[Dawn of War 03] - Tempest

by C. S. Goto - (ebook by Undead)

  Even as Jonas spoke the words, an explosion of power erupted on the screen, as though massive engines had suddenly awoken and ignited. At the same time, the curdling tendrils of warp power spun suddenly into a giant and hypnotic spiral. A bulky Astartes frigate lurched out of the distant shadow of the eldar cruiser and plunged into the spinning whirlpool with its engines pouring power into its wake. For a moment it began to roll with the motion of the warp vortex, spinning along its axis like a bullet. But then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the ship seemed to explode into a rain of light and darkness. The vortex flared violently and then vanished, leaving the bright haze of light to fade gradually from the overexposed viewscreen, returning the scene to a star-riddled blackness once again.

  “What in the name of the Great Father was that?” Kohath spun and started to bark orders around the control room, making sure that the Ravenous Spirit would be ready for battle if necessary. “I don’t know, sergeant. Loren?” Jonas turned hopefully to the serf.

  “It only registered on our sensor arrays for a fraction of second, Father Librarian. Its signature was an approximate match with a Nova-class frigate.”

  “Not one of ours, surely,” muttered Kohath in restrained disbelief.

  “No, sergeant. The match was very rough. Whoever was in that frigate has modified it heavily.”

  “Alpha Legion?” queried Kohath, looking to Jonas.

  “No, I don’t think so, sergeant,” answered the Librarian. “Did you notice the psychic halo? Whoever was in that frigate managed to generate a massive warp field just before the ship exploded. I have never heard of Alpha Legion sorcerers with that kind of power. In any case, the markings on the hull were blue and gold, from what I could see.”

  “Are you sure that it exploded?” Kohath sounded sceptical of the old Librarian. The sergeant may not be a psyker, but he knew space combat and he knew that no frigate in the galaxy would explode like that. “I also noticed the touch of blue, Jonas. Perhaps it was a stolen Ultramarines vessel, like the one we saw earlier?”

  The hatch-doors cracked open and released a hiss of steam into one of the landing bays of the Litany of Fury. The door detached and lowered like a ramp, clanking solidly against the deck, revealing the smoke-shrouded figure of Captain Angelos standing in the shuttle’s hatchway. He paused, surveying the dock; it was much as he had left it before running off to Rahe’s Paradise. Like then, there was nobody there to honour him; except for a few servitors, the landing bay was almost completely deserted.

  “I’m sure that Ulantus has a great many things to attend to, captain,” said Jonas, pressing his hand reassuringly onto Gabriel’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure he does,” answered Gabriel matter-of-factly. He turned back into the transportation bay of the shuttle and inspected the assembled honour guard. It was a glittering and glorious ensemble of red and gold. The towering form of Tanthius, the imposing Terminator sergeant, dominated the interior, making it seem cramped and poorly designed. His ancient armour had been polished to the point of radiance. He was flanked by Veteran Sergeant Corallis, whose bionics gleamed brilliantly down the right side of his abdomen. Behind them was the spidery shape of Techmarine Ephraim, whose augmetic arms were glistening like silver. And finally, there was the young scout, Caleb, one of the few survivors from Jonas’ Paradise squad. His chest was thrown out with a fierce pride that spoke of the honour that Gabriel had bestowed on him by including him in the escort. There was one person missing, reflected Gabriel, setting his jaw with concentrated and stoic strength. Each of the four Space Marines had a hand clasped around one of the poles that ran along the length of an ornate sarcophagus that hovered between them. The casket was sealed against the atmosphere so that its internal environment could be carefully controlled, and the broken body within could be preserved.

  This was the last homecoming of Prathios, Chaplain of the Blood Ravens Third Company.

  Gabriel hesitated, forming words in his mind, wanting to say something about the scale of their loss. But there was too much. Prathios had been his friend for longer than he could remember. He had been a guide and a battle-brother, the guardian of his soul in times of darkness.

  It had been Prathios, many decades before, who had first recruited the young Gabriel Angelos into the Blood Ravens, setting the great captain’s feet on the road of service to the Emperor. Aside from the Great Father and the Emperor himself, there was nobody to whom Gabriel owed more. His eyes glinted as he turned back to the hatchway, and then they narrowed in disgust at the discourtesy done to the valiant chaplain by Ulantus’ absence. The return of a great hero should be marked with ceremony and honour, even in a time of strife. Ulantus should have sent an honour guard, at least.

  Silence filled the transportation bay and flooded down the ramp into the dock of the Litany of Fury. Gabriel let the silence prevail, realising that it was more eloquent than any words that he could craft. After waiting for a long moment, he strode down the ramp with Jonas, their boots resounding against the metal. Behind him, he could hear the solemn progress of the others as they carried Prathios back into the Litany once again.

  As Gabriel punched the door and strode into the Apothecarion, Captain Ulantus lifted his head and turned to face him. The two Marines held each other’s gaze for a second, before Ulantus nodded slightly and then turned away again. He was busy with a patient on the far side of the hall, stooping over them attentively and shielding their form from the newcomers in the doorway. Meanwhile, Gabriel twisted his head to the side and made a signal with one hand, bringing Jonas into the wide, low chamber alongside him. The others remained outside, standing in a guard of honour around the sarcophagus that bore Chaplain Prathios.

  Looking around the medical facility, Gabriel could understand the kind of action that Ulantus had engaged in his absence. There were Marines held in a number of the suspensor harnesses, most of the beds were occupied, and the apothecary himself was rushing from one case to the next, barking quiet instructions to his staff of serfs and servitors. With the Third Company on the other side of the galaxy, the Ninth had certainly been pulling its weight in the Lorn system.

  After a couple of seconds, Apothecary Medicius saw Gabriel and hurried over to greet him, striding in between the beds and suspensors with accustomed ease. Without his long black shroud and heavy hood, Gabriel would hardly have recognised the unusually shaped Marine, in his bone-white armour with dozens of chittering mechanical augmentations protruding from various parts of his abdomen. His accomplished and confident manner was quite at odds with the dark and severe persona that he adopted during his work in the Implantation Chamber. Ritual and ceremony had a powerful place in the life of the Blood Ravens.

  “Captain, it is good to see that you have returned undamaged.” Medicius bowed. “As you can see, we have more than our fair share of damage already. The space battle was costly to all sides, captain, and we should be grateful that the planetary assault was all but over by the time we arrived. I am not sure that the Ninth could have absorbed any more casualties.”

  “I can see that you are busy, Medicius,” answered Gabriel, noncommittally, but Jonas could sense the unease in his manner. “We too have some injuries that will require your attention in due course. However, we also have a special case for you, which you will deal with before all others.”

  Gabriel’s tone was not lost on the apothecary. “As you wish, Captain Angelos.”

  Raising his hand, Gabriel beckoned to the Marines waiting outside. With slow solemnity, Tanthius and Corallis led the sarcophagus through the doors of the Apothecarion. All eyes turned to observe the procession. Even Captain Ulantus looked up from his business and turned to face it. After a moment, he straightened himself up and marched across the hall to join the group. Saying nothing, he simply bowed his head in respect as the sarcophagus was manoeuvred into position in the midst of a complicated array of instruments and terminals.

  “Chaplain Prathios has been badly injured. The damage was beyond the skill of Tech
marine Ephraim, but he was confident that it would not be completely beyond your own expertise, Medicius. Even if his body cannot be saved, his soul and gene-seed remain strong. He deserves the honour of fighting in the Emperor’s service once again.” Gabriel spoke as though delivering a report: stiff and formal, without emotion. The tone was incongruous in the setting, and unbefitting the closeness of the relationship that they all knew he had shared with the chaplain. For once, the captain’s defences were transparent to everyone.

  “Of course, captain.” The gravity of the task was clear and heavy; Medicius bowed deeply. The Blood Ravens were beginning to suffer from a serious lack of recruits, and Medicius knew better than most that they could not afford to let Marines slip out of service if there was any way to save them. It had been nearly a decade since he had performed the Rites of Enshrinement—the irreversible process that implanted the ruined form of a Space Marine into an ancient and glorious Dreadnought, wherein he would live out his days as the half-living incarnation of the Emperor’s warhammer. If there was a Marine that deserved this great honour, it was Prathios.

  There was a long, respectful moment of silence before Tanthius spoke. “And what of young Ckrius, Medicius?” The half-suppressed anxiety in his voice was stark in comparison with the massive form of the Terminator armour. “Has our small friend made it this far?”

  Medicius smiled slightly and nodded to Tanthius. The apothecary had been touched by the concern of the mighty Terminator ever since he had brought the neophyte aboard the Litany of Fury, saving him from the smoking remains of Tartarus all that time ago. He liked Tanthius; despite his massive size and formidable power, he was a genuine and compassionate human being.

  “Ckrius is doing well, Tanthius. The Melanchromic organ has just been implanted; all the other zygotes have taken perfectly. He heals quickly, and his body has not rejected any of the implants. I am most hopeful about this one.”

  Despite the solemn atmosphere of the Apothecarion, Tanthius grinned. “That is the best news we’ve had for a long time, Medicius.”

  “We have a number of candidates for the implantations from Rahe’s Paradise,” Jonas added, remembering the youths that had fought alongside the Blood Ravens on that ill-fated planet. There was one in particular, a boy called Varjak with startling green eyes and blond braids; he might make a Librarian one day.

  “Very good, father,” answered the apothecary. “The Great Father knows that we need them.”

  “We all know that we need them.” Ulantus’ voice was flat and heavy, and it crushed the life out of the conversation. He was standing just to one side of the group, paying due respect to the entombed chaplain. “Prathios was a fine Marine, Gabriel. He will be missed. I am sorry for this loss. However, we have lost many fine battle-brothers over the last couple of days, and this may not yet be the time for grieving their passing.” Gabriel turned slowly, dragging his eyes from the sarcophagus to cut into Ulantus’ face. “Thank you for your kindness, captain.”

  The others felt the tension between the two captains like a storm cloud gathering around them.

  “You are right, of course, that this is not yet time for grief or for honouring the dead. Perhaps it is at least time for debriefing, however. I would like to be made aware of events in Lorn during my absence.” Gabriel’s voice was taut, and Jonas watched his eyes closely as he spoke, searching them for ill portents.

  Gabriel?

  Something flickered in Gabriel’s face, as though a sudden thought had struck him.

  “Captain? Are you alright?” Jonas’ concern drew the attention of the others.

  Ulantus eyed him suspiciously. “Are you having another vision, Gabriel?” His question dripped with sarcasm, and it bordered on insubordination. The massive form of Tanthius flinched visibly at the slight to his captain.

  “It’s alright, Tanthius. I’m fine… I just thought—”

  Gabriel? Is that really you?

  Gabriel looked around the faces of his companions, but it was clear that none of them had heard the voice. Jonas and Tanthius returned his inquiring look with expressions of concern; they had seen Gabriel like this before, and he knew it—he also knew how it must look to them, let alone to the straight-laced and bitter Captain Ulantus.

  Gabriel. Macha? Where is Macha?

  Pushing the perplexed Ulantus gently aside, Gabriel walked slowly across the Apothecarion, oblivious to the confused and concerned eyes of the others burning into his back. Without realising it, he was retracing the path that Ulantus himself had taken when he had strolled over to pay his respect to Prathios. Finding himself standing over a low, white-sheeted bed, Gabriel peered down at the slender body obscured under the covers. It didn’t look like a Space Marine’s body.

  With sudden realisation, the captain grabbed the corner of the sheet and yanked it off the bed, casting it aside into a billowing parachute. Lying on the bed, barely clothed and shivering, was the bruised and bleeding body of an eldar female. Her depthless, dark green eyes shone like pools of ocean in her pale face, while her long, fair hair cascaded roughly over her pallid shoulders. She looked petrified and wracked with agony.

  Gabriel! The thought was like a scream in his mind, deafening and painful.

  “It’s alright, I can hear you,” he said; his voice was calming, little more than a whisper. “It’s alright now, I’m here.”

  Back on the other side of the Apothecarion, the others looked at each other and then back at Gabriel. They could not hear the thoughts of the eldar witch, and the Commander of the Watch appeared to be talking to himself. Without knowing that she was there, he had walked directly over to the alien sorcerer, as though he had been drawn to her by some invisible force.

  Ulantus watched Gabriel carefully before addressing the others. He nodded slightly, as though something had just been confirmed to him. His voice was low and serious, as if he were making a concession or a confession. “She has been asking for him ever since we picked her up. His name is the only word that we have been able to get out of her.”

  CHAPTER FOUR: PRODIGY

  “She appeared on the Litany just as her own vessel was finally destroyed. You must have seen the wreckage of the Dragonship around Lorn VII, Gabriel? That was her cruiser. It suffered terrible damage, and we think that she was the only survivor. I’m not sure how she got aboard the Litany: none of the intrusion detectors sounded. Korinth found her in the Sanctorium Arcanum, when he went to prepare the sacred chamber for the rituals to mark the passing of Librarian Rhamah. The astropaths were not disturbed, and the beacon continued unblemished, but the farseer was broken and unconscious on the floor next to the central altar. He took her directly to the Apothecarion, and she has been there ever since. She has said nothing that made sense to our ears…” Ulantus hesitated, as though unsure of how his next words would affect the Commander of the Watch. “Nothing except your name, captain.”

  Gabriel nodded thoughtfully. He was kneeling at the altar of the Litany of Fury’s chapel, gazing up at the iconography that transformed the place into a testament to the glory of the Blood Ravens and to the divine grace of the Emperor himself. The visage of Azariah Vidya, the Great Father, stared down at him from the dimly lit heights above the altar, peering into his soul and searching for the faintest fragments of doubt or moral failing.

  “Do you spend much time in here, Ulantus?”

  The open, confessional tone took Ulantus by surprise. He had been expecting a wall of resistance and defiance from the commander. At the very least, he had expected the great captain to respond to what he had said. “I pay my respects and chant my prayers, as is my duty. Of late, there has been less time for the observances than I might have liked, but I am not remiss in my reverence, despite the toils of war.” Ulantus measured his answer carefully, unsure of whether he was being tested or entrapped.

  Gabriel nodded again, keeping his eyes elevated. He didn’t look at Ulantus, and it was almost as though he was talking to himself. “And what does the Emperor tell yo
u, Captain Ulantus? What strength does he give to you in return for your humility and obeisance?”

  Standing behind the captain of the Third Company, Ulantus looked down at him. “I’m not sure that I understand your question, Gabriel.”

  “When you pray to the Emperor, or to our own Great Father, do they answer you, Ulantus? Do you hear them speak to you, as you hear me speaking now?” As though to emphasise the point, Gabriel lowered his eyes and turned, glancing up into the face of his comrade. “What do they give you in return for your humiliations?”

  “I do not offer humiliation, Gabriel. I offer service. When I drop to my knees before these figures, I do not do it out of fear or expectation. I do it out of gratitude and duty. Neither the Great Father nor the Emperor owe me anything—they have already given me purpose. They have put light into my life, and I strive always to be worthy of their sight in that light.” Ulantus paused, unsure of the purpose of this exchange; Gabriel had ordered a debriefing in the chapel, and this was unlike any debriefing he had ever known. “What is this about, Gabriel?”

  There was a long silence. “I have never knelt in this chapel without Prathios, Ulantus. Never. Not once in my whole life have I been aboard the Litany of Fury without my chaplain.”

  “We have all suffered loss, Gabriel. All of us. It is part of our burden.”

  “I understand loss, captain. Better than you could ever know.” Staring up into the startling, ruby eyes of Great Father Vidya, Gabriel could see the tortured faces and screaming souls of the people of Cyrene—his people. He could see the life flickering out of the eyes of his friend, Librarian Isador Akios, as he withdrew his own blade from the dying body. He could see the smoking remains of three planets misting over his conscience like a dense fog of remorse and suffering. First Cyrene, then Tartarus, and finally Rahe’s Paradise. He had put them all to the sword. “I am the sword of Vidya,” he muttered, almost unconsciously.