The Unforgiven - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘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 Cri
mson 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.’