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The Test of Faith – Thomas Parrott

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Legacy of Caliban’

A Black Library Publication

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The Test of Faith

Thomas Parrott

‘We have entered visual range, my lord Chaplain,’ reported Sergeant Raum.

Interrogator-Chaplain Raguel looked up at being spoken to. The formal nature of the address struck him as a mixed blessing. The Reclusiam deserved respect, of course, and few more so than those who had risen to its highest echelons. Yet, none of the Primaris had ever lost their solemnity with him. None save Hadariel. There was a distance there he was not certain how to help bridge. Regrettably, that was not his task for the day.

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ he replied steadily.

The inside of the Repulsor was kept in dim red lighting. It posed no difficulty for the enhanced eyes and war-plate auto-senses of a Space Marine. In the gloom he could see the squad of Intercessors standing by, their bolt rifles stowed on their armour for now. They exuded an easy calm. These were no fresh recruits, however the rest of the Chapter still spoke of them. Since they had joined, the Primaris Space Marines had been proven in combat time and again.

Still, it never hurt to bolster morale before a battle.

‘Do you wish to address the brethren?’ Raguel asked Chaplain Hadariel on a private vox-link.

They had fought alongside one another for years, ever since Hadariel had first begun to train in the Reclusiam. He was of the Second Generation, as were the rest of the troops on this mission. Only Raguel was of the original gene-seed line.

The Primaris Chaplain looked at him, red lenses gleaming coldly in the skull-mask of his helm. ‘I do not,’ he said.

Raguel frowned. ‘As you wish.’ He switched over to a unit-wide broadcast. ‘Brothers of the Dark Angels! Sons of the Lion! Even now, we close in on those who have shattered the Imperial peace on this world!’ As if on cue, stubber rounds began to rattle off the armour of the Repulsor. ‘Stand firm and crush all resistance. They will break before us! For we are the Angels of Death, and we are the Emperor’s vengeance!’

‘For the Lion!’ came the full-throated response from the gathered warriors.

‘Intercessors, prepare for boarding,’ barked Sergeant Raum.

The gathered warriors disengaged their restraints and rose to their feet. Simultaneously, the hatchway of the transport slid open. The odd orange light of this world came through the aperture, along with a rush of the cold, thick atmosphere. It contained toxic elements; no threat to a brother of the Adeptus Astartes, but there was also nothing to breathe. War-plate seals would have to be maintained until they were on board the target vehicle, at least.

One by one the Dark Angels aboard the transport leaped across the gap to the enemy vehicle. The sergeant was the first one to cross and the Chaplains brought up the rear. Raguel could see the exiting Space Marines coming under heavy stubber fire as they left the shelter of the tank. The hammering sound echoed throughout the area, even over the roar of the Repulsor’s grav-engine. Sparks flew as rounds ricocheted from ceramite plates.

Then it was Raguel’s turn to make the crossing. For one brief beat of his hearts he stood in the egress. The thick ice plates that formed the surface of Muz rushed past underneath both vehicles. Overhead hung the titian haze of the sky. Straight on was the corrugated surface of the enemy… ‘vehicle’ scarcely did the scale of it justice. The great tracked deep-miners of Muz were more like mobile hab-blocks than autocarriages. Entire clan populations lived out their lives on board, working the machine as it harvested crude promethium from beneath the ice plates.

The Interrogator-Chaplain leaped across in an easy bound, catching hold of the grooves and scars in the hull of the mining vehicle. Hadariel was only a step behind him. The wind howled and tore at them, exposed out here, but their transhuman strength was not so easily overcome. The squad had already spread out to allow room for them. Even as Raguel arrived, one of the Intercessors was planting melta charges on the metal skin of the great conveyance.

The demolition devices activated. Blinding light emanated as the thermal beams tore a sizzling hole straight through to the interior. Thick air howled in through the opening, just as it had with the Repulsor. Without hesitation the Dark Angels swung through the red-hot opening and pulled their bolt rifles out. All of it, from crossing over to punching the hole to entering ready for battle, happened in a matter of seconds.

It was enough to catch the vehicle’s crew completely off guard. Pallid figures in heavy work leathers stared in shock as the hulking forms of the Space Marines poured into their workspace. It was some sort of storage area: great casks were stacked in rows, floor to ceiling in a chamber fifteen feet tall. The Dark Angels gave them no chance to recover. Their orders were clear: purge all occupants of the deep-miner known as Meridian Secundus.

Bolters began to roar immediately. Carnage followed in their wake. The workman’s garb these traitors wore provided no protection. Everywhere shells hit, they punched right through into bodies and detonated within. Chests and heads exploded in gory bursts. Limbs were carved away in sprays of blood.

Raguel joined the onslaught the moment his boots connected with the deck, his plasma pistol flaring time after time. Each shot claimed a new soul, white-hot starfire scouring their flesh away in the blink of an eye. Hadariel followed in his wake, reaping his own harvest with cold efficiency. The thunder of the younger Chaplain’s bolt pistol was a steady cadence of death.

Half of the locals were dead before they even managed to respond. Others were already choking and wheezing as the toxic fumes flooded the chamber. To Raguel’s surprise, however, the handful that were still alive and wearing rebreathers did not break and flee. Instead, they turned and flung themselves towards the Space Marines in a frenzy. Most carried nothing more than heavy tools as makeshift melee weapons. A few carried autoguns or autopistols.

Five of them rushed directly for the pair of Chaplains. Bullets were deflected by the sacred energies of the rosarius in a series of blinding flashes. What shots got through glanced from power armour without doing harm beyond scratched paint. Raguel’s plasma blasts annihilated two, and a bolt shell from Hadariel excavated the chest of another.

Then the enemy was on top of them. The first lunged directly at Raguel with a scream of fury, swinging a massive wrench like a club. The Interrogator-Chaplain drew and activated his crozius arcanum in a swift, smooth movement. It caught the wrench head-on. Heavy-duty metal met a crackling power field. The wrench shattered at the point of impact, spraying fragments in all directions.

The chunks popped and sparked off Raguel’s armour harmlessly. The same could not be said for his assailant: one caught the traitor right in the eye, tearing through the orb in a spray of blood. The Dark Angel silenced his screams with a quick burst of plasma that evaporated two-thirds of his attacker’s body. What gobbets of meat remained fell to the ground, burned and sizzling.

Silence had fallen over the area. The battle was done for the moment.

Raguel contemplated the ruined bodies strewn amongst the casks. ‘It is a powerful emotion that would drive such rabble to attack Adeptus Astartes warriors. A deep loyalty, perhaps, or fear. What do you think?’

Hadariel stared straight ahead. ‘I do not know.’

Three of the Intercessors approached. One of them, Battle-Brother Gnaeus, held up a hand in greeting. ‘It is good to have you fight alongside us once more, Brother-Chaplain Hadariel. We feared you might have lost your edge while gone on your special duty.’ The tone was the jibe of an old friend.

Gnaeus and Hadariel had served together even back amongst the Greyshields, Raguel knew. He remained stoic on the outside but listened closely to the exchange.

Hadariel turned his gaze on his old ally. Silence lingered. Finally, he said. ‘No. I am fully capable of combat.’

Gnaeus glanced to the two Dark Angels with him. ‘Of course, Chaplain. I meant no disrespect.’ His eyes darted to Raguel uneasily.

‘I have taken none,’ said Hadariel flatly. His head turned away.

Before Raguel could say anything, the sergeant’s voice cut into everyone’s vox. ‘The enemy will not remain disorganised for long. We must push on towards the control centre. Rally at the western door.’

The squad and its pair of attached Chaplains moved to comply. They set up flanking the indicated exit. Most of the crew who had been unready for the flood of toxic air had fled in this direction. They could well have gathered rebreathers and weapons during the fighting to set up an ambush here. All the Dark Angels were poised and ready as the warrior on point opened the door.

Nothing happened. Only silence greeted them from the hallway beyond.

The man at the vanguard glanced through the opening and then looked back to the rest. ‘No sign of hostile forces.’

‘Push on,’ Sergeant Raum instructed. ‘We cannot afford to tarry here.’

They continued on into the corridor beyond in good order. Each of the Space Marines remained alert, constantly on the lookout for any sign of an enemy attack. This place was old and weathered, as befitted a machine of its great age. The floors were scuffed and worn by the passage of feet across centuries. Pipes on the walls dripped condensation, and old lights along the ceiling flickered where they were not burned out. Other passages branched off from this one from time to time.

Then the lights died.

It was only a momentary inconvenience. Even absolute blackness could not stop Space Marines in war-plate. Their auto-senses switched over to the thermal imaging of preysense in the blink of an eye. All it bought was the briefest pause.

It was enough.

They came scuttling in from the darkness. They were already moving the moment Raguel’s vision cleared. Their blurred heat-shapes hurtled in from the side passages and along the ceiling and walls. They moved faster on their six limbs than any baseline human could hope to match. Shrieks of alien rage came only at the moment they struck, scarce warning for anyone caught off guard. Even with their enhanced reflexes, the Space Marines were embattled at close quarters before they could open fire.

One of the creatures leapt through the air and caught Raguel in the chest. The weight of it knocked him off balance into the wall behind him. Pipes caved under the impact, spewing hot steam over them both. Teeth bared, the Interrogator-Chaplain grappled with the many limbs of the xenos. Razored claws struck at him, carving through ceramite where they hit. One strike scraped along the side of his helmet, deflected from shredding his face only by Raguel hurling himself into the creature.

Raguel drove the beast into the far wall with all his might. Its grip on him loosened for a split second. He struggled to bring his plasma pistol to bear at that moment, but it writhed aside from the incandescent blast. A glowing hole melted into the wall was the only result. Teeth snapped inches from his helmet. He wedged a hand between their faces and drove its head into the red-hot edges of the impact point.

There was a hiss as xenos flesh met molten metal, and the creature shrieked. It was still alive and utterly deadly. There was one key benefit, though: he had bought enough freedom to bring his crozius to bear. The first blow crunched into its midsection, caving in its side. He did not stop there, smashing it repeatedly. It vomited pulped innards across him as its torso crumpled completely. Then it flopped to the floor with a final spasm.

Raguel spared himself a single breath to recuperate and tally his wounds. He was bleeding from a number of slashes, but none were life-threatening. Then he turned his attention to his comrades. The fight was still raging and Hadariel was nowhere to be seen. The Interrogator-Chaplain lunged into the fray without hesitation.

‘Death to the xenos!’ he thundered.

A surgically placed plasma blast here evaporated an alien talon as it pulled back to eviscerate a Space Marine. There, a brother held a beast at bay only with a combat knife between its gnashing jaws; Raguel applied his crozius arcanum to the back of the monster’s skull, spurting liquefied brain matter in all directions and ending the stand-off.

Then it was over just as swiftly as it had begun. Dead xenos were strewn about, and the Dark Angels were reduced in number by four. Sprays of blood on the walls showed hot on the thermal imaging. Raguel turned on a helmet-mounted stablight and deactivated his preysense with a thought. The bodies of the aliens could be seen clearly now, with their elongated heads and excess of limbs. Their flesh was purple under the light, standing out from blue-black carapace. They bled a disturbingly human red, however.

‘Genestealers,’ said Raguel with disgust.

‘That explains why this world rebelled against Imperial control,’ said Sergeant Raum.

It was easy to imagine how it had played out. The insular clans that lived on the deep-miners made contact with Imperial authorities only when their tanks were full, to trade for fresh food, clean water and other necessities. No one from the outside would even know they were being infiltrated.

Raguel tried his vox-unit but only got static. ‘Interference on the comms. Either the structure is a problem or we are being jammed. Either way, we need to alert the master as soon as we can.’

Raum nodded and turned to rally his forces to continue. Raguel went to locate his fellow Chaplain. He found Hadariel standing over the body of one of the Space Marines. Blood wept from a number of punctures to the chest-plate. Both hearts torn apart along with two of the three lungs, the Interrogator-Chaplain assessed. His work required a keen knowledge of Adeptus Astartes physiology.

‘I knew him,’ Hadariel said without looking up.

It was Gnaeus, Raguel realised. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘How long did we serve together?’ the younger Chaplain asked.

‘You fought together back unto the Indomitus Crusade,’ replied Raguel levelly. ‘A regrettable loss.’

‘I do not feel it. I cannot…’ Hadariel trailed off.

‘You have been through a great ordeal, brother.’ Raguel clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come. The squad is prepared to move on. They will need us in what is to come.’

The Primaris Chaplain nodded slowly and followed behind as Raguel rejoined the unit.

They pushed on into the dark tunnels. There was a palpable feeling of hostile eyes upon them. The Interrogator-Chaplain heard scuffling sounds down side passages and inside the very walls from time to time. The sounds were nearly lost in the rumble and grind of churning machinery all around them. Were his hearing not superhuman, he doubted he would have heard them at all. He kept his crozius free and ready, now. The foul xenos-worshipping cult that genestealers formed around themselves might not be any match for an Adeptus Astartes assault in open battle, but they had no shortage of underhanded tactics to help level the field.

They progressed up rusted stairs to the next level. Aged metal creaked under the heavy tread of the Space Marines. It did not give way, however. The deep-miners had been constructed in a different age. Benighted without the light of the Emperor, perhaps, but an era of remarkable feats of technological sorcery. Raguel knew that the Red Priests of Mars had demanded that the assault forces do as little damage to the great machines as possible. The master had suggested they bring their concerns to the traitors and heretics who had made these attacks necessary.

‘We are not far from the command centre now. It will be difficult to coordinate a strike with the other boarding squads with the vox interference, however,’ said Raum.

‘Then we must attack as swiftly as possible. The sounds of righteous battle will draw our brethren on to aid us,’ replied Raguel.

‘As you say, my lord Chaplain,’ said the sergeant.

The Interrogator-Chaplain switched to the private vox-link with his fellow Chaplain. That, at least, was working well with them in proximity. ‘Are you prepared for battle, Hadariel?’

‘Of course,’ came the swift reply. There was a pause before the other Chaplain continued more uncertainly. ‘Our special tasking went well, did it not?’

An uneasy regret stirred in Raguel’s chest at those words. ‘I am certain you comported yourself in a way that honoured the Chapter. I would not concern yourself beyond that. Focus on the present. There is a battle to be won in the here and now.’

‘Yes. You are right. I appreciate your guidance, my lord,’ said Hadariel.

Soon they reached an armoured hatchway. It was tightly sealed, though that would prove no more of an obstacle than the miner’s hull had. Raum took a moment to consult the schematics before nodding to all of them: this was their objective. The squad stepped up to prepare for the assault.

‘Brothers Crispin, Herius,’ said the sergeant. The two Dark Angels stepped forward, their bolt rifles equipped with the auxiliary grenade launchers. ‘As soon as the hatch is breached, lay down a spread of frag grenades. We will clear the room from there.’

Raguel gave Hadariel a pointed look.

‘Purge the unclean,’ the younger Chaplain said, his voice as cold as ice.

Not exactly a speech to put the fire into their brothers, but it would have to do, mused Raguel. He watched as the Intercessor nearest the door applied another of the melta charges to the hatchway. It scythed through the armour plating in a brilliant flash. The hatch fell away amidst a swirl of smoke and debris. With twin whoompfs the grenadiers fired, their explosive payloads hurtling into the smoke and the bridge beyond. Before the detonations vibrated the plates under their feet, the rest of the Space Marines were already moving.

They erupted into a swarm of foes. The impact of the grenades was immediately obvious in torn flesh and spilt blood. It was the only thing that kept them from being mobbed instantly. Here, the true foulness of the genestealers was laid bare for all to see. Not just in subverting the loyalties of the populace, or in their own xenos nature. No, the worst of it was the corruption of the holy human form that they perpetrated.

The bulk of their foes were nightmare hybrids of various degrees. In some it showed merely in scaling around inhuman eyes, or tongues that hung from distended jaws. Others were far worse, with multiple arms and flesh bulging with alien carapace. The very sight of them filled Raguel with disgust and hatred.

He raised his plasma pistol as he strode forward, firing into the mass of horrors. Where the blazing blasts landed they superheated flesh, ripping bodies apart as the water in them erupted to steam. All around he could hear his brothers joining him, the roar of their bolters sending explosive rounds to scythe through the foe.

Then the enemy had recovered and the onslaught began. A woman in worker’s garb charged him with a chattering autopistol, her flesh tinged with purple. Raguel caught her as she raised her blade to strike, his mace’s power field flashing and smashing her to the ground a broken wreck.

‘Emperor, bring ruin upon our foes!’ the Interrogator-Chaplain shouted. It was the beginning of one of the Litanies of Hate taught in the Reclusiam.

‘Ave Imperator!’ bellowed the Dark Angels around him as they battled their twisted foes.

‘Emperor, bring ruin upon our foes! Hear us, lord and master!’ Raguel continued.

A snarling monster with three arms lunged at him, its lips punctured by the too many sharp teeth in its mouth. Its hands were full of a snarling, heavy ice-cutter. The Dark Angel sidestepped the charge, decapitating the hybrid with a well-placed pistol shot as it passed.

‘Ave Imperator!’ came the callback.

A small rag-wrapped figure with a muscled tail protruding from its covering hurled a demolition charge at him. The world turned white for a split second as his rosarius turned aside the force of the blast. One of his brothers nearby was not so fortune, his armour shattered and his flesh pulped.

Raguel channelled his rage into his words. ‘Emperor, Master of Mankind!’

‘Let us be the ruin of your foes!’ the Dark Angels chorused.

A deadly-looking brute with one hand clutching a sword of bone and the other wielding a fang-tipped flesh lash closed in. Raguel caught the sweep of the ossein blade on his crozius. When he tried to bring his pistol to bear, however, the lash whipped around his arm and snapped tight. Strange energies pulsed into his limb through the connection, bringing with it such agony that his muscles spasmed uncontrollably. The plasma pistol fell from nerveless fingers.

‘Lord of Victory! Saviour of Humanity!’ growled Raguel, disregarding the pain.

He exerted his transhuman strength with a heave, knocking the bonesword out wide. Then he lunged into the gap and hammered his skull-visage directly into the corrupted champion’s face. Bone shattered and flesh pulped as blood spurted across his helmet and chest. It might have been dead already. He caught it with an upswing of his crozius, the blow lifting it clear off the ground and sending it hurtling back into its allies.

‘Emperor upon the Golden Throne!’ he thundered victoriously. Gore ran in rivulets down his mask.

‘Grant us the power of your glory!’ roared his brothers.

Raguel and his fellow Dark Angels were fighting as hard as they could, but they were being overrun. There were simply too many of their foes within the command centre. Two more of the Intercessors were foundering in the flood, dragged down by the mass of their enemies and cut apart with weaponised tools. Hadariel was hard-pressed by a pack of them lunging at him with razor knives. They swarmed him in a frenzy, seeking weak places in his armour where they could draw blood.

The Interrogator-Chaplain turned to move in that direction. ‘Glory everlasting to the Master–’

His words were snatched from his lips as a wave of power slammed into him. It had a terrible presence to it and carried with it a pain that made the feel of the alien lash pale by comparison. Each nerve in his body was alight with fire. Arcs of etheric power sizzled across the surface of his armour as he staggered under the onslaught.

Through blurred vision he could barely make out his assailant. It stood out from the crowd, its swollen cranium pulsing with unholy power. A staff tipped in shimmering gems was thrust in his direction, the tip of it crackling with the same amethyst energies that had waylaid him. Raguel took a step in its direction, pushing against the pain like the current of a flooded river. Each movement carried a cost in terrible suffering. He drove on anyway.

Without his pistol, there was no way to strike back from afar. The Interrogator-Chaplain knew he had to close with the xenos psyker if he was to survive. Yet it did not matter. There were limits even to what a Space Marine could withstand. He fell to one knee with a crunch of ceramite and forced himself back up. His will was powerful, but it was only a matter of time before his mind collapsed.

‘Raguel!’ roared a familiar voice.

Hadariel, he thought, but his vision was going now, narrowing to a red point. Then suddenly the pain was gone. It was like surging up from the depths of icy waters to reach a sunlit surface. The alien presence in his mind vanished, and his vision cleared. Hadariel had abandoned defending himself to try to save him. He had fought his way towards the xenos witch, bleeding as he went from the knives that found gaps in his armour plates.

The enemy psyker had been forced to transfer its attention towards Raguel’s pupil. Now the dreadful energies consumed Hadariel instead. Raguel was close now, however, his single-minded pursuit of his foe having driven him on through the melee and the pain. He lunged forward with all his might, smashing through the final rank of corrupted bodyguards. The xenos had only time to turn towards him with rising terror, its mouth opening and eyes blazing with arcane powers. Then his crozius rose and fell, shattering its body and sending it broken to the ground.

Raguel wasted no time in exultation now. He turned and charged anew into the swarm where Hadariel had collapsed. They scattered at the impact. Those who did not flee fast enough were hurried on their way with bone-shattering swings of his crozius. He caught one with his empty hand and slung it to the ground so hard that its head dashed open upon impact. Then he stood in the momentary gap he had created, arms wide in a challenge that dared any foe to try him.

That was when more of the hatches blew in. More Dark Angels poured into the bridge, shattering the flanks of the genestealer onslaught. With this psyker-master dead and the tide turning, those that remained began to flee through whatever exits they could find. Escape into the darkness and strike again later, that was the way of the cult.

Raguel knelt and lifted his badly wounded friend. He carried him over to sit him gently against the wall.

‘Raguel,’ wheezed the younger Chaplain. He reached up and fumbled his helmet off, revealing a face matted with blood from his nose and mouth.

‘Be at ease, brother. You fought with valour and are badly hurt.’ Raguel rested his hand on Hadariel’s shoulder for a moment before turning to face the approaching Sergeant Raum.

‘My lord Chaplain,’ said Raum. ‘We must push on and continue to clear the miner.’

‘Of course,’ said Raguel. ‘Hadariel is in no shape to continue. It is best that we remain here. That will allow me to ensure this place is cleansed of any moral contaminants as well.’ The Interrogator-Chaplain swept his gaze across the bridge-turned-battleground, strewn with bodies and alien artefacts.

‘As you say, my lord. I shall have an Apothecary sent as soon as we reach a place where the jamming has eased.’ Raum made the sign of the aquila.

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ replied the Interrogator-Chaplain.

The sergeant departed, as did the rest of their brethren, to continue hunting the xenos throughout the vehicle. Raguel strode to where he could see his plasma pistol lying on the ground. He knelt to pick it up. It was covered in blood, but seemed otherwise undamaged.

‘Raguel,’ rasped Hadariel. ‘I remember.’

The Interrogator-Chaplain froze.

‘I remember… something. Something terrible. My head aches with the edges of it. I went to Malmar. The Chapter… There is a darkness eating us, Raguel. I cannot…’ The younger Chaplain coughed, spraying blood down the front of his armour.

Raguel closed his eyes tightly. His hands closed around two objects from the floor, and he rose back to his full height. He holstered his pistol at his side and walked to kneel in front of his brother.

‘You are merely hurt, Hadariel. That xenos filth got into your head. You cannot let it rattle you,’ he said.

‘No… It shook something loose. I can hear the waves. I can hear them… They did something to me, brother…’ Hadariel reached up to grip Raguel by the upper arm.

‘Be at ease,’ soothed Raguel. ‘All is well.’

Then he slashed across Hadariel’s throat with the knife he had collected from the floor. Blood spilled, rich and red. The Interrogator-Chaplain gripped his brother tightly as the other Space Marine struggled. Then it was over.

Raguel sat back. He threw the knife away amongst the bodies with a convulsive movement. His hands were soaked with blood. It was all red. There was no way to tell this latest coat from that of the genestealers.

He knew, though. He would always know.

‘Can we be certain that it was the exposure to the alien psyker that caused the lapse? Not merely a side effect of Primaris physiology?’ Asmodai asked.

The chambers of the Rock were cold and dim. They were in the deep levels, where the screams could be heard at all hours.

Raguel glanced to the other Interrogator-Chaplain and frowned. ‘We can never be certain of anything, save war and death.’

The senior Chaplain snorted. ‘Either way it is a flaw. The mindwipe was broken too easily. We will have to be cautious in the future. More strenuous methods may be required to ensure silence amongst the failures.’

‘Failures…’ Raguel said quietly.

‘Hadariel was given every opportunity to succeed,’ Asmodai said flatly.

‘I was not allowed to oversee his trial,’ Raguel said.

‘You knew him too well,’ came the swift reply. ‘We cannot permit personal bias to allow weakness into our highest echelons.’

‘I was not even allowed to be present!’ barked Raguel. He composed himself quickly. ‘The first Primaris Chaplain to be tested to join our ranks, and he fails under mysterious circumstances. Some would call that suspect.’

‘Do you question the wisdom of the Inner Circle?’ rumbled Asmodai coldly.

‘Spare me your intimidating theatrics, Asmodai. I did as I was ordered. Hadariel is dead. My commitment to our cause is not in question.’ Raguel knew his hands had tightened into fists. He did not care. ‘I merely regret the loss of a good warrior.’

‘Of course. As we all do,’ was all Asmodai said. ‘You will be reassigned soon. There is work to be done.’ He turned and departed.

‘There always is,’ Raguel said wearily to himself. ‘The work never ends.’ He departed as well, the screams of agony and horror ringing all around him.

About the Author

Thomas Parrott is the kind of person who reads RPG rule books for fun. He fell in love with Warhammer 40,000 when he was fifteen and read the short story ‘Apothecary’s Honour’ in the Dark Imperium anthology, and has never looked back. ‘Spiritus In Machina’ was his first story for Black Library, and he has since written ‘Salvage Rites’, ‘Fates and Fortunes’ and the novella Isha’s Lament.

An extract from Legacy of Caliban.

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

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First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Paul Bonner.

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