by C Z Dunn
‘Go! Go!’ he called out to Tzula as she sprinted past him.
The distance to the Prisoner from the Emerald Cave eroded to nothing, and Tzula slid the athame out from her belt, gripping its crude hilt tightly. She blinked – just a standard, involuntary bodily response – and in that instant another of the horrific copies formed to bar her path. Fatty tendrils sprouted from its misshapen body, probing their way towards the inquisitor.
Calling upon years of gymnastics training from some of the finest physical tutors at the Ordo Malleus’s disposal, Tzula pushed down hard on her back foot, launching herself over the top of the newly formed daemon. Her foot landed on what would have been its head, had the thing obeyed any basic laws of physiology, and sprang off again, stifling a scream as the toxic ooze coating its hide ate through the thick leather of her boots and stung her flesh. Somersaulting, she clasped both hands around the blade, stabbing down hard as she emerged from her flip.
The point of the blade parted daemon hide as easily as it would paper, a long gouge opening up as Tzula allowed gravity to pull her downwards. Filth spilled from the wound and Tzula vomited violently when she reached the ground as maggots, flies and the gestational larvae of things best left unknown gushed from the slit.
‘Azrael!’ she yelled, arm around her gut to prevent any more of its contents from being expelled.
From beneath the triumvirate of daemons attempting to subsume the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels a gauntleted hand emerged gripping Lion’s Wrath, one of the most finely crafted combi-weapons in the Imperium and a veteran of even more battles than its current wielder. His hand steady, Azrael engaged the bolter portion of the weapon and squeezed the firing stud.
When she looked back upon the battle in her later years, Tzula was never certain whether she actually witnessed what she saw next or whether the toxic stench she had let loose from the daemon had caused her to hallucinate.
Time slowed around her, the bolt shell clearing the end of Azrael’s weapon seeming to take an age. Muzzle flare issued forth in its wake more like a serene glow than the violent orange expulsion she was accustomed to seeing and the shell shimmered with that same light as it flew inexorably towards the daemon. The part that always gave her pause, always made her doubt the veracity of her own experience when she would later recount the tale, was in that last instant before the round found its mark it appeared to have wings, altering its course ever so slightly to enter through the rent rather than bounce harmlessly off the daemon’s skin.
Her perceptions sped up again, the report of Azrael’s weapon still ringing in her ears, and she staggered backwards looking up at the cyclopean daemon.
She had seen Neverborn vanquished before, even prior to her experiences of recent months, and no two ever left the mortal realm in quite the same way. Some exploded in a shower of gore, taking with them as many souls as possible in one final cruel act. Others merely dissipated, their passing leaving no trace of their ever existing save the trail of corpses the Neverborn inevitably leave in their wake. Others still go noisily, cursing their banisher, pleading for clemency or offering undreamt of riches and power in exchange for their continued material existence.
The Prisoner from the Emerald Cave did none of these things.
Deflating like a child’s punctured kick-toy, the daemon’s flesh sloughed from its frame releasing the detritus Tzula had witnessed when she had opened it up. Billions of maggots oozed across the floor of the cavern and thick black clouds of flies took flight, indistinguishable from the palls of smoke hovering overhead. The embryonic horrors flailed on the hard ground, bereft of the amniotic sustenance of their incubator, quickly dying and becoming fodder for the tide of maggots. Its offspring, those daemons formed from the raw stuff of the host, withered and died in the same way, the toxins that coated them corroding the stone, leaving craters behind as markers of their passing.
Tzula shook her head in an attempt to clear the fug that had gripped her and wiped her stinging eyes. Slightly unsteady on her feet, she made her way over to Azrael who was flicking the corrosive sludge left behind by the dissipated daemons from his greaves and gauntlets.
Tzula was about to laud him for his shot when he spoke first.
‘I don’t care if it was the heat of battle, junior interrogator,’ he snarled, shaking loose a glob of acidic goo from his boot. ‘The correct way to address me is Lord Azrael.’
Drawing his sword, the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels headed in the direction of the Deathwing who were dealing with the few Plague Marines and zombies that remained.
Shaking her head in disbelief, Tzula tucked the athame back in her belt and followed him.
157961.M41 / The Underhive. Atika, Pythos
The pain in his head had built to such a level that Epimetheus wanted to grab one of the nearby rocks and break open his own skull to relieve the pressure. The buzzing and throbbing was so intense that he was finding it hard to focus on Abaddon’s words.
‘So,’ the Warmaster said, leaning forwards and gripping the Grey Knight roughly beneath the chin. ‘Which one are you?’
Epimetheus said nothing.
‘Mute are you? I’d make the most of our conversation if I were you, Epimetheus, because you won’t have a tongue for very much longer.’ Abaddon moved his hand away from Epimetheus’s face and turned away from him. ‘I know you aren’t my erstwhile brother because I watched him die, nor are you one of the other traitors Malcador recruited so that narrows it down.’
Struggling through the agony, Epimetheus locked Abaddon with a baleful stare. The Warmaster turned back to meet his gaze.
‘Have we met before? Did we once fight alongside each other as brothers, you and I, or was it later, trading shots from opposing battle lines?’
Epimetheus maintained eye contact but remained silent. Abaddon switched his line of questioning again.
‘Are you the Ultramarine?’ He leaned forwards, inspecting Epimetheus’s features. ‘No. Too obvious. Besides, you don’t have that look about you.’
Abaddon peered deeply into Epimetheus’s eyes, as if he was trying to see what lay behind them. He started to laugh, coldly and entirely devoid of mirth.
‘Oh, the irony…’ He leaned in closer, his nose practically touching the Grey Knight’s. ‘The brother of ten who became a brother of eight. Azrael and his whelps would tear this planet apart if they knew who you were.’
Epimetheus didn’t flinch. He held Abaddon’s gaze, unblinking. The Warmaster backed away. Without taking his eyes off the Grey Knight, he gestured for one of his Black Legionnaires to come forward. A black and gold figure emerged from the dark holding out a portable vox-unit which he passed to Abaddon.
‘Huron,’ he said, the handset crackling as he activated it. ‘Get me off this rock. My mission is complete.’
There was a long crackle of static followed by a tinny voice. ‘As you wish, Warmaster. The extraction will commence the instant you are back on the surface.’
Killing the link, Abaddon handed the vox back. Epimetheus’s brow furrowed a fraction, almost imperceptible but apparent even in the gloom to one with the enhanced senses of a Space Marine.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Epimetheus,’ Abaddon said. ‘The Damnation Cache. The Prisoner in the Emerald Cave. Why am I abandoning this world while there is still a chance that my war could still be won?’
Abaddon crouched down.
‘This was never my war, but it was convenient for me to fight it. Corpulax and his lackeys wanted the Emerald Cave opening to set free the daemon within and gain favour with Nurgle. I doubt that without the aid of my Black Legion he will be successful in that venture but, should his god spare him, the Plague Lord and his warband are bound by oath to join me on my next Black Crusade.
‘The Davinicus Lycae wanted to reopen the Damnation Cache and to get their hands on one of those accursed blades. For millennia, they have been honour bound to the Black Legion and all true sons of Cthonia, and they sought our aid
in this matter. While the prospect of an endless army of daemons sallying forth into the Imperium is an appealing one to me, using a campaign on Pythos as a distraction to see whether the whispers in the warp were true was an opportunity too good to pass up.’
Epimetheus finally broke his silence. ‘What whispers?’
Abaddon smiled, obviously pleased that the Grey Knight had relinquished his quietude. ‘That a psyker of prodigious power dwelt here. Many took that to mean the Prisoner who you trapped here ten thousand years ago, but the Davinicus Lycae held a different theory based upon the snatches of information that left this world after you first came here. They believed that when the Grey Knights sealed shut the Cache and trapped the Prisoner in his tomb that they left one of their own behind to watch over this world. The most powerful among their number. One of their founding brothers.’
Epimetheus’s eyes narrowed slightly.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not only your psychic abilities I’m interested in.’ The Warmaster raised a hand to Epimetheus’s neck and tapped it with two fingers right where the progenoid sat beneath the flesh. ‘It’s your genetic legacy I want too.’
The realisation carved through the pain granting Epimetheus a moment of clarity.
The Grey Knight was about to cry out his defiance when Abaddon’s fist made contact with Epimetheus’s forehead and everything went black.
157961.M41 / Forty-two kilometres north-east of Atika, Pythos
The rain had subsided to nothing more than a drizzle by the time Shira moved out from the crash site.
She had spent her first hour on the ground sheltering at the base of a mighty redwood, partly to be out of the rain, partly to be out of sight of Ragwing who she was convinced would be circling overhead waiting for her to emerge. Confident that she was neither going to get drenched nor be picked off by the enraged Heldrake, she had salvaged what she could from the steaming wreck – which turned out to be very little – and fashioned a basic crutch from twisted metal and fallen branches to allow her to move on the ankle she had broken in the crash. Her ribs throbbed from where the harness had prevented her from dying in the impact and her shoulder was badly bruised from where she had used it to ram open the shuttle door seconds before the craft exploded.
But at least she was alive to take another shot at Ragwing. Provided Tzula didn’t kill her first for breaking the shuttle, of course.
Putting all her weight onto her good foot, Shira began the long hobble back towards Atika.
158961.M41 / The Emerald Cave. Atika, Pythos
Azrael was engaged in deep conversation with Apothecary Rephial as Balthasar approached, prisoner in tow. The two Dark Angels halted their discussion of casualty figures and gene-seed retrieval ratios and drew their weapons as the Terminator drew closer. Gabriel and Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai did likewise, moving to the Supreme Grand Master’s side when the identity of the captive became apparent.
‘Apothecary Rephial, Master Zadakiel and Fifth Company have been leading the clean-up operation for the past day and almost all of them are walking wounded. Have Master Belial and Third Company relieve them and see to their wounds,’ Azrael said, his subtext plain.
‘As you wish, my lord,’ Rephial said. His armour was as battered and gore-streaked as any of the other Dark Angels, his ability to kill the equal of his capacity to cure. As he walked past Balthasar, he gave the Deathwing an appreciative nod.
‘A prisoner for you, Lord Asmodai,’ Balthasar said, tugging on the chains he had used to bind Corpulax and dragging the Traitor Marine unceremoniously to the hard ground. Whereas previously he had only been missing his hands, both of his arms were gone entirely, the shackles wrapped tightly around his throat. ‘I apologise that he is no longer in one piece.’
Asmodai said nothing, the crackle of his crozius arcanum doing his talking for him.
‘With your leave, my lords…’ Balthasar acknowledged his three superiors before turning on his heel.
‘Brother Balthasar, you should witness this,’ Azrael said. Balthasar halted and spun to face them again.
‘Lord Azrael, he is not ready,’ Gabriel protested.
Azrael raised a hand, bare flesh visible where daemonic acid had corroded his gauntlet. ‘Perhaps not, Gabriel, but he has earned this.’
The Master of the Deathwing nodded his assent, first to Azrael then to Balthasar. Corpulax laughed, the look on his face that of an arrogant victor rather than a defeated foe.
‘It’s always secrets with you, isn’t it?’ Corpulax sneered. ‘Trying to keep a lid on the shame you’ve borne all these long millennia. Not wanting anybody to know about the Dark Angels treachery, including your own brothers. I was one of you, once, one of “the Unforgiven”, putting my life on the line day in and day out in the name of the Lion and The Emperor, and what did I get for it?’
None of the Dark Angels answered, their visages masks of disdain.
‘I got treated like a child at the supper table, asked to leave when the grown-ups wanted to speak just like you did to your Apothecary. For years I put up with it, never questioning, never querying. Carrying out my orders even when it meant abandoning the people we were supposed to be protecting to carry out our own petty agenda or entering into conflict with our own allies. And for what? To protect a few pathetic secrets.’
Corpulax laughed again.
‘Do you know what the joke of it is? The punch line to all this? You’re only keeping it a secret from yourselves. You don’t think the Fallen share their path to enlightenment with those who rally to their banners, with those they bend their knee to? All who dwell within the Eye are privy to your secrets, know of your ancient betrayal and what you do with those former Dark Angels you hunt down and capture.’
Asmodai’s crozius blazed angrily.
‘We know about your dungeons, and how you make us try to repent, the “techniques” you employ to extract confessions and assuage your bruised pride. I’ve even spoken to the one you let slip from your grasp, the only prisoner ever to escape from beneath the Rock.’
The Dark Angels looked cagily at one another. The look that passed between Azrael and Asmodai was particularly loaded.
‘More secrets? Or has that not happened yet? The way time passes within the Eye that’s entirely possible.’
He let out a long, wet chuckle.
‘No matter. You can throw me in there, try to break me but it won’t work. My new master favours me and even the worst excesses your Interrogator-Chaplains plan to inflict pale against the pain I have already endured. I’ll bide my time, maybe scream occasionally, sob for mercy, look as if I’m playing along. Then, when the time is right, I’ll disappear. One morning, you’ll come down to my cell, torture implements all clean and ready for another day’s work, and it’ll be empty. And do you know what the really ironic thing is?’
All eyes were fixed coldly on the Plague Lord.
‘If my escape fails the first time, the second time, the third, I’ll get more chances. You’d rather die yourselves than let me die without a confession passing my lips.’ The grin he wore was so large that necrotised flesh tore at the edges of his mouth. ‘At this point I would hold out my hands so you could put them in irons but your whelp robbed me of that particular grand gesture.’
Azrael took a step towards Corpulax.
‘Have you finished?’ the Supreme Grand Master said, voice awash with disinterest. The smile dropped from Corpulax’s face. ‘When you were speaking about the Rock just now, you said “us”. Something about how “you make us try to repent”. What did you mean by that?’
Corpulax bared his teeth again, half-smile, half-snarl. ‘I meant that the only thing that matters to you is securing the atonement of us Fallen.’
It was the Dark Angel’s turn to laugh now. Asmodai and Gabriel followed suit. Balthasar joined in, though he wasn’t sure what was so funny.
‘You used the word “us” again. “Us Fallen”.’ The laughter ceased. ‘What makes you think that we consider you to
have fallen?’
‘Because I turned my back on both Emperor and Imperium. I swore fealty to the Plague God and took up arms against those I once fought alongside.’ Corpulax spat at Azrael’s feet. ‘And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.’
‘But why did you turn? Was it for power? Did your rotting deity promise you the means by which to attain all that you desired? Or was it in exchange for your life? Did you fear death so much that you sold both body and soul to prolong your life, no better than one of those plague zombies you commanded? Or were you forced to do it? Did a former master lead you down that path, constantly telling you that it was the right thing to do, all the while knowing that he was driving you towards damnation?’
It was Corpulax’s turn to remain silent.
‘I know that the Consecrators still remain loyal to both the Lion and the Golden Throne so you cannot claim that you were led astray, that you believed you were carrying out the will of your master, blind to the truth.’ Azrael moved closer to Corpulax and knelt down so that he could look him in the eyes. ‘You turned to the Plague God for entirely selfish reasons, be it self-advancement or self-preservation. Those brothers of the Dark Angels Legion who betrayed us during the Great Heresy did so because of Luther. Some turned out of loyalty to him, others because they were told that it was the will of the Lion, Luther acting as his hand on Caliban while the primarch put down Horus’s rebellion.’
Azrael got to his feet. ‘Either way, Luther was the catalyst. Without him none of them would have fallen.’ He walked away from the kneeling traitor. Asmodai and Gabriel followed him, leaving Balthasar as a lone sentinel over the prisoner.
‘Though they fell, they were pushed and still have the chance to rise again in death, to denounce their dark masters and recognise the folly of treachery. You were not pushed, Corpulax, you jumped into the arms of your new god, and for that we do not grant you the honour of considering you among the Fallen.’