by C Z Dunn
‘Arion, it’s down to you now.’ Master Balthasar was using the general vox-channel. ‘Squad Raphael, concentrate your fire on the Crimson Slaughter. Turmiel, focus your efforts on the one in the blue cloak but be ready for new orders.’
‘What about the Helbrute?’ I ask, pulling back on the bike’s throttle and preparing to release the brakes.
‘The Helbrute’s mine.’
Both bolters blazing I emerge from the treeline at the same instant as Master Balthasar. Although occupied by Squad Raphael’s covering fire, one of the Crimson Slaughter recognises the potential threat I pose and opens fire on me. Two shells embed themselves in my already damaged rear tyre but it once again holds and when I aim the bike’s weapons at him, two of my bolter rounds find their mark in his thigh.
In the centre of the clearing, Master Balthasar and the Helbrute are stalking each other like gladiators in an arena; the Company Master pacing back and forth, looking for an opening, while the Helbrute rotates its torso back and forth, keeping the Dark Angel within the sights of its multi-melta.
Approaching the fallen homer, I drop down a gear and release my grip on the handlebars. The change in the pitch of the engine roar distracts the Helbrute and Master Balthasar sees his opening. With the Chaos fiend trying to locate the source of the new sound the Company Master swings about, allowing the combi-plasma gun slung at his back to whip around. In the same motion he grips the handle and squeezes the firing stud, directing a jet of plasma at the Helbrute. The superheated hydrogen makes contact with the left side of the monstrosity’s face and, as a reflex action, it screams and fires the multi-melta at the space where only milliseconds before the Company Master was standing. Still continuing the same motion, Master Balthasar is out of the blast zone by the time the shot is clear of the weapon’s barrels and instead of vaporising him, the Helbrute’s attempt instead gouges a crater into the clearing. Momentum still driving him on, Master Balthasar hits the ground and rolls, extinguishing the fire started in his robes by proximity to the heat of the blast.
Thrashing and bucking wildly, the wounded Helbrute goes into a frenzy, crashing this way and that. I duck under its flailing power claw but the cultist taking aim at me with his autogun isn’t as quick and is eviscerated as the war machine stumbles blindly into the undergrowth.
With the homer in reach, I lean down to grab it with both hands and steer the bike with my knees, avoiding yet more bolter fire aimed in my direction as I speed away with my prize.
Resetting the device, I start to punch in the digits of the activation code but before I can complete the sequence, a red figure in a blue cloak jumps out in front of me, the power sword in his hand coruscating with a nimbus of blue energy. Instinctively I dip my head in anticipation of a decapitating sweep but it does not come. Instead, as my bike speeds past the red warrior, he thrusts the sword into my compromised rear tyre, the energised blade passing through toughened rubber like a fin through water.
Without my hands on the handlebars, I lose control of the bike and it flips on its back wheel, throwing me at speed from the saddle and launching me crashing into a tree which cracks upon the force of impact. Despite curling myself into a ball at the last moment, the breath is driven from my body and a dozen bones break. My enhanced biology kicks in and pain suppressants flood my nervous system while bones instantly begin to fuse themselves and wounds clot.
As I lie here, helpless until my Space Marine physiology repairs my damaged body, a shadow falls across me and I look up to see the blue-robed figure.
‘I somehow don’t think your Deathwing are going to make it down to reinforce you,’ he sneers.
I expected his voice to be amplified by his helmet but it is only towards the end of the sentence that I realise it is the face that adorns his chestplate that is speaking, rather than him.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ I say, grimacing through the pain. I unfurl myself to reveal the teleport homer I had so carefully protected during the impact. ‘I think they’ll be here any moment.’
I press the activation switch just before my world goes black.
Sergeant Barachiel,
Deathwing
‘I tire of waiting, Sergeant Barachiel. We should be down there already engaging the traitors.’
Dardariel’s amplified voice echoes through the vast teleportarium chamber. He checks the ammo feed on his assault cannon for the eighth time in the last five minutes and continues pacing, each step heralded by a loud clang as Terminator armour makes contact with adamantium bulkhead.
‘That is not your decision to make, brother. Master Balthasar is in charge of this mission and if he has deemed that we are to be kept in reserve then we respect and honour his decision,’ I reply.
Though Dardariel’s words smack of insubordination, his tone does not, merely a keenness to be in the midst of the battle he knows is raging on Bane’s Landing down below.
‘But his decisions have delayed us reaching here until now. Had he not had us chasing shadows then the Crimson Slaughter would have already been eradicated, their crimes against the Imperium punished.’ It is Mendrion who speaks now, the remnants of his home world accent adding a buzzing quality to his voice.
In most other Space Marine Chapters – in every other company of the Dark Angels, if truth be told – this kind of discussion would be discouraged, possibly punished. As warriors of the Deathwing, the Dark Angels legendary First Company, we are honed to be the warrior elite and entrusted with the darkest secrets of our Chapter. Any one of us could be the next to be called upon to take on the mantle of Company Master and this elevated position grants us leeway to be frank and forthright in matters of strategy and tactics.
‘Chasing shadows? You call the annihilation of a dark eldar fleet and the destruction of a space hulk “chasing shadows”?’
‘But they weren’t the primary objective of the mission. Instead of pursuing targets of opportunity we should have been pursuing the Traitor Astartes,’ says Varhmiel. A long-serving member of the Ravenwing, his ascension to the First Company occurred only recently and his hunter’s instinct still overrode all other considerations.
There was an element of truth in their words. The operation to wipe out the eldar pirates had taken weeks and in that time the Crimson Slaughter had razed yet another world and put valuable distance between us and them. Though most of the battles had been ship-to-ship, the Sword of Caliban engaging the xenos vessels in deep space away from human worlds, Master Balthasar had ordered my squad to teleport aboard the enemy flagship once the rest of the fleet had been vanquished.
Fighting our way through corridors choked by the bodies of the dead and dying, we reached the bridge where I personally executed the pirate leader. His jet-black helm now sits on a shelf in my quarters as a trophy. By allowing my squad to finish the mission in this manner he had granted us the action we so desperately needed after months of just missing the Crimson Slaughter. No Dark Angels had been lost during the battle and a score of human worlds were now free from the threat of marauding xenos.
When the space hulk Torva Anser began to register on our long-range auspex, Master Balthasar could have simply ignored it and continued our pursuit of the Crimson Slaughter but as it drifted ever closer and began registering life signs, he ordered Squads Raphael and Barachiel to the Thunderhawks.
Once aboard, the sources of the life signs revealed themselves as a genestealer colony. For hours we culled them, both squads moving from deck to deck, exterminating the xenos wherever we found them. Satisfied that the genestealers were the only presence on board, Master Balthasar ordered us back to the Sword of Caliban where the strike cruiser’s bombardment cannon made short work of the space hulk. Once again, our need for battle was quenched and the worlds we had only weeks before freed from the yoke of xenos tyranny would not have to face the threat of a full-blown genestealer infestation.
‘So you cannot see Master
Balthasar’s reasoning for either engagement?’ The question is a general one, aimed at every member of the Terminator squad. There is a pause before the final member of the squad, Narcariel, answers.
‘The Fallen.’ His deep baritone resonates through the teleportarium chamber. Mendrion, Varhmiel and Dardariel all turn their helmeted heads to face their battle-brother. ‘The reports from the human worlds who’d suffered attacks from the pirates said they were led by a black-armoured figure. Although all signs pointed to the marauders being xenos, without any surviving witnesses we couldn’t be certain. That’s why he had us teleport aboard; it wasn’t just to give us a taste of action but to get visual confirmation that the eldar weren’t led by one of our corrupted ancestors.’
‘But what about the space hulk?’ Dardariel ventures.
‘Did you know what awaited us before you stepped off the Thunderhawk, Dardariel?’ Varhmiel counters, getting on board Narcariel’s train of thought. ‘Those life signs could have been anything. Tyranids, orks, Traitor Astartes... Master Balthasar wasn’t merely wasting time or attempting to keep us combat-ready, he was being thorough.’
Nods of realisation pass around the squad. A klaxon sounds and the chamber is bathed in a red glow as lights begin to flash. We take our positions in the centre of the chamber, all five of us back-to-back, weapons ready and pointed outwards in anticipation of the fighting that awaits us below.
‘Not only that.’ I raise my voice to be heard over the countdown that has commenced. ‘By keeping us in reserve, Master Balthasar has retained the element of surprise. If the battle on Bane’s Landing is not going our way then we shall reverse the tide. If our brothers lie dead or dying then we shall be the instrument of retribution. Because after all, isn’t retribution the Dark Angels’ way?’
My question hangs in the air unanswered as, in the blink of an eye later, the teleportarium chamber stands empty.
Interrogator-Chaplain
Seraphicus
‘Wake up.’
The back of my gauntleted hand impacts against the flesh of the heretic’s cheek and his eye opens with a start.
‘Now, where were we?’ I expand the forceps in the wound on his shoulder. He responds with a scream and, just as it looks as if he’s going to pass out again from the pain, I slide a syringe into the side of his neck and depress the plunger.
‘What… what is he doing to me?’ His eye appears to be looking beyond me, as if there is another presence in the room.
‘“He” is ensuring that you remain conscious for the next stage of the interrogation. I don’t want you passing out from the pain and I assure you, there will be plenty of pain.’
He laughs, flecking his lips with blood. ‘Pain? He thinks he knows the meaning of the word.’ Another laugh, and his eye focuses on me now. ‘Let me down from here and I’ll show you the true meaning of pain.’
He rattles the shackles binding him to the wall of the interrogation chamber. Even if he hadn’t been weakened by days of torture, the adamantium bonds would hold even the strongest Traitor Astartes, having done so quite successfully on many previous occasions.
Ignoring him, I continue my questioning.
‘Who do you keep talking to? All subcutaneous communication devices were torn from your flesh when you were brought aboard. I know this for a fact as I removed them myself.’ I move over to the table at the rear of the chamber and pick up a serrated blade. ‘Are you speaking to your gods? A prayer before dying?’
Blade in hand, I slowly approach the prisoner, fixing him with my gaze. He says nothing, but returns my stare.
‘For the last time, who do you keep speaking to?’
Several seconds pass in silence before I ram the serrated blade into the base of his ribcage and drive it upwards into the bottom of his multi-lung. He lets out a half-scream, half-wheeze and blood spurts from his nostrils. I am just about to drive the blade even further in when he speaks.
‘Them. I’m speaking to them.’
‘Who do you mean? Who are they?’ My grip on the knife tightens. If the next answer isn’t a straight one then I will twist the blade.
‘The Balethu. The ghosts of the Balethu,’ he says in a voice that is not his own. His body relaxes, as if unburdening himself of this information has granted him physical relief. I relinquish my grip on the blade but leave it embedded in his torso.
‘The Balethu?’ I cradle his jaw in my hand and lift his head to face me. His eyeball has rolled in its socket, leaving only bloodshot white showing. ‘Who are the Balethu?’
‘The inhabitants of a jungle world called Umidia. At least we were until the Crimson Sabres arrived and slaughtered us all like cattle. We prayed to Khor’en to make the killing end but our god revels in the shedding of blood and our calls went unheeded, or so we thought. Though our physical bodies were dead our souls lived on beyond their severing from our corporeal forms and we attached ourselves to those who had butchered us, haunting their waking moments and slowly driving them insane.’
‘So who is it who seeks the Hellfire Stone? The Balethu or the Crimson Slaughter?’
‘Both, but for different reasons.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Crimson Slaughter, gullible fools that they are, seek the stone because they believe that by activating it, they will rid themselves of our attentions.’
‘And the Balethu? Why do you seek it?’
‘To fulfil what our cults were trying to achieve on Umidia.’
‘Which was?’
‘Ah, you ask too much of us, Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphicus. Perhaps our host will yield the answers under more of your… ministrations.’ The prisoner’s eyeball rolls again to reveal his pupil and iris. I grip the hilt of the serrated knife and twist. His eye widens and he opens his mouth to scream but before he can emit any sound I clamp my vambrace between his jaws, shattering several of his teeth.
‘When I move my arm, the only sound you are going to make is to tell me why the Crimson Sabres massacred the Balethu. Do you understand?’
He nods frantically, blood and sweat streaking down his smooth pate. I slowly remove my forearm from his mouth and he spits the remnants of teeth to the floor.
‘A daemon. They were trying to summon a daemon.’
Kranon the Relentless,
Chaos Lord
You cannot win. The puppets of the Corpse-Emperor will murder you and halt your machinations. You are weak and even in death you will receive no reprieve. Our voices will haunt you beyond the grave. Our spirits will feast upon your souls.
Our victory is assured. We have the location of the Hellfire Stone and the final element we need to enact the ritual is within my grasp. Mock me all you like, because before the hour is through, the Crimson Slaughter will be free of your constant prattling.
Your arrogance will be your undoing, Sevastus. You couldn’t even prevent the Dark Angel from activating the teleport beacon and any second now their reinforcements will arrive to wipe you from the face of the Imperium.
Their reinforcements come too late. We have already killed half of their number and they do not possess the means to combat Mortis Metalikus. And do not call me Sevastus. Sevastus doesn’t exist any more. He hasn’t since… since…
Umidia.
Was that what it was called? The insignificant world where we razed your villages and put an end to your barbarous ways?
It was the world of your rebirth, Kranon the Relentless. The rebirth of both you and your Chapter. Do not forget that.
No. That was no rebirth, that was a curse. Your voices taunting us during our waking hours, your dying faces haunting us whenever we close our eyes.
We did not curse you, we set you onto your true path, the eightfold path. The killing came easily to you – you proved that on Umidia – all we did was give you the chance to give that killing a higher purpose than following the divine wi
ll of a corpse entombed within a golden throne.
It was the only way to stop the voices, stop the faces in our nightmares. To kill and kill again. Demetra was next. The genocide of an entire world, the only purpose of which was to grant us a brief respite from your constant torture. After that, I forget the names. So many worlds bathed in blood, so many planets set ablaze just so the Crimson Slaughter would be free of your attention for no matter how brief a period.
We saw, no, experienced, the way you gave yourself over to the slaughter on Umidia, the way you revelled in it. You and your Chapter were always destined to tread this path, Kranon the Relentless, we just brought you to that junction a little sooner.
Lies! We were loyal servants of the Imperium, our record was exemplary. Our name was a byword for honour and integrity and you tricked us into becoming what we are.
We do not force you to kill, we merely provide the incentive for doing so.
It amounts to the same thing. Without the killing the constant whispering in our heads would drive us mad.
You think you are sane, Kranon the Relentless? You travelled halfway across the Imperium and led your Chapter into the Eye of Terror. You slaughtered Space Marines you once regarded as allies who were preventing you from getting in, and fought alongside those you once considered enemies to get back out again. Those are not the actions of somebody sane.
It meant that the lives we took were no longer those of innocents. The dwellers within the Eye were unworthy souls but still enough to keep your voices at bay.
But it changed you and your Chapter. The gifts of the gods were offered to you and you accepted them with open arms. You became stronger, more powerful, as did the Crimson Slaughter along with you.
It made the killing easier.
Easier how? Did the gifts enable you to become more effective in the art of murder, or did they assuage your guilt at exchanging those souls for a few moments’ peace inside your own head?