The Unforgiven - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  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!’