was still lit with stars of descending ships and drop pods. He felt rather than saw them, like prickles on his skin, an instinct of where his enemies were as natural as feeling the direction of the wind.

He fired the missile launcher in a full salvo. There was no point conserving ammunition, there would be no relent. He could not miss the column of enemy moving quickly towards the nearest gatehouse. A mixture of anti-tank and anti-personnel missiles detonated amongst the vehicles and Traitor Space Marines, punching through battleplate and tank armour, hurling shrapnel at vision slits and exposed workings.

The burring of the assault cannons of the Deathwing warned him that the enemy were getting close. It was time to use the lascannons for some sharpshooting. Adjusting his stance, he locked his legs and clawed feet in place, creating a stable firing platform. The second Dreadnought was one hundred and twenty-five metres away, spearheading a drive directed towards the breach. Its heavy bolters sprayed fire up at the rampart – the explosive rounds would be largely ineffective against the Terminators, as much as if they were targeted at Telemenus. There was a reason the heavy war-plate of the First Company was called Tactical Dreadnought armour.

Telemenus picked his moment to the tenth of a second, opening fire as the Dreadnought was transferring its weight from left foot to right. He had seen that the enemy engine had a limp, a motivator system suffering poor maintenance, which caused the body of the war machine to tilt slightly. Two lascannon beams sliced across the vacuum and through the exposed side armour of the main sarcophagus.

Telemenus had no further time to spare for his opposite number, now a charred corpse inside his battle-tomb. The legionaries that had been accompanying the enemy Dreadnought were moving into range, several squads strong, taking up covered positions among the rocks and debris. He detected the build-up of energy from meltaguns and the charge of the plasma cells.

Another salvo of rockets had cycled into place but he left them in the rack, waiting for a clear target. He contented himself with obliterating some of the smaller rocks with his lascannon, whittling away the cover of the enemy as they came within one hundred metres. A torrent of sparks swept both ways as the enemy fired their bolters in reply to the storm bolters of the Deathwing.

A feeling of throbbing drew his attention to the sky a few kilometres up. A ship was crashing down through the Gorgon’s Aegis, leaving a trail like a meteor. No drop transport or pod, this was a proper voidship, half a kilometre long. The force field flared wildly as the ship smashed through, earthing great lightning bolts into the barren rock and flashing kilometre-long plumes of energy into open space.

Trailing fire and debris, the enemy destroyer was breaking up, but a significant part of the main dorsal structure remained intact even as the Rock’s last line of defence turrets opened fire in a blaze of rockets and shells.

Moments before it hit the wall, Telemenus realised the ship was being crashed on purpose. Its descent was too controlled to be unplanned. Little more than a ball of molten debris, it smashed into the eastern gate, two kilometres to his left. A flash that blotted out all of his senses blinded him for an instant.

In the seconds after, as his auguries established themselves again, Telemenus was left with only the vox-traffic to know what had happened.

‘Estimated forty to fifty per cent terminal casualties. Most of Fifth Company lost.’

‘Reserves from Eight and Nine move to stem the gap. Calling Deathwing counter-strike.’

‘Eastern flank heavily compromised. Second line forces stand by.’

‘Do we hold?’

It took a moment to realise that this last question was directed at him from Caulderain.

‘Our left flank protection is nonexistent now. Right flank will be overrun in time.’ Telemenus could see nothing of the sergeant but Caulderain’s voice was tense. ‘Reserves are being redirected to the eastern breach. Do we hold this position?’

He knew what the sergeant meant. This would be the last opportunity to retreat to the main citadel unmolested. There would be no other Dark Angels coming to reinforce their position, or to cover them if they had to withdraw. In a minute or two, the enemy would be too close for a safe extraction. The sergeant was looking to share an opinion, not to be given an order.

Something flickered in the red sky just above the horizon. For an instant Telemenus thought it was a glitch in his scanner feed – a misinterpretation in the feedback from the Gorgon’s Aegis. But it returned, clearer than before, and there could be no mistake.

Amongst the crackle of crimson lightning was an angel with a skull face, a sword held aloft in one hand, a broken crown in the other.

The Emperor.

The apparition broke into a shower of descending stars, which fell upon Telemenus in an auric flutter. A blessing, no doubt. An assertion of protection. A repayment of faith.

‘The command was to hold the breach,’ said Telemenus. The Traitor Space Marines were gathering for an attack. His targeting systems were the first back online and he fired the lascannons at a white-armoured warrior who was stepping out from behind a boulder. The warrior’s chest evaporated in a splash of molten ceramite. ‘Our brothers at the eastern gate need us to hold this flank for as long as we can.’

‘I concur,’ said Arloch. ‘We must give the eastern force every chance to recover.’

‘We are agreed, then,’ said Caulderain.

Telemenus unleashed an anti-tank missile at a siege vehicle creeping along the road towards the main gatehouse. It exploded against the large-calibre cannon mounted in the front of its hull, piercing the stubby barrel.

‘We are agreed,’ said the Dreadnought pilot. ‘For the Rock. For the Lion. For the Emperor. We hold or we die.’

BATTLE FOR THE ROCK

Not since the time of the Horus Heresy had any foe set foot in the hallowed halls of Aldurukh. For ten millennia the Tower of Angels, the Rock, had never known the insult of invasion.

That had changed the moment the first of the traitor drop pods had landed.

Belial was filled with an ever-present rage by the thought. He did not allow it to cloud his decisions, but it was there, an affront to every dignity he held to. The Dark Angels fortress-monastery was being violated. It was not just the physical offence that drew the Grand Master’s ire, but the impudence of the slight.

The enemy dared to attack the home of the Dark Angels. The mere thought of such an act should have left any foe trembling with dread. That the enemy believed they were capable of inflicting this hurt, that they were somehow immune to the retribution of the Unforgiven, could not be discarded as folly. It was a calculated barb, a thrust spear piercing the pride of the Chapter.

Belial would demonstrate to the foe the immense error of their decision.

The loss of the outer eastern gate had been a blow. With the fleet engaged with the enemy warships, Belial believed he should have foreseen such an attack. Not that there was anything to be done – there was not a shield or gun on the Rock that could have stopped the suicidal impact.

From the inner gate he looked out at the blazing ruin of the curtain wall. It had been flattened for a kilometre to the south and north, lit by pools of burning promethium, scoured by plasma blasts. In scattered bands the Dark Angels that had miraculously survived the impact fell back to the Tower of Angels, battered but not broken. They raised ragged cheers when they saw Belial and his Knights standing before the gates, defiant to any attack.

The foe did not pursue with heedless disregard, but advanced in the wake of the disaster with careful manoeuvres. They were Space Marines, or at least had been long ago. Though they had thrown their fate into the lap of uncaring dark powers, they retained much of their discipline and fearlessness.

Belial had faced enemies such as this before. Heedless of injuries that would fell even a Dark Angel, immune to pain, they were worshippers of the Lord of Decay. Where once Legion banners had fluttered proudly – standards of the warriors recorded in history as the Death Guard – now there were raised icons of rusted metal and pitted bone, fashioned in praise to their insane god. Armour once white was encrusted with filth, the ceramite stained by millennia of disrepair. Yet the centuries of poor maintenance seemed not to affect the functioning of the war-plate, as salvoes of bolts were shrugged off by the advancing columns.

Heavier weapons laid down shells and beams of laser energy, the detonations and blasts throwing up clouds of dust and pulverised rock. The gravitic field did not extend beyond the outer wall, so that clouds of burning metal and molten rock swathed the battlefield with a fiery smog.

Vehicles came with them, ancient patterns of Land Raiders and Predators, Rhino transports that had seen battle at the Siege of Terra. There were other war machines too, that owed no heritage to the Legions of the Emperor or the Mechanicus of Mars. Six-legged walkers with scorpion claws and battle cannons. Beetle-like armoured cars with plasteel-plated balloon tyres and barnacle-like pods sprouting heavy bolters and autocannons.

Corroded exhaust stacks spewed oily smoke that moved and veered like swarms of flies, swathing the approach with a misty gloom. Yellow headlights seemed to weep greasy tears. Holes left by missing rivets and joins between armoured plates seeped sap-like fluid, while hatchways and turret rings sprouted colourful fungi.

In the burning sky dragon-like attack craft with jagged wings swooped and circled, evading the batteries of anti-air guns that filled the heavens with airburst munitions and rapid pulses of laser fire. Belial thought he could hear the half-machine creatures screeching, in his mind rather than with his ears.

Around the helldrakes swarmed lesser craft – flyships with single pilots, kept aloft in the thin atmosphere by the blur of insectile ornithopter wings.

There were other entities too, reminiscent of the daemon-foes he had faced at Ulthor. Enormous slug-like beasts with howdahs slung in pairs, brimming with guns and armoured warriors. Fusions of tanks and bipedal monsters that lumbered along behind the infantry advance, crescent-shaped blades and fume-spilling censers swaying from dozens of chains hooked into their leathery bodies, claws and fangs sheathed with some exotic material that sparked and flared in the darkness.

So intent on the enemy was Belial that he had not noticed his Knights had been joined by other warriors. He turned to see five Terminators in the livery of the Consecrators standing to his left.

‘Your duty would put you at the side of Chapter Master Nakir,’ Belial told them.

‘The Grand Master sent us to you with his kind regards,’ replied their leader. He lifted an ornate power sword in salute. Even at a glance Belial could see that it was master-crafted, a beautiful weapon made by the best artificers at the dawn of the Imperium. Three blood-drop rubies glittered in the channel of the blade – carefully wrought power field lenses, he assumed. He wondered what other treasures the Consecrators owned, if such a marvel was in the hands of a sergeant, even one that was head of the Chapter Master’s guard. ‘I am Seneschal Maalik, and my sword is yours to command.’

‘I cannot argue that I need the warriors,’ Belial replied. He considered the current disposition of his forces and the lines of advance of the enemy, but came to a simple conclusion. ‘I want you at my back. If my Knights fall, I want you to be ready.’

‘As you wish, Master Belial.’ There was a pause while Maalik issued orders to his squad over their vox. The Terminators turned and filed back towards the gateway, leaving the seneschal with Belial. ‘Gratitude, it will be an honour to fight beside you.’

Belial said nothing as Maalik joined his warriors. His thoughts had already moved back to the unfolding attack. The Death Guard had reached the break in the curtain wall where the eastern gate had once been. This brought them into range of the main defence batteries, which rained down artillery and plasma from fortified positions built into the Tower of Angels.

Into this maelstrom advanced the warped legionaries of the Death Guard, heedless of the danger. Where once had been a flat killing ground, marked by bunkers and gun pits that had held two hundred Dark Angels, there was broken devastation, littered with burning debris from the crashed ship and cracked remains of the curtain wall, which continued to fall like giant fiery hail across the wasteland.

Fire zones and crossfires had been blocked, craters and shattered blocks of masonry providing ample cover against the storm of fire. Sortie gates linked to tunnels beneath the bare ground had been sealed by the blast waves of plasma and thousands of tonnes of rubble.

The vox-link hissed into life, bringing the voice of Chapter Master Nakir. Belial did not know what other matters occupied Azrael nor why he had deferred to the Consecrator, but it was not the time to raise issues regarding the chain of command.

‘We cannot allow the enemy attack to reach the Tower of Angels uncontested,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘The loss of the outer gate is a setback, not a defeat.’

‘I concur,’ said Belial. ‘A counter-attack across the western axis of their assault will turn their advance away for a while.’

‘A diligent course of action, Master Belial, but I prefer a more direct approach. I have despatched armoured units to your position for a full assault across the battlefront. You will retake the perimeter of the curtain wall and establish the line of resistance from that position.’

Belial was left momentarily speechless by the audacity of the plan.

‘To attack into the heart of the enemy assault could break the back of the attack in one move, Chapter Master, but we have already committed our reserves. If we suffer a reverse, the whole sector will be lost.’

‘Would you prefer a slow death, Belial?’ The Deathwing commander could not tell over the distortion of the vox whether Nakir was being humorous or not. ‘Better to muster our strength into one retaliatory blow than wage a war of attrition we cannot win.’

The plan made sense in that context, but Belial was still reluctant to issue the order for an all-out attack. He had no basis for his reticence other than an instinct to marshal whatever forces he had to hand for as long as possible. Nakir’s gambit, and it was a gambit, could throw away the fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels in one ill-considered move.

‘I await your acknowledgement, Master Belial. Are your orders unclear in some fashion? Do you wish to make an alternative suggestion?’

‘Orders received, Chapter Master,’ replied Belial. Nakir was correct. Fear of losing the battle should not stay their hand. They were Space Marines, Dark Angels, and their fury could not be abated. Belial came to the conclusion that he was overcompensating for his anger. His instinct to strike out, to chastise the enemy with blade and gun, was driven by strategic logic not personal feeling. It was right that he recognised the Consecrator’s insight. ‘A wise command, Master Nakir. We will prevail.’

‘I have no doubt of that. The Deathwing are the envy of the Unforgiven, brother-captain. I am jealous that it is my honour guard and not me that will participate in the glorious action.’

Again Belial wanted to ask what had become of Azrael. It was better that questions were not raised. It likely involved Cypher, of that there was little doubt. To make inquiries would only promote queries from Nakir as well.

As the Rhinos, Razorbacks, Land Raiders and Predators of the armoured column powered their way from the armoury garages, the leading elements of the Death Guard attack advanced into range. Heavy weapons squads with ancient plasma cannons, reaper autocannons and lascannons took up firing positions in the smouldering ruins. Belial directed his own Devastator squads to counter-fire and the battlefield was lit by the exchange of missiles and las-blasts, plasma bolts and hails of heavy bolter fire.

While this crossing fusillade continued, half a dozen enemy Rhino transports made a foray towards the west, outflanking beyond a line of burning wreckage several hundred metres long. There was little Belial could do to combat this advance, other than to signal to the defence batteries to concentrate their firepower against the attack. The thunder of the guns left a swathe of craters across the path of the flanking force, baulking it for the time being. Power-armoured legionaries spilled from the transports, slowed but not stopped.

He could spare no other response and had to hold his nerve. If he despatched any of his forces to reinforce the flank he would weaken his counter-attack. Now that he was readying for the riposte, it was imperative that the Dark Angels hit back with all the warriors they could muster.

Within two more minutes the column sent by Nakir arrived. Belial assigned transport duties and arrayed the tanks and troop carriers into a spearhead formation, with the Terminators in their various patterns of Land Raiders in the vanguard, and the brothers of the Third, Fifth and Seventh companies spread through the Razorbacks and Rhinos.

‘I would be honoured if we could ride with you, Grand Master,’ Maalik told him over the vox. ‘We would not fight anywhere else than at the heart of the attack.’

‘Of course,’ Belial replied. ‘Assemble at my position.’

He led his Knights towards the Land Raider Crusader Lion’s Fury. Designed for urban assault, it lacked long-range weapons but would be ideal for punching a hole through the Death Guard line. Belial knew that he would be where the fighting was fiercest, his Terminators drawing the enemy ire like a lightning rod so that the other squads could reach their objectives.

The Deathwing Knights boarded the Land Raider while Belial waited on the ramp, taking a last look at the Tower of Angels. For centuries it had been his home, his fortress-monastery. He had hardly given it a second glance approaching by gunship or shuttle. He had always accepted that it would provide him with sanctuary and succour. The thought that it might fall – not just today, but ever – turned his stomach.

Maalik’s Consecrators arrived and Belial waved them onto the Land Raider with the Sword of Silence. No words were needed and he was grateful for Maalik’s understanding as the Terminators assumed their positions in the bracing alcoves along the sides of the troop compartment.

The assault ramp hissed shut behind Belial as he joined his battle-brothers. Usually he would have attended to the command station behind the driver’s position. This attack would be brutally simple, and he could rely upon Chapter Master Nakir to orchestrate the larger force. He took his place amongst his Knights instead.

‘Hard fighting ahead,’ said Barzareon.

‘The best kind,’ replied Cragarion.

‘Seek and destroy,’ added Galbarad. ‘I always prefer the simple missions.’

‘As do I,’ said Belial. He activated the sensorium and his view merged with that of his companions. More than that, it felt as though his soul became one with theirs. An uncharacteristic urge caused him to share the feeling and he opened up his vox to a force-wide channel. ‘My brothers, today might see all we have fought for laid low. Our armour may be broken. Our bodies may be crushed. Our fortress-monastery, the Chapter that gives us purpose, might be destroyed. We do not confront this challenge with heavy hearts, but with gladness. There is not a Dark Angel…’ He glanced at the Consecrators. ‘There is not a son of the Lion that would not give all that he had that he might fight with us today. We are not shamed that this battle falls to us. We are privileged!’

The Land Raider rumbled into motion, plasma-powered engines pushing the armoured behemoth across the uneven ground.

‘I look at our foe and I see not the bearers of our demise. I see the manner of our glorious victory. They are cowards sheltering in the guise of Space Marines. They have given up all semblance of honour. So it is to our credit that we have been chosen by the Emperor to face them today. Trust in your brothers. Trust in the Lion. Trust in the Emperor. We shall prevail and seal our names amongst the greatest of the Chapter!’

DEFIANCE

With the Deathwing at the forefront, the Dark Angels column leapt from the shadow of the inner gates like a mastiff from the leash. The front line of Death Guard opened fire, their bolts and blasts sheering harmlessly from the armoured hulls of the Land Raiders leading the charge. Lascannons and assault cannons spat in reply, while the turrets of Predators and Razorbacks coursed plasma and heavy bolter salvoes through the enemy squads.

The armoured column ploughed into the thick fog, lamps cutting white and yellow wounds across the enveloping darkness. The smog whirled with the passing of accelerating vehicles, leaving strangely contoured faces and grimacing mouths carved into the unnatural fume.

Taken unawares by the unexpected counter-attack, the legionaries of the Death Guard were easily swept aside by the armoured fist crashing through their midst. Power-armoured warriors were torn apart by heavy weapons fire or forced to fall back lest they be crushed beneath a score of whirring tracks.

Heedless of the scattered enemies left in their wake, Belial’s spearhead plunged on. They ran straight through the second line of advancing Death Guard, once more pouring such fire from their weapons as they could muster on the move, choosing momentum over accuracy. Return fire from bolters pattered from armoured hulls like rain. Redeemer-pattern Land Raiders left swathes of burning promethium from their flamestorm cannons, driving the Death Guard out of ruined bunkers and half-collapsed trenches. From amongst the Rhinos, Whirlwinds unleashed blankets of explosions with multiple missile launchers, blasting every scrap of cover used by the traitor legionaries.

The shock of the attack carried the Dark Angels into the first reserves of the invading forces. Coming upon armoured foes – ancient patterns of Space Marine vehicles and the half-machine abominations spawned by the warp – here the force split. Land Raiders and Predators with their anti-tank lascannons and autocannons peeled to the left and right, targeting their weapons against the self-propelled guns, slug beasts and carriers of the enemy.

Three Deathwing squads, each five warriors strong, deployed from the Land Raiders to provide close support. Heavy flamers and cyclone launchers scoured the surrounding ruins as the Terminators advanced outwards, their armour shrugging off the irregular bursts of fire from the Death Guard. The bone-white armoured figures dispersed into the miasma, their progress highlighted only by the spark of muzzle flare and the blaze of rocket trails.

From behind this storm of missiles, laser beams and rapid-firing shells, the remaining assault vehicles and transports pushed onwards, like the warhead of a missile ejected from its carrier housing, striking deep into the heart of the assaulting force.

The outer gate, or rather the smoking mass of craters and kilometres-long furrow that had been the outer gate, lay only five hundred metres ahead. There was no rearguard, just a smattering of isolated squads and the odd beast or vehicle that had been deposited by their landers or drop pods further from the attack. These sporadic encounters were easily dealt with, the hurricane bolters and assault cannons of the Lion’s Fury and the storm bolters of the Rhinos equal to the task.

At two hundred and fifty metres from the objective, Belial ordered his remaining Deathwing transports to spread out, half a kilometre between each. The two Crusaders and Redeemer slewed to a halt, turning hard until their weapons pointed back towards the enemy to form a formidable bunker line, their armour a match for almost anything the Death Guard possessed. Belial’s Knights, along with the Consecrators and two other Deathwing squads, dismounted from their vehicles, forming a line between the Land Raiders.

The transports carrying the power-armoured Dark Angels continued on towards the line of rubble and molten stone that marked the original border wall. The spaceship crash had exposed the inner guard rooms and subterranean chambers – a plethora of cover for the Devastator and Tactical squads to defend, while Assault squads found positions from which they could counter-attack against any enemy breakthrough.

There was a lull in the fighting as the Death Guard pulled back from the armoured thrust into the gut of their force. Belial waited, monitoring the sensorium feeds from the Deathwing squads stationed with the anti-tank line half a kilometre ahead of him.

‘Bite, you pox-ridden filth,’ he muttered. ‘Here we are.’

‘Pardon, Grand Master?’ asked Barzareon, standing just to Belial’s left.

‘The eastern gate is all but unguarded,’ the Grand Master explained. ‘Let us hope that the Death Guard commander, or what passes for their leader, is either stupid enough to attack the enemy that has just humiliated him, or clever enough to want to rid himself of the enemy to his rear.’

‘What if he is neither stupid nor clever, but merely competent?’ said Barzareon.

‘Then in thirty minutes we will be fighting to reclaim the Tower of Angels from him.’

This sobering thought silenced any further comment.

Initial reports were encouraging. The Death Guard did not press on towards the Tower of Angels but mustered to combat the Dark Angels force arrayed between them and their drop-ships. Evidently their officers were not wholly convinced they would take the fortress-monastery.

‘Cowards,’ said Belial. ‘They look to secure their line of retreat rather than push wholeheartedly into the fray. Their lack of dedication will be their defeat.’

‘Just as well we are not concerned about retreats, Grand Master,’ said Decimus, referencing the fact that the Death Guard were now between the Dark Angels and their fortress. He was the replacement for Deralus, who had not survived the wounds inflicted aboard Anovel’s flagship. The latest inductee to the Deathwing Knights was a fine warrior, but had a reputation for flippancy. Belial could not tell if he was joking.

‘We have a collapsing defence,’ growled the Deathwing commander. ‘The first line falls back to this position. We all fall back to the objective. There we will stand. Not a step back.’

‘Aye, Grand Master,’ his warriors replied in unison.

The mists lit up again as the intensity of fire increased over the following minutes. The Death Guard were trying to turn around the southern flank to regain the line at the curtain wall, pressing forward with their Dreadnoughts and tanks. The Land Raiders and Predators were able to stem the initial thrust, but their repositioning allowed infantry squads to reclaim much of the ruins, almost encircling the Deathwing squads arrayed to protect the vehicles. Belial saw the developing situation and commanded them to reconvene with their transports pending the order to draw back.

On the other side of the battlefield, where the warriors of the other companies were stationed in the remnants of the wall, there were reports of fresh invaders arriving by a second wave of gunships. Squad portable support weapons such as Rapier laser destroyers and Tarantula gun platforms, controlled by sophisticated machine-spirits, assisted the defence, firing at anything that moved in the blasted wilderness beyond the Dark Angels cordon. The longest-ranged cannons of the Tower of Angels kept up a steady bombardment of the drop zone, but frequently had to turn their ire onto other areas to prevent the enemy breaking the curtain wall in various sectors.

Eventually the Land Raiders and Predators were on the verge of being surrounded. One of the Land Raiders had been nearly crippled by a hit on its engines. Determinatus limped back through the mists sputtering and choking, its squad of Deathwing marching alongside as escort. Two of the Predators had been abandoned, the crews taking sanctuary in the larger battle tanks.

It was time to bring the armoured column back together and Belial issued the order.

‘The enemy will come at us hard, thinking that we are on the verge of breaking,’ he warned his Terminators and the Land Raider crews. ‘We will not discourage that thinking, but allow them to come onto our guns as close as we dare. We must lure them into a full commitment, to keep their wrath focused upon us and not the Tower of Angels.’

With these words in mind, the Deathwing chanted their catechisms and triple-checked sensorium and weapons systems. Maalik approached even as the lamps of the retreating vehicles grew brighter in the unnatural fog.

‘Grand Master, I think these accursed mists afflict our foes as much as us,’ said the seneschal. ‘With your permission I will lead my warriors a little further out, to ensure the anti-armour task force is herded directly into your sights. The enemy will be taken aback that we are so close.’

‘Two hundred metres, no more,’ Belial said, seeing the sense in Maalik’s plan. ‘You have the rally point fixed, I leave it up to you when you choose to fall back.’

‘Gratitude, Grand Master.’ Maalik raised his beautiful sword in salute and then led his warriors into the swirling green fog.

The throb of engines and glare of yellow lanterns heralded the arrival of the Dark Angels vehicles. The tanks rumbled out of the gloom, each showing grievous battle scars but still mobile. Cracked ceramite plates hung from the side of the Predator called Iron Lion, while the track links of the Land Raider Bringer of Honour were almost flying loose from a shattered track housing.

The bark of the Consecrators’ storm bolters and the flare of their heavy flamer betrayed the presence of the pursuing enemy just two hundred metres behind the retreating tanks. Perhaps the Death Guard had hoped that the vehicles would bar the Dark Angels fire. As it was, they pushed on past the Terminators, the crack of bolters and glow of plasma guns sweeping to the left and right of Belial’s position.

The line reinforced by the newly arrived vehicles and Terminators, the Dark Angels met the coming attack head-on. Belial fired his storm bolter over and over, picking out armoured warriors approaching through the mist. His bursts of fire bounced harmlessly from the power armour of the enemy for the most part, but such was the concentration of firepower from the assembled Deathwing that even ancient war-plate occasionally succumbed. Meanwhile the heavy weapons of the vehicles and the assault cannons and cyclone launchers of the Terminators kept all but the heaviest enemy tanks at bay.

A few minutes passed, the exchange of fire escalating as the Death Guard manoeuvred for an angle to attack the Dark Angels line while the sons of the Lion poured out whatever firepower they could muster. Maalik emerged from the gloom, broadcasting his approach over the vox-link lest they be mistaken for enemies. All five of the Consecrators were still standing, but their once brightly enamelled armour showed dozens of cracks and chips, revealing the plain grey ceramite beneath.

The Death Guard appeared to be pushing to the left and right, trying to get around the Dark Angels rather than going through them. It was possible that they were trying to link up with fresh forces being landed every few minutes. For some time, Belial resisted the feeling that he needed to redeploy his forces from the centre, but as time wore on and casualties grew, he was forced into a decision and despatched the two Deathwing squads to reinforce the eastern and western approaches, leaving his Knights, the Consecrators and the Lion’s Fury defending the centre.

The alteration seemed to work, as the encroachments to the east and west stalled, baulked by the armour and weapons of the Terminators. Though the sensorium was limited in range, Belial followed the vox-traffic, creating a mental picture of the unfolding engagement. The cut and parry and counter-thrust between the plague-ridden warriors of the Death Guard and his Terminators appeared to be swinging in favour of the Dark Angels.

It was then that he was alerted to a sensor reading coming from Cragarion, who was positioned twenty metres ahead and to the right, and a moment later another from Zandorael on the similar watch position to the left.

Something was approaching through the fog.

Lamps lit up the miasma. Three towering Dreadnoughts whose hulls and limbs were decked in rusted chains, armed with scything flails and crushing morningstars. Their heavy bolters and autocannons had remained silent. Largely ineffective against the Deathwing, they would have betrayed the presence of the attack for no gain.

Silhouetted by the lamps of the war engines were several dozen Plague Marines, who had managed to close within fifty metres, shrouded by the cursed mist.

‘Form shieldwall!’ Belial bellowed, but his Knights had predicted his command and were already moving. ‘Maalik, behind us!’

As the first rattle of bolts on Tactical Dreadnought armour engulfed the Terminators, they closed together, forming up to the left and right of their Grand Master. The assault cannons of the Lion’s Fury roared into life, spitting fire and shells into the gloom. The Death Guard split, parting before the wrath of the Crusader as flesh before a keen blade. The gunner redirected the hail of shells to the Dreadnoughts, but the war engines marched on relentlessly, their heavy weapons opening fire on the converging Terminators.

Belial held firm, trusting to the artifice of the Techmarines to protect him against the surge of projectiles slamming into his war-plate. Ceramite splintered and paint flaked, but the bonded layer of plasteel and adamantium beneath held firm. Barzareon lifted his shield, covering the right side of Belial. Zandorael did the same to the left and the intermittent crack of detonating rounds turned into the hiss of their power shields intercepting the incoming bolts.

One of the Plague Marines stole forwards, a meltagun in his hands. Belial barked a warning to the crew of the Lion’s Fury but it came too late. The housing of the twin assault cannons mounted in the upper hull disappeared in an explosive vaporisation of agitated particles, a cloud of expanding gas mushrooming into the air.

The fire from the power-armoured legionaries returned, slamming into the crackling shields of the Terminators in waves, sounding like rain thrown by flurries of wind against a window. Through this steady beat came frequent deeper detonations of the heavy bolters and the boom of autocannon shells.

The Lion’s Fury pushed forward, activating its frag assault launchers. Explosive charges mounted on the fronts of the track arrays hurled shrapnel a hundred metres, the jagged shards cutting erratic gashes through the thick fog. The blast wave hurled back the closest Plague Marines, studding their armour with splinters of metal. Others were knocked to their knees while shrapnel broke weapons and slashed armour seals.

The hurricane system opened fire. Twelve interlinked bolters lit the mist with muzzle flare, the hail of bolts hitting two Death Guard standing directly in the line of fire. The armour was smashed from them piece by piece as the torrent continued, the sheer weight of rounds overcoming millennia-old battleplate. Corrupted flesh was torn apart, blood and pus spraying into the air as the mortally wounded Plague Marines staggered back from the onslaught.

And still the Dreadnoughts loomed from the fog, twice as tall as the Terminators, flickers of devastating energy lighting their rust-encrusted bodies, making them seem even larger.

‘No retreat!’ Belial bellowed.

SINS OF THE PAST

Azrael waited in the hall of Tuchulcha, not looking at the ragged servitor that stood slumped just a few paces away. He wanted to pace but refused to show agitation in front of the warp-construct. For the same reason, he had a micro-bead in his ear relaying the ongoing strategic situation from the control tower of the Rock. Nakir was wielding two and a half Chapters of Space Marines with aplomb. The initial landings had been contained and the enemy cruisers driven off, although the fight for the Rock continued.

The Chaos doom-star was holding position out of range, perhaps awaiting the arrival of the Terminus Est, which had broken through the joint fleet of the Dark Angels and Knights of the Crimson Order.

These facts occupied his thoughts, ensuring that there was nothing Tuchulcha could pluck from his mind concerning deeper misgivings about the whole battle. If Azrael concentrated on purely military matters, the more spiritual ones could remain hidden.

It was almost with relief that he heard footsteps echoing along the corridor and turned to see Ezekiel escorting Cypher to the chamber. The arrival of the Chief Librarian brought a welcome break to the effort of shielding his mind against any probing tendrils of Tuchulcha’s power.

‘What does Typhus want with the Rock?’ Azrael demanded. He looked first at Cypher and then at the gold-flecked globe. ‘Is it you he comes after, daemon?’

‘I am not a daemon,’ the servitor mouthpiece replied, almost petulant. ‘I am far greater than some mindless facet of an incomprehensible entity. If you wish to see a daemon, cast your eye out to that abomination close at hand. This physical vessel is incapable of pronouncing its name, but it has been known by many titles by the generations of humans that have worshipped it. The latest was the Plagueheart, in the prayers of the people of Ulthor.’

‘There are no people on Ulthor,’ said Ezekiel, no doubt remembering the reports of Belial and Sammael.

‘They were there,’ Cypher replied. ‘Your warriors did not recognise them. I have been to Ulthor also and saw them. Like shadows enslaved to the will of the Plagueheart. Souls damned to eternal servitude.’

‘So this is a plot by the followers of the Lord of Decay?’ the Librarian continued. Azrael was uncomfortable referring to the Chaos Powers even by euphemism and was content to let his companion deal with the discussion. ‘Methelas was obviously corrupted. Typhus and the Plagueheart are conspiring to some advantage of their necrotic master.’

‘They believe they are,’ croaked Tuchulcha’s flesh puppet. There was a dry cough that might have been a laugh.

‘I do not expect this… creature to tell me the truth or a straight answer,’ said Azrael, glaring at Cypher, ‘but what do you have to say on the matter?’

‘You have been lured into a trap that has waited three thousand years to be sprung,’ Cypher replied. ‘I thought it impossible but the pieces of a key have been brought together. I did not realise until now what Tuchulcha is. It is the bridge between the Plagueheart and the Consumer.’

‘Your words make no sense. Speak plainly,’ demanded Azrael.

Cypher frowned, insulted, and shook his head disparagingly.

‘It is not difficult to understand.’ The renegade looked at Ezekiel. ‘Perhaps you are more accustomed to discussions of this nature. This artefact, creature, call it what you will, was made to create pathways through the warp.’

‘As we have witnessed,’ said Azrael, annoyed at Cypher’s dismissive tone. ‘It brought us here swiftly and transitioned the whole fleet into the central system.’

‘I am so glad you appreciated my work,’ said Tuchulcha.

‘But the warp does not just ignore the physical properties of space, it bends time.’ There was a look of triumph on Cypher’s face, whether from realisation or some deeper motive Azrael could not tell.

‘A device that burrows through time,’ said Ezekiel. His eye widened with recognition. ‘Brought to Caliban!’

It took several seconds for Azrael to follow the Librarian’s line of thought. When he had come to the same place in reasoning, the notion staggered him.

‘Tuchulcha said we could save Caliban, save the Lion. We can send back a message, to warn him of the treachery?’ He resisted the urge to grab the decrepit servitor and shake it until Tuchulcha answered. ‘We can stop the schism?’

The thought silenced all present, save for Tuchulcha, who chuckled drily through its half-mechanical avatar. The corpse-puppet turned jerkily towards Cypher.

‘Would that make you happy?’ it asked.

‘Wait.’ Azrael thought about what Tuchulcha had said, and tried to figure how it was relevant to the plot that had brought the Dark Angels to Caliban. He felt pressurised by events to act and deliberately took some time to appraise the situation from a position of detached calm. ‘Why would Astelan want to save the Lion?’

‘He would not,’ said Cypher. ‘The Terran renegade had nothing but hate for our primarch.’

‘Indeed. What would be Astelan’s greatest revenge against the Lion?’ Azrael did not wait for an answer. ‘To steal his Legion from him.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Ezekiel.

‘What if instead of us going back to warn the Lion of what was happening, Astelan and his allies went back ten thousand years and saved the Fallen from his retribution?’

‘By bringing them here, to the present…’ suggested Ezekiel.

‘Tharsis was to be the home world for the renegade Dark Angels?’ Cypher looked aghast at the suggestion, but soon he accepted the possibility. ‘The recruits, the gene-seed… More than thirty thousand renegade Dark Angels. He was founding a new Legion, but not from scratch.’

Azrael suddenly recognised the warning that Luther had been trying to give him. The Dark Oracle had not been spouting madness about Cypher, or the Lion, but about Astelan.

‘We have to stop him,’ said Azrael. He looked at his two companions in turn. ‘But I do not know how.’

‘I do,’ replied Cypher, his expression grim. ‘But you will not like it.’

‘I have to release you?’ Azrael said. He had been wondering when Cypher’s assertion that the Supreme Grand Master would let him go would bear fruit. ‘Is this what you were waiting for?’

‘There is something, was something, on Caliban. A dark core, an infectious madness in the heart of the world. It gave rise to the Nephilim and great beasts.’

‘A Chaos taint?’ said Ezekiel. ‘Caliban was corrupted?’

Tuchulcha’s living dummy laughed again, hands slapping limply together in a parody of clapping.

‘They made us, the one split into three,’ the puppet cackled. ‘The essence of Chaos, refined and shaped. They thought they could tame the warp, use me to dig their tunnels and secret ways hidden from the eyes of the Powers That Rule. They did not know that they made something else. Something far grander.’

‘Who? Who made you?’ Azrael demanded.

‘At the dawn of the galaxy, so far removed from humans they might as well be gods. But even they could not tame the warp, only corral it for moments at a time. But that which creates also devours, and I am the foundation of all that was, is and will be. I am the lens, the bridge, the doorway.’

Azrael pulled his pistol and aimed it at Tuchulcha.

‘If you are the bridge, we only have to destroy you and the threat is over.’

‘Your pistol will have no effect,’ said Cypher. He looked as though he might lunge for the weapon, but held himself in check. ‘Besides, even if you had the means to destroy this thing, you cannot.’

‘Why not?’ said Azrael, turning the pistol on his captive.

The vox buzzed and Nakir’s voice interrupted proceedings.

‘Supreme Grand Master, the Terminus Est has taken up station fifty thousand kilometres away, advance halted. The warp-comet has also ceased its attack. The rift is growing in power, doubling intensity every ninety seconds. What are your commands?’

Azrael was caught in two minds, his pistol veering between Cypher and Tuchulcha as his mind lurched from one problem to the next. He forced himself to analyse the situation as best as he could.

‘Call the fleet to create a fresh cordon around our current position. All warriors on all stations prepare for void transport. All First Companies to muster at the Rock if possible. Tell the Master of the Forge to make ready to power up our full teleport capabilities.’ Azrael cut the vox and turned on Cypher. ‘Tell me why I should not destroy the sphere?’

‘It exists across the entirety of its timeline. It is divorced from the normal turn of temporal matters. If you destroy it now, you will destroy it in the past also. It will never have been.’

‘So?’

‘In short, the Emperor will lose the war against Horus. The Lion used Tuchulcha to come to the aid of Guilliman in the Eastern Fringe, and in doing so forced Horus into attacking Terra before the Ultramarines could arrive. Without Tuchulcha, Guilliman and his allies would be slowly destroyed, cut off from Terra by the ruinstorm of the Word Bearers. Horus would attack at full strength and the Emperor would fail.’

‘You cannot know that,’ said Azrael, not sure he understood all of what Cypher had said. More convincing though was the memory of the vision from Luther returning to haunt him, of an empire burning, a Lion dying in the flames.

‘Can we risk it?’ said Ezekiel. ‘Also, if this thing is the doorway back to the past, if we destroy it then we cannot use it to warn the Lion.’

Azrael shook his head, clearing away the distracting thoughts to focus on a single issue.

‘We cannot allow Astelan to succeed. Whatever that takes.’

‘Including allowing Horus to rule?’ said Cypher. There was an intrigued look in his eye rather than horror at such a suggestion.

‘Except that.’

‘There is another way,’ said Cypher. ‘As I said. The taint of Caliban, the canker at its heart, must be close at hand. That is why the Terminus Est and Plagueheart are not attacking. The three elements of the ritual are within range of each other.’

‘Ritual?’ said Ezekiel. ‘What do you know, that you have not told us?’

‘I swear by the Emperor that this is all I know,’ said Cypher. ‘From Tuchulcha itself. One divided into three. It is the bridge, between the Plagueheart and whatever dwells in the core of Caliban. It is reuniting, becoming one again, tearing open reality to conjoin the material and immaterial as it was designed to do.’

‘What happens then? It destroys us?’

‘I can stop it. We can stop it.’ Cypher implored Azrael with his hands. ‘I know the beast of Caliban, I can kill it. If we break one part of the triumvirate the other two will fail.’

‘And this is where I give you your freedom?’

‘Send me with guards, I do not argue against that. Just return my armour and sword and give me a gunship. By my honour, I will return.’

Azrael looked at Ezekiel and then the renegade. He clenched and unclenched his fists, knowing that he was being forced into making a decision but powerless to avoid whatever fate was awaiting him. To simply not act would hand victory to his enemies.

‘I will not pin the future of the Chapter, of the Imperium, on the worthless oath of a renegade on a dubious mission.’ Cypher seemed as though he might argue but a look from the Supreme Grand Master silenced the protest before it took shape. ‘You will be released, but I will send Tybalain and his Black Knights to escort you. The enemy will intervene if they have any notion of what you are attempting, so we must give them reason to occupy themselves elsewhere. And, if the Emperor’s spirit favours us, we might even vanquish the enemy in the act. The rest of the Unforgiven will attack the problem from the opposite end. We will seize the Terminus Est and kill Typhus, and Astelan if he is there.’

HONOUR REPAID

Incoming projectile warnings blared at the back of Telemenus’s mind, but he was too preoccupied to take evasive measures. The rocket struck the left side of his sarcophagus, leaving a half-metre jagged crack in the ceramite shielding. Ignoring the damage indicators, the Dreadnought pilot slid his targeter onto the bulky form of a Rhino transport accelerating across the broken ground towards the gate.

Twin beams of light stabbed from his lascannons, slicing into the transport’s left-hand track housing. Glittering metal spun into the air as links shredded against the twisted hull, throwing the vehicle into a wild skid. He unleashed a flurry of krak missiles as traitor legionaries piled from the hatches, the armour-piercing warheads slamming into their corroded and battered plate.

Eight surviving Terminators were valiantly holding to his left, their bone-white armour lit by the flare of cyclone rocket launchers and the muzzle flash of assault cannons and storm bolters. There were a handful of other battle-brothers to the right – squad remnants from the starship crash that had been forced south rather than back to the Tower of Angels.

Widening the scope of his appraisal, whilst sending another shaft of laser energy punching through the armour of a traitor, he saw that his brothers did not fare well at the eastern gate. The Death Guard were mounting assaults from three directions.

‘We cannot remain here,’ he told Caulderain, the remaining sergeant at hand. ‘Master Belial requires our assistance.’

Caulderain did not reply straight away, his sword lashing out to meet the neck of a traitor as the Space Marine pulled himself towards the Terminators, dragging his stained armour over a chunk of broken masonry, knife and bolt pistol at the ready. There were others in the debris no more than ten metres from the line, their bolters spitting a constant hail of fire.

‘If Belial needs our assistance, he will call for it,’ the sergeant replied, kicking away the headless corpse. He fired his storm bolter. ‘We cannot abandon our position.’

‘The eastern line must hold or we all shall be lost,’ insisted Telemenus. He let loose a flurry of missiles – he had only six remaining – and turned his huge body eastward. ‘Our position is no longer tenable, we must relocate.’

He twisted the huge torso of his shell so that he could continue to fire at the Plague Marines, even as his legs trundled towards Belial and his beleaguered warriors. Caulderain followed, the Terminators covering their retreat with a heavy flamer blast and a salvo from the remaining cyclone launcher. Through the mist, the other battle-brothers hurried past, their long strides carrying them quickly across the ruined ground.

They reached a semi-intact bastion a few hundred metres from Belial’s defensive cordon. The battle-brothers quickly took up firing positions in the ruins while Telemenus and the other Deathwing continued on. Seconds later the blast of a plasma cannon broke the fog as the Dark Angels gave the pursuing Death Guard a hot welcome.

The unnatural smog of the Death Guard played tricks on Telemenus’s augurs, but he could sense the bulky Land Raiders forming a line a few hundred metres ahead, and the gloom was lit with constant flashes of plasma and the strobing of intense storm bolter fire.

Something as large as him stalked through the mist, one arm a crackling, swaying flail of barbed blades, the other mounting linked heavy bolters. The instant he detected the enemy Dreadnought, Telemenus was raising his weapons. He waited until both aiming reticules were centred on the target and opened fire, sending a krak missile flying a couple of seconds before unleashing the beams of his lascannons.

The missile struck the housing protecting the central sarcophagus, shattering the outer plates. An instant later the lascannon hit the same spot, punching straight through with a ruby shaft. The Dreadnought stumbled and toppled sideways, heavy bolter rounds detonating in its ammunition pods.

Another dozen metres on, Telemenus came upon the Grand Master and his Knights. Another Dreadnought loomed above the Deathwing commander and his companions, lashing out with its flail. The Terminators’ locked shields sent out a storm of cerulean sparks with every blow. The Death Guard machine’s autocannon chattered constantly, blazing shell after shell into the shieldwall, but it found no weakness.

A third Dreadnought was trying to circumvent the Knights’ solid barrier, but there were other Terminators moving to intercept. He recognised the black livery of the Consecrators. Nakir’s guard had hung up their storm bolters and advanced with greatswords, four blades shining like slivers of sapphire in the jade fog. Their sergeant led the way with power sword and shield, driving into the blasts of plasma erupting from the Dreadnought’s cannon, risking himself to ensure his warriors reached their foe.

The Dreadnought swung a censer-like morningstar in a whirling arc towards the Terminators. It smashed into the closest, sending him reeling, but the others closed in, their greatswords rising and falling with lethal precision. The morningstar’s chain was severed and the plasma cannon exploded as a shining blade thrust into its containment chamber, gouting fire over the Dreadnought and its assailants.

Telemenus opened fire on the Plague Marines surging up behind the Dreadnought assault, trusting that Belial and the Deathwing Knights would overpower the last of the war engines. With him Caulderain and the other Terminators scourged a wound in the packed mass of advancing Death Guard, pitted armour shattering, their encrusted war-plate and desensitised flesh no match for the raw firepower of the Deathwing.

After a few minutes of frenetic fighting, during which Telemenus had to use his lascannon as a lethal club on two occasions and stamp a Death Guard to a pulp, the pressure finally eased. The Dark Angels Dreadnought moved to stand close to Belial, heavy weapons watching over his Grand Master as the rest of the Deathwing regrouped.

‘I think we have broken the impetus of the attack, brother-captain,’ said Telemenus.

‘I think you are overly optimistic, Brother-Dreadnought,’ the Grand Master replied. He pointed his sword to the sky. ‘They were simply keeping us occupied while other matters took their course.’

Telemenus directed his surveyors skyward, but could make no sense of the jumbled signals that came back. The whirl of contradictory returns reminded him of the insanity that had overwhelmed the sensorium when they had teleported on Ulthor. He cut out all but the basic visual suite of inputs and looked at the sky with the closest he had to normal eyes.

The Gorgon’s Aegis had dimmed, but of the stars beyond nothing could be seen. The heavens were tearing apart, a three-way rip erupting across the ruins of Caliban. It was as though the star system was being pulled, the fabric of the material universe stretching and then shredding from the titanic pressures.

The wound appeared to be caused by three objects – the Terminus Est, the doom-star, and the Rock itself. As it opened wider, Telemenus saw another world silhouetted against the system’s star. Just the edge, highlighted by dawn or dusk, it was impossible to say. In orbit over the world were hundreds of ships, a forest of glittering engines that obscured the field of stars.

The scene was impossibly close, as though he was in orbit with the ships, although at the same time he knew that a universe divided them.

As he watched there was a flash from one of the orbital stations and moments later the telltale flare of void shields. Torpedoes flared in response and battle was joined.

AN UNLIKELY REUNION

As Annael came in to land, the sky beyond his canopy seemed remarkably clear without the coruscating energies of the Gorgon’s Aegis to obscure it. To the south and east there were still some sporadic flashes of fire and bright explosions, but the battle for the Rock had, for the time being, been reduced to a few running skirmishes between the Dark Angels and the survivors of the traitors’ assault force.

Annael’s destination was a spear of rock and metal that thrust two hundred metres out from the base of the Rock, several hundred metres below the last line of stones that formed the base of the Tower of Angels. Hidden between two bulky cliffs on either side, the Gate of Woes was a glint of gold in the darkness. The landing spot was only a mark on the scanner display in front of Annael – a blinking rune to be lined up with blasts from the attitude jets. No other light indicated the presence of the docking station.

Manoeuvring closer between the outthrusts, Annael saw that there was a Thunderhawk already set upon the main area of the landing. Dark green, its bulk was almost lost in the shadow, its hard edges glinting in the navigational lights of the Dark Talon as Annael steered it towards the lip of the landing apron.

He put the aircraft down a few metres from the gunship and set the engines to idle. As their whine died to a grumble, he opened the canopy and hauled himself from the cockpit. There were no porting steps here, so he dropped down from the wing to the ground.

Looking around, he saw that Tybalain, Sabrael and Calatus were already there, waiting beside the open gate. They said nothing as he joined them.

When Sammael brought out the Black Knights’ next ‘mission’ Annael shot a glance at Tybalain. The renegade who had called himself Lord Cypher stood beside the Ravenwing commander with one hand resting on the holster at his right hip, his winged helm under the other arm. The Huntmaster was impassive.

‘I did not think that they came back out of the Gate of Woes,’ said Calatus, staring at the Fallen in his full battle regalia.

‘You will conduct the captive to the coordinates locked into the Thunderhawk’s navigation system,’ Sammael said, ignoring the comment. ‘Expect physical resistance at the target site.’

‘What sort of resistance, Grand Master?’ said Tybalain, clearly unhappy with the whole idea.

Sammael glanced a look at Cypher and then returned the Huntmaster’s stare.

‘Unknown, but if you remember Ulthor you might not be far wrong.’

‘What a delight,’ said Sabrael. ‘I was hoping for more filth and unnatural monsters.’

His flippancy earned him a glare from Sammael, as sharp as the sword at his hip. One hand on the Fallen’s shoulder, the Ravenwing Grand Master led Cypher towards the waiting gunship.

‘Annael, you will fly escort,’ Sammael said, glancing at the Dark Talon next to the Thunderhawk on the landing pad behind them. ‘It is imperative that you conduct this captive safely to the mission objective. Protect him at all costs but do not allow him to leave your sight.’

Sammael handed Cypher to Calatus. Sabrael drew the Blade of Corswain and lifted the sword in front of Cypher.

‘Do not think that you will be able to elude our attentions,’ said the Black Knight. Cypher gave him a lopsided smile.

‘That is a very nice sword. I once knew someone who carried one just like it.’ The renegade’s expression hardened. ‘Be sure you can live up to your boasts, braggart, because you certainly do not live up to the standards of your weapon.’

Sabrael sneered, but there was bravado in his look. The Black Knight waved for Cypher to move and Calatus led the captive up the ramp of the gunship with Sabrael behind.

Tybalain leaned close to the Grand Master and spoke quietly, but Annael’s sensitive ears still picked up the exchange.

‘What about after?’ said Tybalain. ‘Does he need to be returned?’

‘After you are successful, his survival is no longer desirable,’ replied Sammael. To his credit, the Grand Master seemed to find the notion necessary but distasteful.

Annael turned to the Dark Talon but Tybalain called him back. Sammael was already heading towards the Gate of Woes, swift strides taking him into the darkness of the dungeon.

‘Huntmaster?’

‘This is unprecedented, but we must stay focused. Above all, the Fallen is not to escape. Do you understand?’

‘I am not sure that I do, brother-sergeant,’ admitted Annael.

‘The Thunderhawk has its navigational systems locked in. If you see us deviating from that course in any way at all, we are no longer in control and you must act quickly.’

‘You mean fire on the gunship?’ The possibility gave Annael pause, but the hard expression of Tybalain put him in no doubt that he was being given a direct, incontrovertible order. ‘I could probably disable the eng–’

‘Take no chances,’ insisted Tybalain, baring gritted teeth. ‘A lot of Ravenwing brothers have died in the last few months because of this traitor. They were not the first. He does not escape his due punishment. If needed, you will be the executioner. Swear it.’

‘I swear, by the Lion’s shade and the Emperor.’

Tybalain stared at him for a few more seconds and then, evidently satisfied with what he saw, the Huntmaster turned and stalked up the ramp of the Thunderhawk. His eyes following the squadron leader into the interior, Annael saw Cypher sat between Sabrael and Calatus. His helmet was in place and he stared straight at the bulkhead opposite.

He fixed that image in his mind, of the traitor and not his brothers, as he pulled himself back up to the canopy of the Dark Talon. And Tybalain was correct. It was no coincidence that the Fallen had arrived when he had. From Piscina to Caliban, it was not difficult to lay the slaying of Annael’s brothers at the feet of ‘Lord Cypher’ – and from the intimations of Tybalain, countless thousands before.

Something far more stark and personal crossed Annael’s thoughts. Nerean, dead less than two hours. Sabrael, Tybalain and Calatus might be next. Someone had to end the legacy of death.

It would be easier to pull the trigger if that was the thought in his mind.

RETRIBUTION UNLEASHED

Two battles raged across the Caliban System.

The combined fleet of the Unforgiven Chapters cleaved towards the Terminus Est and the Plagueheart, the Rock at the centre of the counter-attack. Defensive shields alight with crimson energy, the fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels spat fire and destruction at any enemy vessel that remained in its path, splitting the renegade forces like an axe into wood.

Outnumbered but never outgunned or outclassed, the ships of the Dark Angels, Knights of the Crimson Order and Consecrators attacked in wolf packs. Gathered into small flotillas they pounced upon the opposing vessels scattered by the advance of the Rock, overwhelming and destroying the heavy cruisers and grand cruisers in swift and determined attacks, eliminating each target in turn before moving on to the next.

For their part the renegades and traitors seemed unfocused, lacking direction now that their lords had opened the warp breach. The objective fulfilled, the combined might of the Unforgiven held at bay for long enough for the ritual to create the rift, the Death Guard and other traitors of the fleet were left to fend for themselves. Only the ships that had arrived with the Terminus Est showed any signs of coordination, withdrawing by squadrons to defend the massive battleship of their master.

As a backdrop around this cataclysmic exchange of plasma, las and shell, the break in reality showed glimpses of an entirely different war being waged. Through the tear in the material universe could be seen an immense fleet, dozens of ships, pushing into orbit over a world of grey and green while a ring of orbital stations hurled torpedoes and ground-based defence lasers unleashed their beams in rough welcome. The vox-channels were filled with static through which snatches of archaic voices could be heard, their accents recognisable but barely comprehensible. Distant alarms from the other reality rang in the ears of the combatants of both sides, alongside angry shouts and the cries of the wounded and dying.

On both sides of the widening breach between realities, space was filled with crippled ships and burning wrecks. Unexploded ordnance littered the inner reaches of the star system and rogue squadrons of fighters and assault craft, their home ships destroyed, flew between the fleets looking for sanctuary or revenge.

The surface of the Rock had been all but swept of enemies, the Tower of Angels’ corridors and halls cleansed of the invaders. The apothecarions heaved with casualties, while the silent Chambers of Remembrance next to the Reclusiam of each company held the mortal remains of many more Space Marines. Nearly a third of the Dark Angels had been seriously wounded or slain. Out in the fleet the other Unforgiven had suffered similar devastation. It was impossible to reckon the tally of foes killed, but it numbered more than a thousand legionaries and ten times that number of lesser warriors.

Despite this heavy price paid for the defence of the fortress-monastery, Azrael’s thoughts were not on preventing further harm, but actively seeking to inflict it. The Dark Angels had been caught unawares by the arrival of the Plagueheart, but they had weathered the storm and it was time to retaliate.

Unnoticed amongst the grandiose spectacle, two craft sped from the launch pad of the Gate of Woes, heading back into the maelstrom of rocks and debris that had been blessed Caliban. Around them, drawing the eye of the foe to the launch bays of the Rock and the flight decks of the fleet, the Unforgiven disgorged every craft they had still capable of flight. Dark Talons and Nephilim led the swarm, bulkier Thunderhawk gunships laden with Space Marines following behind.

Their target was the Terminus Est.

It was almost a relief to be free from Cypher. The decision to send the renegade on his mission, whether right or wrong, had been made. Only time would tell if Azrael had been correct. Similarly, it gave the Supreme Grand Master fresh energy to have quit the chamber of Tuchulcha. Trying to unpick the myriad courses of possible history and present, with half a mind to the potential benefits for all of the forces involved, had been a taxing burden.

For the time being he was free of such concern. He had a target and a mission, the most straightforward Azrael’s life had been for many months. There was only one decision left to be taken.

‘I need someone to remain in command,’ insisted Azrael.

‘In command of what forces?’ Nakir replied quietly. ‘Everything we have is taking part in the attack.’

He stopped and Azrael felt obliged to halt with him. They were descending the last steps to the southern teleportarium. Ahead, Belial and his Knights continued along the passageway, moving out of sight, if not hearing. The thud of heavy boots and wheeze of Terminator armour echoed back to the two Chapter Masters. Azrael could empathise with Nakir’s complaint, but he simply could not abandon control of the Rock to any lesser commander.

‘You need every warrior available,’ said Nakir, waving a hand at the three Consecrator Terminators following a few metres behind their leader. The honour guard had halted on the floor above, silently awaiting the conclusion of the debate. By all accounts, especially Belial’s, the Consecrators had fought like cornered varglions.

‘To defend the Rock,’ Azrael said. ‘There is no other in whom I would place this trust.’

‘Then extend that trust now, Lord Azrael.’ Nakir dropped his voice. ‘Do not think me some naive innocent to be instructed to go out of earshot when the adults are talking. I do not know what has transpired with your Chapter of late and it is of no concern to me. But I have led my warriors down many secret paths, and the vaults of the Reliquaria are filled with answers to mysteries ten thousand years old and more. When Supreme Grand Master Valafar instigated the hidden founding of my order to seek out and preserve our past, he entrusted unto every Consecrator a sacred duty and a secret burden. He allowed the Inner Circle to grow, so that the Unforgiven might be strengthened. If you would but share a little of his faith…’

It tore at Azrael’s soul to hear such earnest petition. Yet he was bound to uphold the secrecy of both Luther’s existence and the capture of Cypher. He could not, in all conscience, divulge what he knew to the other Chapter Master.

Yet did that prevent him allowing Nakir to accompany the attack on the Terminus Est? The Consecrator had already professed a studied disinterest in the events that had led to this momentous occasion. Could he be trusted? More to the point, could Azrael leave him behind?

‘Very well, but your oaths of secrecy and those of your brethren extend to anything they witness today. Am I clear?’

‘You have my word on my honour, as a Space Marine, as a Consecrator and as a son of the Lion.’

This last reminded Azrael that the Unforgiven were all the gene-sons of the same primarch and the results of the day’s battle would affect each and every one of them. Nakir had no less right to fight for his future, even if he did not wholly realise the stakes that were in play.

‘You will be no more than ten strides from my side,’ commanded Azrael as he set off again.

‘Of course, Lord Azrael. Where else would I desire to be?’

They rejoined Belial and the Deathwing Knights in the main teleportarium chamber. Unlike those of the strike cruisers and battle-barges, the Rock’s teleportation halls were massive cathedral-like spaces that had once housed entire companies in the days of Aldurukh. Three more squads of Terminators were already waiting for them.

‘Sammael, report on the void assault,’ Azrael said over the command vox.

‘Ready to make final run at your command.’

The Supreme Grand Master had no hesitation in issuing the order.

‘All companies, attack! For the Emperor and the Lion, we shall be swift wrath!’

With a wave, he signalled for the veterans of the First Company and the Consecrators to assemble on the oil-black teleportation plate. Nakir was on his left, no more than a pace behind. Ezekiel entered from another archway. He approached in silence and the Consecrators parted to allow him to stand beside the Supreme Grand Master on the right.

From the shadows emerged several of the Watchers in the Dark. Out of the corner of his eye, Azrael saw the Consecrators looking at the diminutive creatures with interest, following their progress as they moved across the teleportarium. One bore a helm with high wings as a crest, another a scabbarded sword, the third an ornate combi-weapon of a bolter with a plasma gun mounted beneath.

First Azrael took the fabled Lion Helm and fitted it into place, the seals snug with the neck collar of his ancient armour. Reputedly worn by the Lion himself, it was the greatest symbol of leadership possessed by the Unforgiven. Around Azrael the Dark Angels lifted their weapons in salute while the Consecrators bowed their heads.

He next received the Lion’s Wrath, the combi-weapon cunningly crafted in the years of the Scouring. Suspensors inside cancelled most of its weight, allowing him to lift the bulky gun with one hand. As his fingers curled around the grip the plasma chamber sprang into life with a blue glow and a hum.

Azrael bent forward and pulled free the blade. The Sword of Secrets, most revered of the Heavenfall blades. He looked at Nakir and raised the weapon’s hilt to the snout of his helm. The Consecrator pulled free the sibling blade at his waist and returned the gesture of respect.

‘Death before dishonour,’ said Nakir.

Azrael did not reply. There had been little to make him feel honoured or honourable in recent events. There was barely an oath he had sworn that he had not broken, except for his commitment to protect the Dark Angels against all threats. That oath came before all others.

He felt the Rock trembling as all weapons that could be brought to bear opened fire on the Terminus Est. Unable to maintain the warp rift if his battleship moved away from Caliban’s nominal point, Typhus could not manoeuvre to evade the oncoming Dark Angels – a mistake Azrael hoped would be fatal for his foe.

Led into the attack by their battle-barges, the remaining Dark Angels ships swept aside the attendant cruisers and escorts, bombardment cannons and gun decks pounding away with blistering fury. Heaving into range of Typhus’s flagship, the fortress-monastery poured forth a storm of fire, every tower and battery lighting up the void with their ire.

Void shields sprayed purple and blue energy as the bombardment intensified, cocooning the Terminus Est. Torpedoes and missiles spewed plasma warheads and cyclotronic storms across the time-ravaged hull of the Chaos vessel, cracking open the ancient armour.

With a final blossom of energy, the last of the Terminus Est’s void shield generators overloaded.

At the heart of the Rock, enveloped in a mesh of digital and mechanical systems amongst the shrivelled corpses of his predecessors, the Dark Angels Master of the Forge sensed the weakness of the battleship. Artificial stars captured in the magnetic containment fields of reactors were siphoned into immense plasma turbines. Arcane generators that tapped into the warp itself for power sputtered into being. Ancient power grids laid down before the dawn of the Imperium crackled into brief life.

The Tower of Angels blazed with the unprecedented surge of power, its immense stained-glass windows casting rainbows out into the void, the Gorgon’s Aegis shimmering around the fortress-monastery in a golden dome.

Inside, electricity crackled along metre-thick cables and the coils and pylons of the teleportaria burst into sparkling life. Around Azrael the air of the hall thickened with the tang of ozone and the coolant pipes burst their seams, flooding the chamber with steam.

‘Full teleport!’ he roared into the vox. ‘Sons of the Lion, our vengeance is at hand!’

Boarding torpedoes slammed into the exposed hull of the Terminus Est and gunships blasted their way into the open launch bays of the battleship to disgorge hundreds of Space Marines. At that moment the teleportaria of the Rock simultaneously burst into activity, directed at the command bridge of Typhus’s flagship, casting the entirety of the surviving Deathwing across the warp.

FOOTFALLS ON CALIBAN

The Black Knights ventured into the passageway they had discovered in the side of the kilometre-wide asteroid to which they had been brought. The suit lamps of the floating Space Marines passed over pitted ferrocrete, which formed an arched corridor five metres high. Behind them the Thunderhawk and Dark Talon had been secured by docking grapples to the sides of the jagged opening. Tybalain led the way, Cypher between Annael and Calatus, with Sabrael bringing up the rear.

‘It looks like an arterial transport tunnel,’ said Annael as he pulled himself hand-over-hand along a glistening metal rail in what he assumed had been the floor.

‘Maglev monorail,’ said Cypher. ‘It used to link the arcologies of the Northwilds with the starport at Andaril.’

‘Arcologies?’ said Calatus.

‘Mega-cities. You might call them hives.’

‘We were told that Caliban was a world of deep forests and oceans,’ said Annael. He eased himself over a buckled length of rail, the ground beneath cracked as if twisted by some massive hand. ‘Not a hive world.’

‘Once, in the depths of time. Had precious Caliban survived, the Imperium would have the last of the forests cut down, the rolling hills strip-mined, the deep caverns delved in the search for riches. Perhaps a hive world ten thousand years later, if the plunder of Mankind did not destroy the planet earlier.’

There was a wistful edge to the renegade’s speech rather than bitterness. A melancholy of times lost forever.

‘It is hard to imagine that these spinning rocks were once home to the Lion,’ said Annael. ‘That millions of people lived and breathed here before the ruin was unleashed.’

‘Stay focused,’ warned Tybalain.

Annael readied his bolt pistol and continued to pull himself with his left hand, allowing his momentum to carry him forward. Ahead, the passage became rounded, the lamplight reflecting from broken tiles on the curved far wall. As Sabrael adjusted his angle, his lantern beam caught on something that glittered.

The squad came to an immediate halt at a word from their Huntmaster. They played their lamps back and forth across the tunnel mouth. The light refracted from glistening crystal deposits that looked like trails left across the bricks and tiles.

‘We must push on,’ said Cypher.

‘You are not in command,’ said Tybalain. There was an awkward moment until the Huntmaster thrust away from the wall and into the tunnel. ‘Follow me.’

Annael took a closer look at the crystals as he drifted past. They were like faceted glassy beads, slightly puddled where they stuck to the wall. Turning to the left and right, he counted more than twenty trails all within a few metres. He tried following them, but they disappeared into the darkness, intertwining and overlapping but all of them either heading into or out of the tunnel.

‘Do you think something came in before us, or tried to escape a long time ago?’ he asked.

‘It is waiting for us, I am sure of it,’ replied Cypher.

‘Movement ahead!’ Calatus warned before Cypher offered further explanation. The Space Marine held out his auspex and panned left and right for a few seconds. ‘Signal cannot lock. Definitely movement, but no life signs or heat signature.’

‘Threads of the empyrean,’ said Cypher. ‘Projections of the beast we hunt made real.’

‘Hallucinations?’ said Sabrael.

‘No.’ Cypher pulled free his pistols. The glow from the containment chamber of his plasma weapon lit the tunnel with a cerulean glare. ‘The warp manifested. Nephila. Daemonspawn.’

As they continued, they passed branching service tunnels and broken ladders that led up to maintenance ducts. A few hundred metres into the tunnel they came to a station. The rail ended a hundred metres away, a two-metre-high platform on their left. The cavern-like terminus swallowed the lamplight, marooning them on an island of light in a sea of blackness.

The silence grated on Annael’s nerves. He felt not the slightest vibration through his fingers as he grabbed hold of the platform edge and slowly vaulted from the track. Twisting, he landed on the platform, legs bent. The wall was a few metres further on, crisscrossed by more of the crystal traceries. They converged or emanated from an exit arch halfway along the station.

‘This way, I think,’ he told the others, attracting their attention to the archway with a half-second strobe of his lamp. He felt his eye drawn to Cypher for confirmation despite Tybalain’s earlier assertion of command.

The renegade looked around, the red gleam of his helm lenses bright as they turned towards Annael.

‘It would seem so,’ said Cypher, but offered nothing further, moving his attention to Tybalain.

‘Stay alert,’ said the Huntmaster. ‘Close confines, single file. Mark your aim carefully.’

Passing into the exit corridor, the Dark Angels found that there was a metal underlay beneath the floor tiles. Activating the mag-grips of their boots, they were able to walk almost normally. The metronomic hiss and clank of their steps brought comfort to Annael. A dozen metres on they came upon a moving staircase, long since immobilised by lack of power. The crystal spoor did not lead them up, but on through another archway, presumably to another platform.

‘What are we seeking?’ asked Calatus as Tybalain led the squad onward. ‘What is the mission?’

Before Cypher could reply, the tiniest reverberation alerted Annael that something had changed. The others had felt it too and froze where they were, weapons at the ready.

A second later, the archway ahead exploded with fanged, writhing shapes as the tunnel vomited forth dozens of serpentine apparitions.

The worms were translucent, pulsing with blackness inside white skin. Their eyes were like shards of coal, glinting black in the lamps of the Space Marines. Mouths gaped wide, large enough to swallow one of the Dark Angels helms whole, ringed with finger-long fangs. Thick slime drooled in ropes from squirming purple tongues.

Annael fired on instinct. The flash of bolt propellant was stark white in the gloom, leaving a phosphorescent trail from pistol to detonation inside the mass of worm-like creatures. As though a single entity, the flailing mass thrashed back from the archway as more bolts raked into them from the squad. In moments, the darkness and silence descended again.

A second passed, and another.

‘Why do I get the feeling we haven’t won?’ Sabrael asked. He looked at Cypher. ‘I don’t suppose that was the objective?’

The station lurched. The whole asteroid, in fact, shuddered as though struck by an almighty fist. The mag-grip of Annael’s boots could not hold him in place and, along with Sabrael, he found himself tossed into the air. The others swayed like comical puppets, their feet locked in place while the world spun around them.

Grabbing a light fitting in his spare hand, Annael swung his pistol towards the opening, expecting a fresh attack by the worm-wraiths.

Nothing appeared.

‘Shut up!’ said Tybalain, sensing that Sabrael had readied another quip. ‘Calatus, watch our backs.’

The Huntmaster took a step forward. The floor and wall exploded, engulfing him in a torrent of broken bricks and a cloud of mortar. His black armour disappeared under the avalanche of masonry as something eldritch and terrifying heaved itself into view.

It was neither humanoid nor slug, but some strange amalgam of both, the visible portion so large that it smashed through the ceiling as it straightened, showering dirt and debris onto the squad. Its snake-like body ended with four ribbed tentacle-appendages, each tipped with half a dozen claws as long as a combat blade. In the gloom beyond, Annael spied many-jointed legs like those of a centipede, scrabbling at the ruin of the tunnel beyond the arch.

Amongst its upper limbs was a head-stump, little more than a bulge with a cluster of multi-faceted eyes that shone crimson in the reflected light of the Space Marines’ suit lamps. A disturbingly human mouth, thick-lipped, twisted in a grimace of displeasure, completed the horrific visage.

‘The ouroboros!’ bellowed Cypher. The word meant nothing to Annael but it was obviously a name for the creature. The renegade fired his plasma pistol. ‘Destroy it!’

The Black Knights needed no encouragement. They opened fire together, targeting the head-lump. Bolt-round detonations lit the tunnel, harmless against the blistered, cracked skin of the daemonspawn.

Tybalain shouldered his way out of the rubble pile, firing up into the creature’s mouth from underneath its bulk. As the ouroboros moved, ridged underbelly scraping flags from the floor, Tybalain retreated. He dodged aside just as its enormous girth settled where the Huntmaster had been standing, the floor buckling under the pressure of the thing forcing its way into the hallway.

Blue light flashed as Cypher fired his plasma pistol again, the bolt of energy splashing against the face of the ouroboros. It reeled back, jaw widening even further. It might have howled, or roared, or squealed, but all Annael felt was another ripple of vibrations through the tunnel, the walls shedding grubby tiles like scales. Hauling itself forward, bony projections like scythes slashing through the exposed ferrocrete of the walls, the monstrous creature towered over the Black Knights.

‘Time to end this,’ declared Sabrael.

He drew the Blade of Corswain and leapt at the daemonspawn. The gleaming blade parted a tentacle flailing towards his face, leaving a trail of fluorescent green globules and a twitching stump. Another appendage snapped out like a whip, catching Sabrael across the side of his helm, leaving a white welt of cracked ceramite against the black enamel. With no purchase, the Space Marine spun head over heels back across the chamber, snarling curses.

Annael and Tybalain followed Sabrael’s example, swapping pistols for corvus hammers. The head of his weapon left a bright arc as Annael swung at what he supposed was the beast’s chest. The force of the impact unleashed a flash of power from the hammer, the immaterial flesh of the ouroboros rippling as though a brick had been dropped in a puddle. The immutable laws of physics had an equal effect on Annael, sending him flying in the same direction as Sabrael.

Tybalain was wiser, keeping his feet firmly rooted to the floor as he swung his hammer at the descending fangs. Teeth broke into shards, grey splinters embedding themselves in the Huntmaster’s armour. He took a step back and swung again, the hammer pulsing with energy as it smashed into the daemonspawn’s body.

Cypher moved left, leaping over a tentacle as it swept out to snap his legs under him. The traitor fired a flurry of shots as he glided, twisting slowly, towards the moving stairway, stitching a line of shots across the creature’s eyes. Lenses fractured like glass but the ouroboros forced itself further into the chamber, slashing left and right with blade-arms and thrashing limbs.

The ceiling had corrugated, giving Sabrael a footing from which he launched himself like an arrow, his sword forming the tip as he sped past Annael. The blade punched into flesh a metre below the monster’s mouth, more bright fluid streaming forth. Sabrael’s momentum carried him sideways into the body of the beast, a lashing tentacle wrapping about his chest before he could push himself free.

‘Emperor’s blood!’ he cursed. ‘My armour is splitting!’

Calatus threw himself at the appendage, tossing aside his hammer to grasp it with both hands. Anchoring his feet against a ridge of blubbery flesh, he tried to prise the limb away. Cypher continued past the creature’s visage, disappearing into the gloom of the burrow it had created, his crested helm silhouetted by the flashes of bolt pistol and plasma blast.

Annael stopped his backward flight by securing himself to a twisted stanchion jutting from the wall. He clambered around the support and kicked away, using the undulating surface of the wall to ‘run’ at the monster, hammer held ready. A tentacle swung towards him and he jumped, turning in midair as he was propelled towards the opposite side of the chamber. He timed the twist to land feet first against the broken masonry and pushed again, the fibre bundles in his armour hurtling him at speed towards the ouroboros.

Calatus dragged Sabrael free a couple of seconds before Annael reached his target. The hammer left a burning trail as he swung it into the maw of the creature with all his strength, striking upward. The blazing weapon smashed through the creature’s upper lip, leaving a gaping, flapping mess of flesh in its wake, coating the Black Knight’s armour in a layer of filth.

Like Sabrael, Annael could not stop himself slamming into the creature’s flank. Unlike his companion, he was ready, and thrust away with his hand before he was crushed against the wall, tumbling further into the darkness from which the ouroboros had erupted. He slowed his progress with a hand against the broken tiles and came to a stop.

Annael was about to push himself back towards the others when he glimpsed the blue glare of Cypher’s plasma pistol. He followed it down through the collapsed remnants of the tunnel, passing into another station that lay parallel to the one by which the Space Marines had entered.

The huge space glittered, every surface covered with the same crystals they had seen earlier. Cypher was making his way across a bed of the angular deposits, following the line of the ouroboros’s body. At first Annael thought the daemonspawn’s bulk disappeared into a transport tunnel, but as he followed the renegade his lamp revealed that it was connected to a mass of pustules and warty flesh beneath the carpet of crystals.

‘We have to get back to assist the others!’ Annael insisted over the short-range vox. He pointed his pistol at Cypher. ‘You are coming back with me!’

‘We have to destroy the heart,’ Cypher replied without turning around.

‘It has a heart?’ asked Annael. His lamp moved back and forth across the huge tube of the daemonspawn’s body, sickened by the undulating mass. ‘Where?’

‘Not here, of course,’ said the renegade. He was looking down, at the crystals. Suddenly he stood back and let his lantern illuminate the ceiling. ‘It’s around us.’

Annael looked up and saw a ballooning outcrop of ridged grey flesh, forming the roof of the chamber. In places there were deeper shadows, which he realised with apprehension were splits, the gaps between the mass and other snaking protrusions.

‘That is just a head, one of a dozen, disposable,’ Cypher said, flashing his lamp towards the monster they had been fighting.

The renegade’s words did not make much sense but Annael had no time to ask any further questions. The asteroid trembled, the shaking growing more violent with every passing second. The quake continued to intensify until masonry and shards of stone rained down on Annael and Cypher. The fleshy ceiling shifted, straightening, while the neck and head slithered back past the pair of Space Marines, luminous eyes regarding them briefly in the darkness.

The moonlet broke apart, scattering thousands of tonnes of stone into the void.

The ground splintered and dropped away beneath Annael, leaving him floating over a deepening chasm. And then that was also gone, reduced to spinning fragments that whirled away into the vacuum.

The Black Knights were cast adrift amongst the debris, some of them still attached to splinters of floor by their mag-grip boots. Annael, Cypher and Sabrael floated free, flotsam amongst the tempest of rock and ferrocrete. Tiny jets of air from articulated vents on Annael’s backpack allowed him to stay his outward momentum. He took up a position between the renegade and his battle-brother.

The creature formed a huge semi-transparent ring, the light of the local star a pale orange through its body, darker shadows of organs throbbing and elongating. The claw-feet that extended along the necks unfurled strange skin flaps, looking like sails, or solar sheets catching the light of the star – appendages for navigating through a universe of the immaterial.

The ouroboros’s massive form was tipped at either end by fronds of bulbous heads like the hydras of ancient legend, each jaw clamped around the neck of a head on the opposite end. All save the head that the Dark Angels had been fighting, which glared down at the Space Marines with malign intent.

It seemed to be suckling from itself, pulsing, darkness flowing from one end of the immense body to the other. The beast shuddered and its jaws opened together, freeing the cosmic daemonspawn from its self-embrace. It uncoiled, darkening, flesh becoming solid, skin hardening into a glossy black hide that was barely visible against the night.

‘That is the body,’ said Cypher. The renegade seemed oddly calm considering the circumstances. Annael’s whole body was abuzz with adrenaline and stimulants from his battleplate, and the apparition of the ouroboros defied rational thought, numbing him even more. ‘We need to find and destroy the heart. Not a real heart, of course, but the warp anchor in this reality, the seed of Caliban it devoured.’

Annael looked down at his pistol and corvus hammer and then back up at the vastness of the ouroboros that blotted out the heavens.

‘How?’

A RETURN TO DARK PLACES

The Thunderhawk eased down onto the floor of the landing bay, the assault ramp in its nose already lowering before the landing gear touched down. Telemenus was at the ramp, his missiles refilled, patches of bonded ceramite and chunky rivet-welds covering the worst of the damage he had suffered during the battle for the Rock.

The cannons of the gunship had already cleared the enemy flagship’s landing bay, littering the corroded decking with blasted bodies. Striding down the ramp, Telemenus detected only mutants and twisted human remains – no legionaries. They would be close, but not directly at the forefront of the defence. Better to soak up the initial momentum of the assault with expendable minions.

It was an understandable but deplorable strategy, devoid of all honour. The Dark Angels treated their unaugmented serfs with respect – many had once been novitiates that had for one reason or another failed later testing or had suffered harm as a result of training or the organ implantation process. They were servants to be protected, not a faceless resource to be expended like ammunition.

Tactical Squad Devorus followed the Dreadnought as he lumbered onto the flight deck. The interior of the Terminus Est was as unholy as the exterior. Every surface was crusted with corrosion, fungal growths and filthy grease. Flies flitted everywhere and there were already hordes of maggots crawling up through the decking to set upon the newly-dead. Fronds like hanging guts draped from the ceiling, pulsing with internal motions, intertwined with the machine parts of the ship.

Telemenus fired his lascannons at the launch bay door as he advanced. Reinforced to guard against the ravening vacuum of space and the impact of anti-ship missiles, it took four pinpoint blasts to remove the locking mechanism. Two of the battle-brothers moved forward and pulled the doors apart, revealing an arterial corridor beyond.

The roar of more jets announced the arrival of a second gunship. Without turning, Telemenus felt the approach of twenty Assault Marines, bounding quickly across the deck with blasts from their jump packs. To the left and right, above and below, drop-ships and boarding torpedoes were bringing in the entirety of the Chapter. Telemenus had only witnessed the whole Chapter deployed to battle once before, during the first scouring of Piscina Four in the wake of Ghazghkull’s invasion.

Never had he thought a starship would be the target of so much effort. Whatever was aboard the Terminus Est, the Supreme Grand Master was willing to exchange his entire command for its destruction. Thoughts of Piscina Four were not encouraging – despite the best efforts of the Dark Angels the world had eventually succumbed to internal divisions and the ever-resurgent orks. Telemenus hoped that there was a more satisfying conclusion to this attack.

As he left the launch bay, Telemenus found himself in a gullet-like passageway. Fifty metres to the left and the right blast doors had descended to seal the pressure breach. Brothers from the Assault squads leapt forward and placed their melta charges. Both doors were simultaneously vaporised, unleashing a blizzard of warm air, dead flies, bloated spore pods and mangled body parts as the pressure equalised.

Telemenus moved to the right, towards the bark of shotguns and the zip of las-blasts. The Assault Marines returned fire with their pistols, chainswords whirring as they charged along the corridor. Above their heads Telemenus picked out targets further away, sending beams of laser energy and single missiles screaming along the corridor.

The objective beacon led them on two hundred metres to a cross-junction, and a left turn towards the spine of the ship. A huge archway opened up from the passageway into a vaulted space between the dorsal gun batteries.

Reaching the threshold, Telemenus was taken aback by the cathedral-like space. It stretched up for three hundred metres, the ceiling lost in a green vapour that swirled and billowed as though from monstrous exhalations. The walls were thick with hardened filth, in places broken by jutting bone and misshapen rows of teeth. Suckered tentacles turned towards the Dark Angels as they entered, eyestalks quivered and lipless maws moaned mournful warning cries.

The floor was carpeted with daemonic mites – a morass of small, boil-shaped bodies with glinting eyes and needle teeth, and green and black beetles with knobbled carapaces and strangely human eyes. One-eyed daemon-things hovered in the upper mists on the backs of huge flies, while more of their kind emerged in shambling lines from the shadows of the colonnaded hall. Slug-like beasts flopped and slithered amongst the surging tide, waves of rippling filth splashing over the mites and bugs.

Here were the traitors too, in their filth-slicked armour almost indistinguishable from the rotted mess around them. Gizzards bulged from rents in their war-plate, distorted limbs and faces broke through ancient ceramite layers, revealing pustuled skin and leprous flesh.

To the left, no more than two-score metres away, an immense mound of green, pestilent flesh presided over the daemonic horde. Broad, yellow-veined eyes turned towards him, a look almost of sadness drooping the bulbous lips of the huge daemon commander.

Telemenus froze, engulfed by a memory.

Daellon laughed.

‘Emperor-damned miracle, it is. A damned miracle!’

The two Terminators burst into a cavernous space easily a hundred metres high, veined and vaulted like some immense pulmonary chamber. Droplets of spattering fluid fell from open sores above and the uneven floor forced them to slow, lest they trip on one of the cartilaginous ridges and masses that protruded through the skin-like surface.

Telemenus’s eye was immediately drawn to a figure in black Terminator armour and he recognised the markings of Brother Sapphon. With the Chaplain were eight other Terminators, almost surrounded by a crowd of humanoid, single-eyed daemons that crashed rusted blades against the Space Marines’ armour, their bodies twisted and rotting. The Terminators blasted and punched their way through the group, lightning claws carving ruinous tatters in immaterial flesh, while Sapphon bludgeoned and decapitated with his crozius arcanum.

‘Praise the Lion!’ Telemenus called out over the short-range vox. ‘A happy moment this is.’

Sapphon turned in their direction, skull helm half-covered with sickly ichor. He pointed at them with his crozius.

‘Beware!’

Daellon and Telemenus pivoted at the Chaplain’s warning. Dozens of the pustule-beasts boiled through the widening archway behind them, bursting out under the pressure of their numbers. Yet it was not these that had so concerned Sapphon. Behind them loomed something enormous, a bloated shadow that lumbered after its diminutive children.

Squeezing its bulk into the cathedral-like hall with surprising swiftness, the immense daemon was a hill of a beast, a mound of pestilent, torn flesh bloated with gas and fluids that bubbled from weeping sores in its green hide. It was nearly five times the height of Telemenus and Daellon, its broad shadow eclipsing both Terminators. Its wide, flat face was split by a slash of a grin, dagger-teeth discoloured and fractured. Broken horns jutted from either side of its head, dangling with streamers of entrails and foetid matter.

‘Get back!’ Daellon stepped in front of Telemenus and opened fire, stitching bolter detonations across the beast’s chest.

The daemon swung its right arm, flab bulging and rippling, a flail of rusted chain in its fist, each of the three massive lengths ending with a clutch of monstrous skulls. The flail slammed into Daellon. The whip-crack speed of the heads made them hit with a deafening crash, sending the Space Marine clattering a dozen metres across the floor, bouncing and twisting awkwardly over the uneven surface.

Telemenus raised his storm bolter and fired but it was pointless. A rusty pick whose head was as big as his torso plunged down, its tip punching through the left side of his plastron. A thousand crooked nails dragged through his ribs and innards where the pick cut deep into flesh to erupt from the base of his back. Telemenus could not swallow the screech of utter agony ripped from deep within his soul as the daemon dragged free the weapon, the rusted pick chewing at his wounds like a million insects gnawing in his flesh.

He met the gaze of the daemon and tried to fire again, but the storm bolter had fallen from his hand without him realising it. The daemon pouted, brow furrowed, a look of sympathy more than anything else. Telemenus collapsed to his knees, looking as though he had fallen in supplication to its mighty form. Blood frothed from the wound and smaller daemons poured around him, forked tongues lapping at the spilt life fluid. Telemenus mustered enough strength to swipe them away with his power fist, leaving them as burst smears across his broken armour.

Telemenus fell forwards and was unconscious before his masked face slammed into the floor.

The daemon-curse was still in him.

He could feel the blackness seeping up from his heart, moving sluggishly along arteries into his lungs and brain. There was nothing he could do to combat the filth that had been unleashed in him. Not even the armoured body of a Dreadnought was proof against the sickness of his soul.

‘Faith is your armour.’

It was a phrase oft-used by the Chaplains, but it sounded far more convincing spoken by the voice of the Emperor. The words were a confident assertion of a fundamental truth, bringing forth something from deep inside his soul.

The memory of his near-death flickered away, burned as though by a bright fire. White flames licked at the edges of Telemenus’s thoughts, forming the image of an eagle, eyes of red, claws made of lightning bolts.

The Dreadnought fired, unleashing a storm of missiles onto the bulbous daemon’s flesh. Telemenus’s lascannon stabbed white beams into its face, turning gawping features into a slurry of broken teeth and melting eyes.

‘Onward for the Lion!’ Telemenus roared from his external speakers. He fired again, pulping the body of the greater daemon with las and missile, turning its torn flesh and scattered innards into a testament to the glory of the Emperor. With each beam and impact his confidence grew. Every shot was a smiting blow for the immortal Master of Mankind. There were no more doubts, no more questions. It was for this purpose that he existed. He gave an exultant shout from his address systems as another salvo of shots turned the remnants of the daemon’s carcass into a spattered mess. ‘Spare no wrath!’

From the other side of the massive hall two more Dreadnoughts appeared, laying about them with power fists and heavy bolters. Assault squads bounded through the fray, hacking and shooting, while Devastators laid down swathes of fire from the upper decks, their heavy weapons tearing into the Plague Marines.

Telemenus pushed on, heading towards the prow as he had been commanded. He did not count the kills, but gloried in each and every one as though it was his first and last. Behind him the Dark Angels surged into the heart of the Terminus Est, laying waste to all in their path.

UNHOLY REVELATION

They were called the Grave Wardens, the most dedicated and skilled of Typhus’s warriors. One hundred strong, clad in ancient Terminator armour, festooned with the marks and rewards of their unholy patron. For ten thousand years a scourge on the Imperium, and before that the greatest warriors of a whole Legion.

They stood between Azrael and his goal and he did not show a moment’s hesitation or mercy.

While the rest of the Chapter overwhelmed the lower decks of the Terminus Est the teleport attack was ranged against the strategium of the huge battleship – the throne room of the Chaos Champion Typhus. The control chamber of the warship was larger than many halls of the Rock, the ceiling held aloft by three dozen pitted pillars, the crumbling vaults above encrusted with glowing growths and fan-like fungi.

As when the Plague Marines had assaulted the Rock, the air was thick with buzzing insects and a cloying miasma of sluggish brown and green clouds. Though a thousand lanterns blazed on hooks in the walls, the smog swallowed up their light, turning it into half-seen daemonic shapes carved from swirling mist.

On a broad dais at the far end of the chamber stood Typhus. Tendrils like lianas hung from the Terminus Est, connected to his massive suit of Terminator armour in the manner of umbilical cords. The swaying cables throbbed and pulsed with their own life, bulging and heaving.

Around him the Grave Wardens were arrayed in squads, bearing reaper autocannons, missile launchers, flamers, plasma guns and combi-bolters. For close assault they wielded an eclectic assortment of glaives, scythes, claws and scimitars that burned with unholy fire. Above them were tattered standards and icons of bone and rusted iron, proclaiming victories for ten millennia and allegiances to powers a million years older.

Of Astelan there was no sign, but the Lord of the Dark Angels did not allow this disappointment to temper his wrath.

‘Death to the traitors!’ he roared, breaking into a run as more Deathwing squads arrived around him, the air swirling with warp energy. ‘Spare none their just execution!’

The command hall erupted with the bark of storm bolters and the crack of combi-bolters. Promethium spewed and missiles shrieked from one force to the other.

Wielding the Lion’s Wrath in one hand, Azrael unleashed alternate blasts of plasma and hails of bolts. The flickering balls of energy punched steaming holes in the armour of the foe, the detonation of bolts splintering hardened bony growths and shattering ceramite.

He ignored the storm of fire that engulfed him, trusting to the arcane powers of the Lion Helm upon his head. Bolts were turned to ash, plasma splashed like rain and missiles burst into fiery blossoms centimetres from his body, but no harm came to the Lord of the Rock.

To his left Nakir fired steady bursts from his storm bolter. Each round unleashed flickered with its own fire and punched clean holes through the enemy Terminators – melta-warheads whose manufacture had been lost in millennia past. His armour was slicked with a gleaming field of gold that shifted aside every incoming projectile and beam.

On the right Ezekiel was wreathed in a black cloud that flashed with red lightning at every impact of bolt and rocket. Bursts of energy streamed from the blade of Traitor’s Bane each time the Chief Librarian levelled his weapon at the foe. His helm was bathed in an auric glow of psychic power, its light burning through the clouds of flies and fog that filled the vile cathedral.

Three squads of Grave Wardens broke from the line, stomping forward to meet the trio of officers. Nakir met the brunt of the first squad, the Sword of Sanctity crashing against the swung spear of the closest Terminator, shattering the haft of the accursed lance. The point of the Heavenfall blade sliced off the top of the Grave Warden’s head with one clean motion, exposing pustulent brain matter.

Ezekiel took the second squad, letting free a burst of ravening energy from his fingertips at the moment of their meeting. The floor beneath the Terminators erupted with black sword blades, piercing their legs and abdomens, slicing through their heavy-gauge war-plate as though it did not exist. Traitor’s Bane coursed golden lightning through their wounded bodies, exploding in forked energy from their eyes and fingers.

The third squad was left for Azrael. A scythe blade slashed out towards his throat but he caught it on the vambrace of his battleplate, turning aside the gleaming weapon. The Sword of Secrets felt alive in his grasp, lunging for the enemy as if possessed by a life of its own. It stabbed into the exposed armpit of the Plague Terminator and buried deep into the corrupted warrior’s chest. Wrenching the blade free, Azrael ducked beneath a swinging fist and fired the Lion’s Wrath, turning the head of another foe into a dissipating mass of vapour.

Blows rained down on the field projected by the Lion Helm but Azrael’s thoughts were fixed on dealing death. The Sword of Secrets licked left and right in his hand, dealing cuts and thrusts without pause, slashing open millennia-old armour, exposing necrotic flesh and skin blistered with weeping sores.

Belial arrived half a minute later with his Knights. Shields locked, the Deathwing were like a battering ram at the gates of a castle. The Grave Wardens could not hold against their charge, their line breaking apart like shattered timbers before the maces and flails of the First Company’s finest.

Azrael did not hesitate, but charged into the breach opened by Belial’s attack. Ezekiel and Nakir followed, breaking away from their foes as more Deathwing Terminators reached the Grave Warden squads. As Azrael reached the steps leading up to Typhus’s dais, Nakir turned towards the Grave Wardens, taking up a guard position to protect Azrael. Ezekiel ascended beside him.

Typhus was swelled with arcane power, larger even than the company of Terminators that served him, dwarfing Azrael. His armour was covered with a sheen of pale green mucus that glistened on plates scabbed like torn flesh, ceramite vambraces and pauldrons scaled like flaking eczema. In places ragged weaves of adamantium mail covered breaches in the plate, which sported a profusion of reinforced bonding studs. Bony growths grew through cracks in the plate.

His once-knightly armour was adorned with a single forehead horn, his cheek guards inset with two half-censer breathing gills that leaked olive-coloured vapour. Yellow lenses flashed as the commander of the Terminus Est turned his head towards the mortal creature stepping foot into his domain.

The Lord of the Rock paused a few steps from the top of the platform.

‘“Thou shalt not suffer the unclean to live,”’ Azrael raged, brandishing the Sword of Secrets. ‘Do not think that you can intrude upon the demesne of the Dark Angels and not suffer consequence.’

Typhus laughed, a grating, rumbling sound that reverberated across the whole edifice of the strategium, making columns shake free clouds of dust. Cracked plaster and faded murals scattered flakes like snow onto the raging battle between the Grave Wardens and the Deathwing.

‘It dares to come onto my ship and threaten me? What spirit!’ Typhus turned his whole body towards Azrael. With a hiss like a nest of snakes, the pipes adjoined to the Chaos lord broke away, exposing puckered orifices and bony flues across the top and back of his armour. ‘Welcome to the heart of the Destroyer Hive!’

Typhus raised his arms. In his right hand appeared an enormous scythe, its crooked blade a long shard of iron that shone with dark power. He laughed again, and as his body shook there came to Azrael’s ears a buzzing sound. From the holes and chimneys of Typhus’s war-plate spewed forth a cloud of flies with black bodies as large as a fist, their veined wings fluttering. Dozens, then hundreds and then thousands spilled impossibly from within Typhus’s suit, surrounding Azrael with a solid wall of squirming furry bodies and multi-faceted eyes.

The living wall started to close on the Lord of the Rock, blocking out all of the light, plunging him into a throbbing, buzzing darkness.

Azrael remained calm, refusing to strike out in panic lest his blade hit Ezekiel. The flies were settling on him, their weight ponderous, his armour creaking under the pressure, but he held firm, enduring the deafening noise and the sickening feeling of being swallowed alive.

True to his belief, a few seconds passed and a chink appeared in the mass crawling over him, scourged by golden fire. More auric flames licked across the plate of Azrael, incinerating the flies with their touch.

Typhus continued to laugh even as his flies burned in their thousands, the wisps of smoke from their ashy remains drifting lazily back towards the funnels and orifices of the Chaos lord’s armour.

‘Finish him,’ snarled Ezekiel, swiping the last of the flies away with a sheet of fire from Traitor’s Bane.

Azrael wasted no time and leapt up the last few steps, swinging the Sword of Secrets at the head of the bloated Terminator. The haft of Typhus’s scythe – Manreaper – met the Heavenfall blade, turning aside the ancient weapon with a sickening thud like a hammer on bone. Azrael struck again, cutting low, then high, each attack met with haft or blade of the daemon-infused scythe.

‘I will not allow you to bring forth the evil of our past,’ Azrael spat as he stepped back, seeking a fresh approach. He lanced his sword point-first at Typhus’s gut but was again denied by the slashing blade of his foe. ‘There is no place for it here.’

Typhus counter-attacked, smashing the butt of Manreaper into Azrael’s chest. The blow took him by surprise, knocking him back several steps, almost pushing him from the dais.

‘I do not care for your past evils,’ Typhus replied, his humour gone. ‘It is you that must be stopped. The Plagueheart will be freed.’

Azrael did not understand, and threw up the Sword of Secrets as the scythe blade cut towards his throat, deflecting the blow over his head. He riposted, lunging hard, but the edge of his blade simply glanced from the thick plate of Typhus’s left pauldron.

‘You deny your plotting with the accursed renegades of our Legion?’ Azrael crashed the Sword of Secrets against Typhus’s armour, ichor spraying from the wound it opened up.

‘You bear the key to the Plagueheart’s prison, so I allowed them to bring you to me.’ Azrael leapt aside as Manreaper swung down, its blade carving a furrow through the stone where he had been stood an instant before. ‘I will take that which was promised to me so long ago.’

Azrael turned aside his foe’s next swipe and smashed his shoulder into Typhus’s midriff, creating enough separation to cut the Sword of Secrets across the Chaos lord’s chest. Armour split like stretched skin, spilling dark, thick fluid.

‘Your lies are for nothing. When I slay you, the breach will close and the dead of the past will remain buried. I will not let you bring them back.’

‘The breach is of your making, carved by the abomination you have held secret these many centuries. Do not think that you can save your primarch at the expense of the Plagueheart.’

Azrael stepped back several paces, confused by Typhus’s accusation.

‘You opened the rift with your sorcery,’ he replied. ‘You seek to bring forth Luther and his traitors to wage a fresh war in the forty-first millennium.’

Typhus’s unexpected laugh stayed Azrael’s next attack.

‘My bargain with Luther died with him,’ said the Host of the Destroyer Hive. ‘Simply give me the key and you can leave him to rot again for all that the Lord of Nothing cares.’

Azrael circled, buying time to think. Typhus bided his time also. He turned with Azrael to keep Manreaper between him and the Lord of the Rock, but made no effort to close the distance.

‘What do you know of the key?’ Azrael demanded, assuming that the Chaos lord was familiar with Tuchulcha. ‘How do you know of it?’

‘How do you know of the Plagueheart?’ countered Typhus.

‘We saw it, at Ulthor, corrupted to the core. Why have you brought it here?’

‘I did not.’ Typhus sounded uncertain, his guard lowered for a fraction of a second, but Azrael did not exploit the momentary weakness.

‘You and it are children of the same evil,’ said the Lord of the Rock. ‘Allies in your scheme to bring forth the corrupted warriors of Caliban.’

‘Caliban will die again,’ said Typhus. ‘That cannot change. But the key will free the Plagueheart at the moment of destruction.’

‘My lord!’ Ezekiel’s call broke through from outside Azrael’s thoughts. ‘The breach has almost reached the Rock. Kill him!’

‘No!’ Typhus howled the word, staggering as if struck. Azrael took two steps but the Chaos lord straightened, the blade of Manreaper held before him. ‘No, it cannot be! We have all been tricked!’

‘What trick? By whom?’ Azrael knew Ezekiel was right. He had to strike down Typhus now that he had the chance, not just for his Chapter but for the future safety of the Imperium. But if he did, there would be no answers, only eternal questions. A little time could be spared. ‘Speak plainly, foul one.’

‘We have been lured here, three parts to make the whole,’ the corrupted Terminator answered. ‘The bridge, the key and the Plagueheart, all in this place at the same time. Not to release the Plagueheart, not to bring back your traitorous kin, nor to save your souls. Something greater awakens, dormant for aeons, awaiting the time when it could be brought back. No! Grandfather, I failed you again! The bridge opens again, denying me.’

Azrael felt a moment of connection from Ezekiel, as the Librarian opened his mind to the Lord of the Rock. For an instant Azrael saw what Ezekiel could see, felt what he could feel.

Above the breach, the warp bucked, once, as though it turned inside out. There was no tear, no ripping of realities, simply a smooth exchange of energies. Where before there had been empty void, there were now dozens of starships.

Warships. They blared their identifiers as alarms sounded across their decks and thousands of minds were seized by a sudden surprise.

The Successors of the Dark Angels that had been approaching Caliban. A fleet of the Unforgiven.

The only explanation was that Tuchulcha had brought them into the star system in the same way it had the Rock and the Knights of the Crimson Order. Azrael had no idea why, nor did Ezekiel. Whatever the motive, it seemed that Typhus had sensed the same.

‘I will not be denied again!’ he raged. Typhus lumbered into a run, barrelling towards Azrael. The Supreme Grand Master raised his sword to receive the charge. Teeth gritted, his eyes on the gleaming tip of Manreaper, he watched the scythe blade descend.

The world disappeared.

In the blink of an eye, Azrael knew that he was elsewhere.

The gloom of a deep cavern, a swirling of red marble and gold. The unsettling presence of Tuchulcha.

He was back on the Rock. Ezekiel was there also.

‘It is done,’ croaked the warp device’s servitor. ‘The plague-lord will no longer interfere. We will be remade.’

THE BEGINNING AND THE END

It seemed to Annael that the ouroboros’s body had acted like a tether, somehow containing the power of the warp rift opening across the Caliban System. As the huge daemonspawn unfurled its body, the breach widened too, splitting the sky around the Black Knights. Looking up, all Annael could see was the shadow of the ouroboros. Looking down he saw a grey and green world, the sky filled with scatters of cloud. The flash of atmospheric entries and the blaze of defence lasers lit the crescent of night-time slowly encroaching beneath him.

He looked for his companions and saw that Sabrael was hurtling towards the nightmarish apparition, the Sword of Corswain glinting in the starlight. Cypher was retreating, moving away from the beast despite his assurances moments ago that the ouroboros had to be destroyed. Tybalain drifted not far away, as limp as a discarded doll though Annael could not see why. Calatus was a few hundred metres away, tossed out into the void by the monster’s obscene eruption.

Annael took all of this in at a glance. Cypher was heading towards the Thunderhawk, but whether to attack or to escape he could not say. He had only a couple of seconds to decide whether to go after the renegade or to aid Sabrael in destroying the daemonspawn.

After the events in Streisgant – the confusion of Sabrael’s disappearance, the escape of Astelan and the capture of Cypher – there was no hesitation. The Hunt was more than a duty, more than a burden. It was a distraction. Annael had been crushed by his failure before the Chapter and the primarch, and he would not fail now.

The greater enemy was the ouroboros, and it had to be defeated.

The Black Knight powered after his battle-brother, using the main exhaust vents of his backpack like a thruster, pistol in one hand, corvus hammer in the other. A look at Tybalain as Annael passed confirmed that the Huntmaster was dead – his chest plastron was cracked open from sternum to abdomen, the wound filled with frozen blood, crystallized droplets floating around him.

The raw edge of the warp breach was bleeding towards the ouroboros, as though reality itself was being torn to tatters. Annael glimpsed immense space docks and orbital stations, the first spewing flight after flight of sword-like attack craft while the second unleashed torrents of plasma and missiles at half-seen starships not quite in view yet.

Against this backdrop he saw the Thunderhawk that had brought the others to the asteroid lighting its engines. Leaving azure plasma trails, it accelerated away, answering the question of what Cypher intended.

The vox blared in Annael’s ear, receiving a sudden transmission that was garbled and panicked. He heard voices shouting, but could make nothing of what was said save for the occasional archaic curse word or ancient oath. Twisting in his flight, he looked back to see that the Rock was breaking away from the enemy flagship, which was turning away from the fortress-monastery.

Annael followed its movement, drawing his eye to a new sight.

Dozens of battle-barges, strike cruisers and escorts were arrayed across the heavens behind the Chaos fleet. Where they had come from, Annael had no idea. Magnifying his auto-senses, he could make out markings – sigils from the Angels of Absolution, the Repentant Brotherhood, the Angels of Redemption and the Angels of Vengeance.

‘Lion’s blood,’ he swore. ‘The Successors are here!’

The newly arrived fleet was wasting no time bending its course towards the Chaos vessels in an attempt to trap them between the Rock and their angle of attack.

A little further on, the second part of the Chaos fleet, which had assaulted the Tower of Angels, was breaking apart. The monstrous comet at its heart was glowing with power, enmeshed in a shimmering iridescent aura that Annael knew was connected to the ouroboros’s emergence.

His eyes snapped back to the Rock. Beyond the ruddy glow of the Gorgon’s Aegis, the fortress-monastery was shrouded in a similar veil of light. What it meant, Annael dared not guess. He focused his attention on the ouroboros, just a hundred metres away now, so vast it had become the sky. The light from the emerging planet behind Annael shone from thousands of freshly grown scales, each bigger than a Space Marine. Against this impossibly huge bulk, Sabrael looked like a gnat attacking a Thunderhawk, his shining blade a solitary star in the inky blackness.

The creature itself seemed indifferent to the Space Marines. Fully extended, its body hundreds of metres long, the ouroboros started to move, its neck-gills fluttering like fish fins in water. It was descending, moving down towards the rift beneath Annael’s feet.

‘All Dark Talon flights, all Chapters, this is a priority recall.’ Lord Azrael’s voice sounded impossibly mundane in the circumstances, wrenching Annael from his awed contemplation of the ouroboros. He could scarcely believe that anyone was issuing orders at all. ‘All Dark Talons, I have a priority mission. Target rift cannons at dimensional instability centred on the Caliban nominal point. All Dark Talons that are able, you must target the opening breach. We must overload the tear before it engulfs us all.’

Annael caught up with Sabrael, who was gripping the end of an immense scale in one hand, trying to force the Blade of Corswain into the supernatural flesh beneath with the other. One might just as well try to slay a dragon with a pin, Annael thought.

He acted with more optimism than he had in his thoughts. Boosting himself forward with another exhaust burst, Annael swung his hammer into the pulsing flesh exposed by Sabrael’s sawing. The power weapon slammed into immortal matter, the force of its blast parting pseudo-sinews. The scale tore free in Sabrael’s grip and the Space Marine looked up in surprise.

‘Annael? Did you not hear the Supreme Grand Master’s order?’

‘A poor joke, even by your standards, brother,’ said Annael, hooking a boot into the flesh of the ouroboros to prepare for another swing.

‘I am serious!’ Sabrael jabbed his blade back towards the warp rift. ‘This is a fool’s errand, but if you can seal that rift, perhaps I won’t have to hack my way into this thing’s heart!’

Looking back, Annael saw that several Dark Talons were already speeding towards the rift. As he watched, he saw the telltale rainbow glimmer of rift cannons firing. Looking at the wavering gash in reality, and the beleaguered world beyond, he saw no substantial effect.

‘They need every cannon they can muster,’ Sabrael insisted. Annael could see nothing of his brother’s face, but knew that he had never been so serious in his long years.

‘What about you?’ Annael asked. ‘I won’t abandon you again.’

‘Abandon me?’ Sabrael did not understand. ‘What?’

‘On Tharsis, I left you for dead. Not this time.’

‘I am an idiot,’ Sabrael said, with perhaps more conviction than he intended. ‘I do idiotic things. If you think that staying here with me is the best course of action, you are an even bigger idiot! By the Emperor, brother, get back to your Dark Talon.’

Sabrael kicked out, pushing Annael away, turning him head over heels. Dumbfounded, Annael had no choice but to adjust his trajectory and head back towards the aircraft that was still clinging to the craggy promontory on which he had left it.

Venting all of the remaining exhaust gases from his suit, he covered the distance in less than a minute, before realising that he had nothing left to stall his inertia. Annael slammed into the side of the Dark Talon, breaking ablative ceramite plates on both his armour and the aircraft, the two of them careering through the remains of the asteroid in a rapid spin.

Annael hauled himself up to the cockpit release handle and pulled it hard. Anchoring bolts detonated, the canopy dropping away as Space Marine and craft continued to spin. It made no difference, his armour was just as secure against the hard vacuum as the seal of the cockpit.

Clambering over the lip of the cockpit, Annael ejected his armour’s backpack. Warning systems screamed into life as his war-plate snapped into reserve power mode and backup environmental mechanisms took over from the air and fluid recycling structures now turning away lazily through space.

Even with his auto-senses operational, the spinning view was very disorientating as he lowered himself into the seat and secured his spinal aperture on the interface projection. Every few seconds he saw the warp breach sliding past, itself an impossible overlay of stars and world, dotted with the kaleidoscopic anti-explosions of rift cannon shots. There were half a dozen of the aircraft now, but it seemed the chasm between the realities was wider than ever, almost half of Annael’s vision swept up by the impossible view of a dead planet being birthed into his reality.

The Dark Talon sprang into life as it connected with his nervous system, drawing on his bioprocesses to complete its activation circuits. A touch on the throttle brought the engines into full life, attitude thrusters burning to halt the erratic flat spin that had cast Annael and his craft dozens of kilometres away from the ouroboros.

Taking control, Annael looped the Dark Talon around on the spot, steering for the warp breach. It filled his view while the scanners wailed and bleated in protest at the spectrum of unfeasible signals being returned by their sensors. The display screen was awash with a white blur that seemed to funnel down into itself, reminding him of the ouroboros clinging to its own tail.

Powering towards the rift felt like he was going to slam into the atmosphere of the materialising world. Annael had to override his instincts as much as he did the Dark Talon’s collision detection systems. He could not help but grit his teeth as he sped towards that amorphous boundary point.

He hit the counter-thrusters and opened fire the second the rift cannon was in range, though the horizontal distance to the breach was a wavering measurement, growing closer all the time.

Nothing particular happened. The detonation was inside the warp break, and showed in his auto-senses as a brief swirl of prismatic energy before disappearing. He waited for the cannon to recharge and fired again. His second shot seemed no more significant.

‘Sabrael,’ he called over the vox.

It took a tortuous second for the signal to reach his battle-brother and the reply to return.

‘Still alive,’ came the answer.

‘It has been at least five minutes, have you not yet killed the beast?’ Annael fired the rift cannon again while he waited for his friend’s response.

‘Not as such. Can’t say that I’ve seen its heart. Maybe it forgot to bring it. Calatus is helping.’

Annael’s laugh died before reaching his lips as something occurred to him. He had assumed Cypher was fleeing, but he quickly reviewed the Dark Talon’s passive scan record on a sub-screen. The log showed the Thunderhawk disappearing at the edge of the warp chasm.

‘The heart’s not here,’ he said to himself. He hit the transmit button. ‘The heart’s not here!’

‘What? Where in all that is unholy does it keep it?’

Annael said nothing as another thought entered his mind. He looked at the sparkle of rift cannon hits, like droplets of water hitting the surface of the pool. They made a tiny impact and then dispersed, becoming one with the opening.

It was hard not to think of himself as one of those droplets, falling onto the Dark Angels, briefly existing and then dissipating into the mass. He tried to remember what it had been like when he had been a Scout, or a warrior in the Fifth Company. It was a blur.

There had been duty. And honour. Dedication to his brothers.

All of that had changed the day he had asked how the Lion had died. A simple question, answered with a lie. That much he had learned in the short time since becoming a warrior of the Ravenwing. Horus had not killed the Lion, as Malcifer had taught him. The Chaplain had later recanted this assertion, and told the Black Knights that the Dark Angels had turned on themselves.

Another lie?

It was impossible to say. It certainly was not the whole truth, of that Annael was certain. He could look up and see a world embattled. A world he was convinced had to be Caliban. Not a myth, not a hallucination, but ancient Caliban ten thousand years in the past, the tear in space linking two realities separated by ten millennia.

What had the Dark Angels achieved since that disastrous day in the last throes of Horus’s uprising? What had he achieved? He had propagated the lie to his battle-brothers, and fought to deceive others.

Methelas, Anovel, Astelan, Cypher. The Chaos ships overhead duelling with the combined fleet of the Unforgiven. They were all connected, everything was a web of falsehood, betrayal and deception, interlinked in ways he could not imagine. He knew he would never understand it. He would be lied to again, and he would believe the lies. He had no choice. To think otherwise, to move against the will of the Chapter, would be the destruction of the Dark Angels.

This was the loss of honour, the burden of the Black Knight. To accept the shame. To accept the lies as the better of the two alternatives. There had been one occasion when Malcifer had not lied to him. Deeds mattered. The inner failure had to be masked by outer success. As a Black Knight, he was a foundation stone in the teetering edifice that was the Unforgiven. A resolute brick, that would take the weight and not shift. To do other than that risked the fates of all the sons of the Lion.

It was not his place to fight history nor shape the future.

A droplet on the pool. Inconsequential. A passing moment.

No more. He could bear the burden not a second more. Shame, not of Malcifer’s teachings, but of a deeper sense of honour and duty, burned his soul. Was it weakness to succumb to the pressure? Or was it strength to break free of the shackles of his peers?

It did not matter. Deeds mattered.

‘We need a bigger stone,’ he told Sabrael. ‘Sorry, my brother. My friend. It seems I must rob you of the title of chief idiot.’

He hit the thruster controls, the Dark Talon bursting forward, accelerating hard. The scanners could not tell him where the immaterial and the material overlapped. Annael closed his eyes, trusting to his own instinct, to the repulsion of his mortal form to the immortal world he was about to enter.

While the Dark Talon powered into the breach, Annael disengaged the containment power feeds, turning the core beneath him into an unshielded warp engine.

His stomach turned somersaults and the pressure in his head threatened to burst his ears and snap his spine. Time slowed as he passed the threshold of the real and unreal. Now was the moment.

Annael pulled the trigger of the rift cannon.

A WORLD BROKEN

The air in Tuchulcha’s hall shimmered, pulsing with light and dark until it formed an image, a window into the void beyond the Rock. Azrael looked around and saw that behind him were dozens of small hooded figures. Scores of Watchers in the Dark lined the walls, all regarding him with glowing red eyes.

Ezekiel was intent upon the vision, his force blade Traitor’s Bane still bare in his hand, a witchglow emanating along its length.

‘Impossible,’ said the Librarian, shaking his head.

Azrael looked more closely. He could see the huge rent in space that hung over the remnants of Caliban, and through the tear a battle raged for another world.

‘Is that…?’ he asked.

‘It is as I promised,’ croaked Tuchulcha’s avatar, limbs twitching as the old man rose to his feet. ‘Caliban. The Lion’s sons war upon themselves. Your primarch and Luther are about to do battle. You could reach through and touch them. Which would you save?’

‘The Lion, of course,’ Azrael said without thought. His body trembled at the prospect. Ten thousand years of dishonour and pain, all of it wiped from history by a simple act. ‘Save the Lion. Save Caliban.’

He felt a wave of discontent. Castigation flowed around him from the Watchers, but he ignored it. The Supreme Grand Master fixed his gaze upon the marble and gold sphere.

‘Can you do it? Will you do it?’

‘No!’ roared Ezekiel, the Traitor’s Bane scything through Tuchulcha’s meat puppet, cleaving it from shoulder to groin. Like a dry husk, it fell to the earth in two pieces, a dribble of thin blood leaking from severed veins and arteries. ‘Do not listen to its lies!’

‘What have you done?’ snarled Azrael, turning on the Chief Librarian, the Sword of Secrets in his hand. ‘You have doomed us all!’

‘We are not the only ones that can move through the opening,’ said Ezekiel, taking a step back, his gleaming sword held down to his side. ‘Look!’

Azrael glanced at the void-vision. At first he saw nothing, just the distant glitter of orbital weapons and the flare of torpedo launches. Then he spied a pair of bright blue dots. The engines of a Thunderhawk. He followed it for several seconds, and then moved ahead, following its trajectory into the edge of the warp break. There was only one gunship in the area.

‘Cypher?’

He saw no sign of the Black Knights he had despatched with the traitor. The asteroid to which they had been sent had broken apart it seemed, but of their fate he could see nothing.

‘The Plagueheart is moving…’ Ezekiel’s whisper betrayed an unease Azrael had never heard from his companion before. It unsettled him to think that the imperturbable Chief Librarian was worried. ‘Astelan is there. I can feel him now, his thoughts of glory unfettered by the approach of victory.’

‘We must hurry,’ said Azrael, looking at Ezekiel. ‘We have to block the breach. Move the fleet and the Rock to stem the tide until we can break through.’

The Supreme Grand Master started to pace, eyes locked on Tuchulcha. ‘You cannot speak but you can still understand me. I need you to m–’

‘Say no more!’ Ezekiel swung his blade at Azrael’s chest. Instinct caused the Lord of the Rock to raise the Sword of Secrets to block it. As the two blades clashed, the Supreme Grand Master looked into the psyker’s eye, feeling himself drenched in golden energy.

Tell it nothing! Ask it nothing! It is cursed. Brother, we cannot save the Lion. It is not to be. The portal must be closed to stop the others. What if Astelan succeeds and brings back a Legion of the Fallen? What if Typhus spoke the truth and some even greater power seeks to be returned?

‘No, we must try,’ said Azrael, but already the strength was seeping from him. He swallowed hard and looked at the vision. Caliban was wreathed in las-fire and explosions, but all he saw was the lands of his gene-father in flames.

Azrael slumped to one knee, head bowed, the Sword of Secrets falling from his fingers. He shot one last look at the vision and then turned his face away.

‘What do we have to do?’ he asked Ezekiel.

‘Fight fire with fire. The warp with the warp.’

Azrael nodded and activated the vox.

‘Command, this is Lord Azrael, I want an immediate signal transfer to all void assets.’ He received an affirmative and then heard the short tone as his war-plate’s transmitter was siphoned into the massive broadcast arrays of the Tower of Angels. ‘All Dark Talon flights, all Chapters, this is a priority recall. All Dark Talons, I have a priority mission. Target rift cannons at dimensional instability centred on the Caliban nominal point. All Dark Talons that are able, you must target the opening breach. We must overload the tear before it engulfs us all.’

A sense of approval washed over him from the Watchers in the Dark, a sensation more heartening, more encouraging than any words could make possible. He stood and retrieved his sacred blade, and sheathed it as he stepped next to Ezekiel. The two of them watched in silence as Dark Talons from across the fleets converged on the warp breach.

For several minutes the Dark Talons bombarded the opening with their rift cannons, but there seemed to be little visible effect. The Plagueheart was just a few thousand kilometres from the breach, ploughing into the hastily reassembled fleet commanded by Dane.

‘It isn’t working,’ Azrael said, looking at Ezekiel. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing,’ admitted the Chief Librarian. ‘We have been tricked. Tuchulcha never intended to allow us back through the breach, and now we are too far away for the Rock to intervene.’

Azrael could not accept this, and stared at the apparition of the void battle as though his thoughts alone could close the rippling gap between universes. In his frustration, he almost missed another Dark Talon flitting across the void-gap. It had come from a different direction to the others and was accelerating hard.

Ezekiel took a step forward, hand stretching out towards the psychic display as if he might reach into it and snatch what he sought. His good eye widened with shock, sparks of gold erupting from his pupil.

‘Brother Annael,’ growled the Librarian. ‘His warp core is exposed.’

Azrael did not fully understand as he darted a look back towards the ongoing event. A moment later a bright star burst into life at the heart of the breach. It looked as though it might flare and die out like the shots of the rift cannons, but it endured. After a second it had stabilised, like a shell hanging in the air.

After two seconds it started to grow. Lightning of all colours snaked across the reality tear, crackling out into the void and inward towards lost Caliban.

‘What’s happening?’ Azrael demanded, not able to move his eyes from what was unfolding in the vision.

‘The breach is feeding upon itself, imploding from both directions.’ The Librarian pointed at Tuchulcha. The surface of the sphere was almost completely golden now, swirling madly with smears of scarlet. ‘The bridge is collapsing.’

In the depths of the breach Azrael could see Caliban wracked by warp energy. The storm unleashed by the disintegrating warp breach coruscated across the atmosphere of the world. Ships were set ablaze and orbital stations turned to dust.

‘No!’ he screamed, realising what he was witnessing.

Caliban was breaking apart.

Fronds of swirling power vomited from the closing breach, like solar flares of green and purple and white. They lashed at the void shields of the closest ships, detonating in sparks of yellow. The energy within the breach was being expelled as both sides of the gateway sealed, looking for release in the present as well as the past.

‘Tuchulcha!’ he bellowed. ‘Get us away from here!’

The sphere’s colours whirled enigmatically in reply.

‘I command you. Get us away. Get everyone safely away from the breach.’

A flutter of red and gold might have approximated a smile or might have been a random confluence of the shifting patterns on the warp device’s surface. Regardless, half a second later Azrael heard the warp sirens screaming across the upper levels of the Rock.

The vision of the void showed him an impossible explosion of shapes and colours for an instant before it vanished. Another second and Nakir was barking in his ear.

‘Another mass translation, Lord Azrael! What is happening? Where is the rest of the fleet?’

Azrael looked to Ezekiel for an answer. The Grand Master of the Librarius held out a hand, slowly circling from left to right until he had turned fully about.

‘Safe,’ the Librarian replied after several seconds, his eye dimming as he ended his scan of the warp around them. ‘Scattered, but safe. So are the Plagueheart and the Terminus Est. Tuchulcha took you literally. It saved everyone. Boarding forces have been returned to the Rock as well.’

‘Stand down from general alert, Chapter Master,’ Azrael told Nakir. ‘I will be joining you shortly.’

He felt a faint urging in the back of his mind and saw that the doors to the chamber were open. He walked out into the corridor with Ezekiel, his feet almost moving of their own volition. Stepping onto the worn flags of the passage, he looked back. The Watchers had surrounded Tuchulcha, the blackness of their robes appearing to rise up like a shadow around the strange device.

The doors shut with a slam before he saw anything else. He looked at Ezekiel, seeking an answer, but his companion simply shook his head. When Azrael turned back to the chamber of Tuchulcha, there was no sign of the great doors, only the unbroken stone of the Rock’s deep corridors.

He felt sick, in a way his altered physiology should never have felt. A spiritual malaise that all his genhancements and doctrinal lessons could not suppress. He took off his helm and gulped in the stale air of the passageway, his mind whirling as he tried to process everything that had happened.

SECRETS AND LIES

They came together without the need for a command to be issued. The Hidden Masters, Azrael’s closest confidants, gathered in the Hidden Chamber over the course of the following hours. They did not speak at first, but waited for the Supreme Grand Master to initiate the discussion. Azrael was not sure where to begin. Amongst the others only Ezekiel knew of the strange presence in the bowels of the Rock and the Lord of the Dark Angels was not willing to spread the knowledge further.

‘Cypher has escaped,’ he told them.

‘How?’ demanded Asmodai. ‘What happened?’

‘It does not matter,’ Azrael said sternly. ‘It is the eighth time such an event has happened, we should not be surprised.’

‘And what do we say to the rest of the Inner Circle?’ asked Sapphon.

‘He escaped his cell during the Death Guard attack. The details are unknown.’

‘He disappeared into the breach, it seems,’ added Ezekiel. ‘I might contend that he is dead, or was cut off when it sealed, but Cypher’s history shows us that he is not so easily disposed of. Better that we tell the others that the Hunt continues and Cypher remains at large. It is probably true.’

‘The same is true of Astelan,’ said Azrael. ‘Though I cannot say for sure, it seems that he might have used the expedition to Ulthor to make contact with the followers of the Dark Gods. He had his own agenda to fulfil, supported by the unholy power of that lost world. We can be sure that Astelan will continue to seek to hurt us whenever opportunity presents itself.’

‘Much has happened today that will require answers for the battle-brothers. They have seen things that defy belief,’ said Belial, the words almost a confession of his own discomfort. ‘The same is true of the other Chapters that assisted us.’

‘I will host a conclave and the matter will be discussed with the Chapter Masters. The masters of the Chaplains will devise a suitable programme of dedications and collective penances to ensure the Chapter tenets remain instilled in our warriors. The First and Second Companies have suffered much of late. Belial, Sammael, you will see that your ranks are replenished by the most suitable candidates from those that voice the gravest concerns. It will be arduous but normality will be restored.’

‘As ever it has been,’ replied the captain of the Second Company. Belial silently nodded in acceptance of the order.

Nobody said anything for almost a minute, before Sapphon broke the silence.

‘What actually happened?’ He looked at the others, who shared his confusion. ‘Some of this I can piece together, but much seems nonsensical.’

They exchanged glances and all eyes settled on Azrael.

‘A plot by the corrupted followers of Chaos, led by dread Typhus,’ answered the Supreme Grand Master. ‘They sought to bring forth an army of abominations from the warp. We thwarted them. It is as simple as that.’

‘Rarely are matters of Chaos simple,’ said Asmodai.

‘There is nothing further to be said,’ replied Azrael with a hint of a snarl. ‘We came close to the brink of annihilation but thanks to the bravery of those here and across the Chapters we successfully defended the Imperium from disaster. Battle honours for Caliban will be issued as required.’

The officers looked far from satisfied by this explanation but knew that they would get nothing further from their lord. One by one they paid their respects with bows and departed, until Azrael was left with Ezekiel.

‘A three-way battle for Caliban’s past,’ said the Lord of the Rock. ‘And none of us were victorious.’

‘Four forces battled today,’ the Librarian corrected. ‘The device itself and whatever purpose it serves. Thankfully it was also thwarted.’

‘Can you make much sense of what it was trying to do? What it claimed?’

‘Very little, brother,’ admitted Ezekiel. ‘Perhaps it is better that we do not understand. It would only invite further difficulties.’

Azrael felt sick at the thought and knew that his account in the journals of the Supreme Grand Masters would be brief and unhelpful. He wondered about the previous entries concerning Cypher, their content and tone terse. There was much that was left unsaid and he had nothing to offer hope to his successors. Better that the entire episode was forgotten, lest a weak soul in the future think that they could wield Tuchulcha again. That, Azrael was certain, would be calamitous.

‘Am I right? Did I witness what I thought I did?’ he asked his companion, his voice a whisper. ‘The destruction of Caliban. The scattering of the Fallen. The cause of our shame.’

Ezekiel pulled back his cowl, revealing a scalp pierced by cables and pipes linked to the psychic hood built into his battleplate. There was no hint of energy in his eye now, just his usual piercing stare.

‘Not just witnessed, brother,’ the Chief Librarian replied in a taut whisper. ‘It would be much easier if we had been merely witnesses.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.

An extract from
The Purging of Kadillus.

A fuel tank exploded, showering squat bodies and shards of metal across the refinery. Guttural laughter rang around the bare rock walls of the asteroid-ship, against a backdrop of chattering guns and flames. A handful of stocky figures stumbled from the fire, airsuits tattered, thick beards and bushy sideburns smoking. They carried high-velocity riveters and fired them at the mob of green-skinned attackers thundering down the tunnel. A few orks fell to the fusillade; others returned fire with their crude weapons, filling the tunnel with muzzle flare and bullets.

‘Give ’em anuvver!’ Ghazghkull barked at an ork to his left.

The greenskin loaded another improbably sized rocket into its launcher and stood with legs splayed, aiming at the survivors through an array of cracked lenses. The rocket hissed wildly for a moment before the propellant erupted into flames, blowing apart the launcher, tearing off the ork’s arm. The ork’s pained cursing was drowned out by Ghazghkull’s deep laugh.

‘Wun fer da doks,’ said the warlord, waving roaring warriors forwards with a claw-sheathed hand. Ghazghkull’s laughter stopped as a slew of rivets pattered across the thick plates of armour protecting the warlord’s gut. The massive greenskin turned his red scowl upon the scattered demiurgs sheltering in the ruins of the refinery. ‘Time to finish ’em off. Get stuck in, boyz!’

Following their warlord, the orks charged into the burning debris, hacking and chopping with serrated cleavers and whirring-toothed blades. Ghazghkull levered aside a twisted sheet of metal to reveal a demiurg hiding behind it. The warlord roared along with his multi-barrelled gun as he blazed away, shredding the miner into bloody lumps.

‘Dakka dakka dakka! Dat’s ’ow ya do it!’

Ghazghkull’s gaze fell upon another victim scurrying into the collapsed doorway of an outbuilding. The massive ork shouldered his way through the wall after the fleeing miner, erupting amidst a cloud of tangled reinforcing rods and shattered stone. The demiurg swung a rock-drill at Ghazghkull, aiming for the chest. The diamond-edged bit skittered and shrieked across the warlord’s armour and bounced away, the impact almost wrenching the drill from the miner’s hands.

‘Nice try,’ growled Ghazghkull, looking at the scoring across his chestplate. The ork lifted up an armoured, energy-wreathed fist. ‘My turn, stunty!’

The claw crackled with arcs of power as Ghazghkull smashed in the demiurg’s craggy face, the force of the blow thudding the miner’s head into the far wall. Smoke billowed from the exhausts of the warlord’s armour as Ghazghkull lifted up an armoured boot and crushed the headless body beneath its deep tread. It was always worth making sure.

Thundering out through another wall, Ghazghkull looked around. Scattered pockets of orks were running here and there looking for more targets, but it appeared the refinery was empty of enemies. The warlord spied a tiny figure scrambling through the rubble, dragging a huge pole and banner behind him.

‘Oi, Makari!’ Ghazghkull bellowed at his standard bearer. The gretchin flinched and turned wide eyes to his master.

‘Yes, boss?’ Makari squeaked. ‘What can I do fer ya?’

‘Where’s da meks? Dey needs to be gettin’ da ore and worky-bitz back to da ship.’

‘I’ll go find ’em, boss,’ said Makari. He planted the flag in a pile of debris before gratefully scurrying back down the tunnel.

Ghazghkull strode to the top of a slag heap and looked around. The stunties hadn’t provided much sport, but the warlord didn’t mind. The orks were here for loot and gubbinz. The meks could make some really good stuff with stunty gear.

Another explosion rocked the artificial cavern, a blossom of fire engulfing a mob of orks investigating one of the mine entrances. Ghazghkull thought it was a secondary explosion, but it was soon followed by three more, each heralded by the telltale smoke trails of rockets.

‘Dat’s odd.’

‘What’s dat, boss?’ asked Fangrutz, clanking up the slag heap, the joints of his armoured suit wheezing and whining.

‘Look at dat,’ said Ghazghkull, pointing a serrated claw towards the explosions. ‘Dose is rokkits. Oo’s firin’ rokkits at us?’

‘Da stunties?’ suggested Fangrutz.

‘Stunty rokkits don’t smoke and whirl about like dat.’ Ghazghkull smacked Fangrutz on the head again for making such a stupid suggestion. ‘Dey iz orky rokkits!’

In confirmation of Ghazghkull’s suspicion, a horde of green-skinned warriors poured out of the mine entrance, guns blazing in all directions. They wore yellow-and-black body armour and jackets, the back banners of their nobz decorated with stylised grinning half-moons.

‘Dey ain’t our boyz!’ Fangrutz declared. Ghazghkull’s gun clanged loudly across the back of Fangrutz’s head again. The nob’s eyes crossed momentarily and he stumbled.

‘Course dey ain’t, ya zoggin’ squig-brain. Get down dere and give ’em some dakka. Dey’re after our loot!’

Ghazghkull set after the boys as they poured into the firefight, which in some places became a vicious scrum of blades and fangs. Smoke churning behind him, Ghazghkull lumbered into a run, bellowing orders.

‘Stop ’em gettin’ up on dat roof! More dakka dat way! Give ’em some boot levver!’

The warlord watched a blur of red and black come sailing out of the mine; it quickly resolved into one of his boyz, a ragged hole in the chest. The body splattered and bounced noisily across a rock just in front of Ghazghkull. The ork heard a rapid-fire din above the creaks and puttering of his armour’s engine, a drawn-out rattle accompanied by a flare of orange in the mouth of the mine entrance. A swathe of orks fell to the ground, bloodied holes punched across their bodies. Through the gap, Ghazghkull saw another huge ork advancing from the mine, chain gun hurling bullets in all directions.

The rival warlord was wearing mega-armour as well, painted a garish yellow and decorated with black flames. Compared to the rusty joints and oil-spattered pipes of Ghazghkull’s suit, the newcomer’s armour was spotless, haphazardly inlaid with chunks of gold and – Ghazghkull sneered at the ostentation – dozens of ork teeth.

‘Wot a show-off,’ the warlord muttered as he levelled his gun at the newcomer.

Ghazghkull opened fire, spraying the remaining contents of the magazine at the enemy warlord. Bullets skipped off the floor and walls of the mine tunnel, and a few found their mark, rattling over the plates of his foe’s mega-armour. The Bad Moon warlord – such gaudy displays of wealth were unmistakeable – turned his own weapon on Ghazghkull as a series of empty clicks from his gun echoed around the chamber.

‘Oh zog!’ grunted Ghazghkull.

He was engulfed in a firestorm of flashing projectiles. A particularly vicious burst caught him in the right shoulder, sending slivers of metal spinning in all directions. The armour’s engine gave an alarming cough but continued working, although with a new rattle.

The two warlords closed in on each other, the boyz parting to allow their leaders to get to grips, the ground trembling under the combined thudding of metal-shod boots.

Ghazghkull struck first, swiping his power claw across his foe’s chest, shredding metal. He winced as the Bad Moon smashed his own long claw onto the top of Ghazghkull’s armoured head. A boot found Ghazghkull’s knee plate, which clattered off to the right. Ghazghkull brought down an elbow spike onto his opponent’s left shoulder, driving it hard between the armoured plates, but was thrown back a moment later by a knee-trembling blow to his gut.

Parted for a moment, the two warlords locked glares. Around them the fighting between the rest of the orks died away to some desultory shooting and the occasional punch or kick. Dozens of red eyes were turned towards the pair, expectantly awaiting the combat to recommence.

‘Zog off!’ roared Ghazghkull. ‘Dis is my loot!’

‘I woz ’ere furst!’ the other warlord bellowed. ‘You zog off!’

‘’Ow?’ asked Ghazghkull. ‘I ain’t seen no uvver ship. ‘Ow did yoose get ’ere?’

The Bad Moon rippled back his thick lips in a grin.

‘Dat’s fer me ta know, innit?’

‘Don’t you knows ’oo I am? I’m Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka, da proffet of Gork an’ Mork. I’m da biggest, baddest warlord dere is. Ya got ta tell me!’

‘I ’eard of you,’ said the other, stepping back another pace. ‘You gave da humies a good kickin’, I ’eard. You might be da proffet of Gork an’ Mork, but nobody makes betta proffet dan me.’

Something in Ghazghkull’s memory tinkled into place: Bad Moon warlord, stupidly rich, plenty of dakka.

‘Nazdreg?’ he snarled.

‘Dat’s da wun!’ beamed his opponent. Nazdreg’s eyes narrowed slyly. ‘I ’eard yoose a bit special, bit of a finker.’

‘Dat’s right,’ said Ghazghkull. ‘I ’ear da wordz of Gork, or mebbe itz Mork, itz ’ard ta say. Dey tell me clever stuff, and dat’s why I’m da baddest warlord dere is.’

‘I got an idea fer ya, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We can fight dis out until wun of us iz dead, in good orky fashion…’

‘Sounds good ta me!’

‘…or we can come ta some kind of deal.’

Ghazghkull looked hard at Nazdreg and his boyz. There were quite a lot of them. He was sure he could probably beat them, but… It’d taken him ages to get enough boyz together after being chased around by that Mork-cursed humie boss, Yarrick, and it did seem a bit of a waste to be killing other orks when he could be killing the hated humies.

‘What you offerin’?’ he asked cautiously.

‘I’ll tell ya ’ow I got on dis rock wivout a ship, if you and yer boyz come wiv me on a li’l job I got planned.’

Ghazghkull suddenly became aware that he was the centre of attention from both sides. He waited for a while to see if Gork or Mork had anything to say on the matter. There were no voices in his head, so he guessed that they didn’t care either way. He took a deep breath and lowered his power claw.

‘I’m lissenin’…’

Blue-feathered gulls circled screeching above the wall.

Tauno followed them against the dismal grey sky, humming quietly to himself. As one of the birds dipped past, Tauno looked back across Kadillus Harbour. Surrounded by the high curtain wall, the city squatted on the steep coast of the volcanic isle, a mess of grey and silver against the dark rock. The raised landing platforms of Northport jutted out from the wall a few kilometres away; an orbital craft the size of a city block rose from the starship dock, smoke and plasma wreathing protective blast ramps, while atmospheric craft buzzed and growled to and fro, borne aloft by jets and rotors.

From the gatehouses, highways of cracked ferrocrete cut through sprawling tenements and smoke-wreathed processing plants, converging at the central plaza. Next to the square loomed the spire of the Dark Angels basilica, a towering edifice of buttresses and gargoyles broken by stained-glass windows and ornate balconies. The buildings around the basilica seemed cowed by its presence, none reaching higher than three storeys, as if to be higher would be an affront to the spectacle of the Space Marines’ temple-keep.

Past the basilica, Kadillus dropped steeply towards the harbourside. The sea was little more than a glinting blur on the horizon, obscured by a tangle of cranes and gantries that stooped over the high warehouses. A dozen wharfs stretched into the ocean, where supertrawlers three kilometres long unloaded their harvests.

Tauno heard a grunt of confusion from Meggal next to him in the watchpost.

‘Have a look at this,’ said the other sentry, handing Tauno the magnoculars. ‘Looks like a dust storm or something.’

Tauno looked through the magnoculars and could see a thick wall of dusty cloud coming towards Kadillus Harbour, still at least half a dozen kilometres away.

‘Anything from the comm?’ he asked, not looking away.

‘Nope,’ replied Meggal. ‘Come to think of it, aren’t Kendil and his lot meant to check in from Outpost Theta?’

Tauno flicked his blond hair from his face, increased the magnification and tried to hold the magnoculars as steady as he could, peering into the dust storm. He could see nothing save the cloud billowing up from beyond a rise in the ground. He caught movement, a darker shape within the dust. Resting his arms on the parapet he concentrated, trying to focus the magnoculars.

Suddenly in pin-sharp clarity he saw figures emerging from the dust. Steadying himself again, he gently thumbed the focus rune a little more. More and more shapes emerged from the haze, churning up the dirt in their wake, a great crowd of figures on foot: stooped, green-skinned, waving weapons in the air. As the seconds passed, Tauno could see the columns advancing steadily in a seemingly endless procession. There were thousands of them.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

‘A Hunt in the Dark’ first published as a digital eBook in 2014.
‘Honour of the Third’ first published in Space Marines: Angels of Death in 2013.
‘Holder of the Keys’ first published in 2014.
Ravenwing first published in 2012.
‘Battle-Brothers’ first published as a digital eBook in 2013.
Master of Sanctity first published in 2014.
‘All Must End’ first published in Honour of the Space Marines in 2014.
‘Accept no Failure’ first published as a MP3 audio drama in 2014.
The Unforgiven first published in 2015.
This edition first published in 2016.
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Raymond Swanland.

Legacy of Caliban © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Legacy of Caliban, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-191-5

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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