The Unforgiven - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘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 Cragar
ion’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.