Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  warhammer 40,000

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

  One

  HADRIA PRAETORIS

  Veteran Reborn

  How did the Lion die?

  It was a simple question, innocently asked, and Brother Annael had wondered why, in over four hundred years of service to the Dark Angels Chapter, it had not occurred to him before. It was the question that had propelled him from an assault squad in the Fifth Company to the ranks of the Second Company, the lauded Ravenwing, and that was when he had found out the truth.

  Horus, arch-traitor, thrice-cursed, had murdered the primarch of the Dark Angels.

  So he had been told by Brother Malcifer, Chaplain of the Ravenwing, when Annael had been inducted into the lore of the Second Company. Annael had understood immediately why such knowledge was so closely guarded; that the Dark Angels had been brought to the brink of destruction by other Space Marines had been a testing revelation.

  He had known that there were always the weak-willed, even amongst the Adeptus Astartes, who put themselves and their ambition above the call of duty and their oaths of dedication to the Emperor. He had fought against such heretics on eight different occasions, bringing the justice of death to them with chainsword and bolt pistol, but had never suspected the full horror of the temptations that draw good warriors away from the service of the Emperor.

  Weeping, Annael had listened as Malcifer had related the tale of the Horus Heresy, a cataclysmic civil war that had threatened to destroy the Imperium at its birth. The Dark Angels, the First Legion, greatest of the Emperor’s warriors, had fought against the evil of Horus and those primarchs who had been corrupted by his silken-tongued promises, and they had triumphed. The victory had been won at great cost, and Lion El’Jonson, the primarch of the Dark Angels had given his life to defeat the enemy.

  Now that he was a member of the Ravenwing, it was Annael’s duty to hold to that knowledge and keep it as a sacred fire in his heart to lend strength to his sword arm and to fuel his courage in battle. Armed with such understanding, it was the Ravenwing that sought out those traitors who had turned on the Emperor, so that they might be brought to account for their sins. As a Space Marine of the Dark Angels, Annael had never lacked conviction, honour or valour, but as a chosen warrior of the Ravenwing he now understood the importance of discretion and brotherhood even more sharply.

  As the attack sirens sounded again across the strike cruiser Implacable Justice, Annael considered the sacrifice of the Lion and knew that he was willing to make the same sacrifice to protect the Chapter and the Emperor’s dominion. His existence was not for a normal life, but to be an instrument of the Dark Angels’ vengeance against those who had so wronged them.

  While he pondered his change of perspective, Annael continued with his pre-battle preparations. He had already donned his armour, allowing the adepts of the Techmarines to perform their consecrations to the Machine-God before attending to his mount.

  That machine, called Black Shadow, was as much a symbol of his position in the Ravenwing as the emblem on his knee and the markings on his shoulder pad. In the Scout Company he had been taught to honour his weapons and his armour, and they had served him well for four centuries of battle. Now that same honour extended to his steed, and Annael was attentive in his application of the unguents to the engine and suspension, and conscientious as he spoke the dedications to the spirit of the motorbike.

  It was a fine mount, and it had a history no less acclaimed than his own. In the yellow light of the boarding bay’s lamps the black enamelled fairing gleamed with polish that he had applied himself only an hour before. A serf of the armoury was checking the belt feeds of the twin bolters housed in the front cowling above the handlebars, muttering invocations that would ward away jams and misfires.

  ‘Are you excited, brother?’ Still with a hint of his Lauderian accent, Zarall’s deep voice was unmistakable. Annael looked around and saw his squadron-brother standing at the back of Black Shadow, his helm in one hand so that his features could be seen. Zarall had a broad chin and rounded cheeks, a flat nose and bright, blue eyes, and his head was topped with white hair cropped almost to the scalp. His black armour was festooned with purity and devotional seals – strips of parchment on which were written the sacred oaths and texts of the Chapter, fastened with red wax. There were twenty-eight in all, each awarded by the Grand Master of Chaplains, Sapphon, for heroic deeds and clarity of faith; Annael had six and was one hundred and fifty years Zarall’s senior.

  ‘I am always excited by the prospect of purposeful endeavour,’ replied Annael, standing up. Zarall raised his eyebrows doubtfully and Annael relented in his attempt at nonchalance. ‘All right, I feel as I did the first time I dropped as a full battle-brother. It is as if the last four hundred years had never happened.’

  ‘You have a fine steed and attend well to its requirements, there is no need for apprehension,’ said Zarall.

  ‘I did not say that I was apprehensive,’ replied Annael. He patted the saddle of Black Shadow. ‘I said I was excited. I am accustomed to the drills and procedures of the squadron. I have no doubt that I will acquit myself with honour and courage.’

  ‘Yes, but you are to be blessed on your first drop with us,’ said Zarall. ‘Grand Master Sammael himself will lead the attack. Be sure that his eye will fall upon the deeds of his newest recruit.’

  ‘And his eye will see only that which pleases him,’ Annael assured the other Space Marine. ‘Did Sergeant Cassiel ask you to ensure I was aware of the importance of my inaugural performance?’

  ‘Not at all, brother,’ said Zarall. The Space Marine smiled, realising that his questions were intrusive. ‘I meant no disrespect. I wished to pay my regards and tell you that I am pleased to have you serve as my squadron-brother. The Emperor is equally pleased to count you amongst the First.’

  Annael grasped the hand that Zarall offered, acknowledging the apology and the praise. It was unbecoming of a Dark Angel to feel prideful, but Annael gained some satisfaction from his battle-brother’s confidence.

  ‘We shall bring honour to the squadron and the company, together,’ Annael said. Another armoured figure appeared behind Zarall. ‘Brother Araton, hav
e you word yet of when we embark?’

  ‘Sergeant Cassiel is still in briefing with the Grand Master,’ said Araton. Stepping past Zarall, Araton looked over Annael’s bike, his experienced eye taking in every detail at a glance. He was more slender of features than Zarall, his hair shoulder-length, nose regal and eyes deep blue. ‘You have yet to calibrate your sighting arrays, brother.’

  ‘I was about to attend to that,’ said Annael, opting to take Araton’s comment as observation rather than criticism.

  He swung a leg over the saddle of Black Shadow and powered up the control panel set underneath the twin bolters. The screen flickered into life with a green light, showing a selection of scanning options. With a sub-vocal command Annael brought up the sighting display inside the lens of his right eye and activated the link between his armour and the machine. After a brief burst of static, the data from the bike’s array transferred into his autosenses, half of Annael’s view becoming a schematic of the mustering bay, the other members of the squad and their bikes highlighted by glowing red runes.

  Annael deactivated the link and stepped off the bike, returning his attention to his companions. Brother Sabrael had joined the group, the white of a freshly painted chevron bright on his right greave amongst several other battle honours. Annael had heard at length from Sabrael how the honour had been earned against the orks of Pahysis; several times, in fact.

  ‘Be sure to keep up when we attack, brother,’ said Sabrael, the hint of a laugh in his voice. His aristocratic tone had become familiar to Annael during his induction into the company, a remnant of the Dark Angel’s upbringing in the privileged classes of Aginor Sigma. How the son of a coddled elite had managed to pass the harsh initiation tests of the Chapter was a mystery to Annael, but Sabrael had proven himself a capable, if impetuous, warrior over decades of battle, his name frequently appearing in the Honoris Registarum. ‘And try not to fall off that fine machine.’

  ‘I will take especial care,’ replied Annael, wondering when the novelty of his induction would cease to provide amusement for his squadron-brethren. ‘When you dash into more trouble than you can handle, be sure that I will not be far behind to drag you out.’

  Sabrael laughed and walked away to his own machine, his armour managing to replicate the slight swagger in his step.

  ‘Forgive Sabrael’s exuberance,’ said Zarall. ‘He is a good warrior, despite the constant vexation he causes the Chaplains.’

  ‘Do not be too swift to follow his example,’ said Araton. ‘We fight as a squadron. The line between enthusiasm and foolhardiness can be crossed all too easily.’

  ‘I can hear you over the vox-net, brothers,’ Sabrael’s response came to Annael’s ear via his helmet communicator. ‘I know well the time for action and the time for contemplation, in right proportion.’

  Annael was about to reply when Sergeant Cassiel’s voice broke over the comm.

  ‘Embarkation in ten minutes, stand by your mounts. Final briefing in five minutes. Be glad, for Grand Master Sammael has found us a worthy target of attention. There will be honour aplenty to spare for all of us.’

  Zarall and Araton departed to their machines, leaving Annael to complete his pre-battle checks. Mounting Black Shadow he ran a series of diagnostic tests on the bike’s systems and all seemed to be functioning within tolerable parameters. He made a vocal note in his battle log to commend the Techmarines of the armoury on their diligence in preparing the machine for its new rider.

  When he was ready, Annael thumbed the ignition rune and the engine of his mount growled into life. Black Shadow came alive beneath him, trembling with suppressed power. Gunning the engine, he monitored the performance display in front of him and was satisfied that all was in working order. In time, he had been told by Cassiel, he would know by sound and feel whether all was well with his steed, but for the moment he relied upon the internal systems to warn him of any cause for concern.

  Engaging the gearbox, Annael allowed Black Shadow to roll forward a short distance, thick tyres gripping the meshwork of the deck, blue-grey smoke chugging from the exhausts. He wheeled the bike around and saw that the other squadron members were lining up by the gateway to the docking hangar.

  The attack siren sounded three times: five minutes until the drop would begin. Easing into his place at the back of the squadron, Annael felt his excitement rising again. Inside his helm, he grinned, amused at himself for feeling like a neophyte at his first battle.

  Muster

  Accompanied by the calm voice of Grand Master Sammael instructing his warriors, the rising and falling attack siren filled the decks of the Dark Angels’ strike cruiser Implacable Justice. All across the two and a half kilometres-long ship motors were growling into life and anti-grav engines whined. Hydraulics wheezed so that immense pistons moved Dark Talon and Nephilim fighters from their transport berths into the launch hangars that took up the majority of the ship’s bulk. The clank of chains and thump of pneumatics moved cascades of specially-constructed drop pods into position above yawning bay doors.

  Exhaust smoke billowed along wide corridors and across the metal aprons of the mustering halls; the clouds sucked away through atmosphere processors that would reclaim trace elements of minerals before the raw gases were shunted back into the air refinery plant and moisture extracted to keep alive those aboard the spaceship. Built to patrol for decades at a time, the Implacable Justice wasted nothing.

  The growl of engines became deafening as ten bike squadrons assembled, their high-density tyres leaving marks on the ferrocrete-lined passageways. Black as night were these machines, and black as night were the warriors that rode them, clad in armour of thick, rounded plates. Such was the nature of the Space Marines’ power armour that they seemed as much machine as the heavy motorbikes on which they rode; half-mechanical, half-living avatars of the Emperor’s vengeance.

  Each rider bore the markings of his Chapter: a white-winged sword upon his left shoulder guard, squadron markings and rank identifiers on the right. Each machine was marked with the symbol of the company upon its armoured flanks and wheel guards. Some bikes bore devotional scripts painted by the riders. Others were decorated with intricately painted wings and feathers in white. Each bike bore a name, an honorific given to the machine by the armourium when it was built. The riders knew the names and deeds of their mounts as well as they knew their brothers, though the secret of the name was shared only by the rider and the Master of the Forge.

  In the launch bays, Land Speeders glided into position to be locked into their drop-shields, the crews and machines encased in slabs of reinforced ceramite and plasteel. Warning lights flashed red as the drop-bay doors opened, the air within the launch chambers expanding into the vacuum as pale gusts of vapour and glittering ice.

  Every warrior was filled with purpose and the comm-net was quiet of chatter as Sammael steered his mount into the fuselage of a waiting Thunderhawk gunship. A relic of the ancient past, Corvex was a larger, more heavily armed and armoured cousin to the bikes ridden by the rest of the company, suspended a few feet from the ground by powerful anti-grav engines, the workings of which had defied replication by the Chapter’s Techmarines. Upon the front fairing, above the polished white rendering of a great eagle with wings unfurled, was bound the Liber Corvus, the pages of which were inked the names of all the Ravenwing who had died on the hunt. Corvex’s power plant growled quietly as the jetbike slipped forward, energy pulsing through armoured cabling to the plasma cannon and storm bolters mounted under the cowling.

  Unlike the other machines of the Ravenwing, Corvex’s name was well-known to all, its history entwined with the myths of the many Masters of the Ravenwing that had come before. It was this lineage, this legend, that Sammael now continued.

  Sammael was garbed in the black armour of his company, adorned with personal heraldry in red and white, inscribed with litanies of remembrance and devotion. Over this he wore the white ro
bes of a veteran of the Deathwing, for no Dark Angel could become a company Grand Master without first passing through the ranks of the First Company. Gilded skulls and scrolled honours upon his ebon plate stood testament to centuries of battle and victories. From his backpack flowed his adamantine mantle, the white cloak woven with fibres taken from the cloak of the Lion himself.

  Within the transport compartment of the drop-ship his command officers waited for him on their bikes: the company Chaplain, Brother Malcifer; Brother Gideon the Apothecary; the honour guards Athelman and Daedis; and with them in the blue armour of the Librarium sat Epistolary Harahel. The command squad raised fists to welcome their leader. The ramp closed behind him, sealing them into the ruddily-lit belly of the Thunderhawk.

  Acknowledging their salutes of fealty, Sammael killed the engine of the Corvex so that the machine drifted gently down to the deck. Locking bolts rose up in response to its weight on the floor, fastening the jetbike with padded grips, embracing it as tightly as a lover. Dismounting, Sammael activated his vox-caster and switched to fleet address so that his words would be heard by all aboard the Implacable Justice and the companion strike cruiser Penitent Warrior.

  ‘Warriors of the Ravenwing, honoured brethren of the Fifth Company, we stand upon the brink of battle. All here have proven their worth to the Emperor time and time again, and it falls to us to honour oaths once more. On the world below us, vile rebellion has slithered like a serpent into the hearts of men who once dedicated their lives to the Emperor. This snake has bitten hard and its venom flows deep, so that only the most bloody excision of the wound will rid the populace of its fatal taint.

  ‘We each know our measure and we acknowledge the duty expected of us. We are the Dark Angels, the First, who carry the pride of the Emperor upon our shoulders. In wars uncountable we have prevailed against the heretic, the alien and the mutant, and today shall be no different. Justice demands that we seek reparation for the wrongs done to the servants of the Emperor on this world. Let us be about our purpose with bold hearts and faith in our brothers. Look to your armour to protect you, your steeds to carry you and your weapons to honour you. Turn thoughts to those oppressed and fragile men we will rid from the tyranny of heresy, and be righteous in the knowledge that we do the Emperor’s bidding. Only in death does duty end. Only in death can justice be earned.’