by Gav Thorpe
Sammael gestured for Malcifer to interrupt the log, disturbed by the dead Chaplain’s message. For many decades he had hunted the Fallen, following every clue and trail that might lead him and the Chapter to the capture of one of the Dark Angels that had turned on their primarch ten thousand years before. It was a heinous burden, to know of the Chapter’s shame and the true reasons for it, but all of those granted access to those secrets were chosen for their strength of will and dedication to the Dark Angels. The Interrogator-Chaplains were integral to the hunt and the strongest-willed of the Chapter, save perhaps for the Supreme Grand Master himself. To hear Boreas speak from beyond the grave, to listen to a testimony that threatened to cast doubt on the teachings of the Chapter shook Sammael in a way that no physical foe could.
‘I do not think this is the time or the place,’ he said. ‘If what we hear is true, we must wait for the rest of the Chapter before continuing. What we have heard hints at a heresy deeper than anything we have witnessed before.’
‘You think that Brother Boreas has turned against us?’ Malcifer shook his head. ‘Then you hear different words to I, brother. This is not a confession, it is a warning. If we are to know what has destroyed our brothers we must listen to the rest of the testimony.’
Deep inside, Sammael knew that he did not want to hear anything further. Talk of errors repeated set in motion a chain of thoughts that led to a devastating conclusion. Had Boreas discovered something within the Dark Angels that meant another schism would divide them? When even a Chaplain’s integrity was in doubt, was it wise for his words to be heard by Malcifer and Harahel? Sammael wondered even if it was wise for him to hear them. Words carried ideas, and ideas could sow doubt; doubt that had evidently caused the garrison of Piscina to turn upon each other.
Unseen by the other two, he closed his eyes, trying to accept what Malcifer had said. Reluctantly, he motioned for Malcifer to continue the playback.
‘I ask myself what it means to be one of the Dark Angels. Is it to hunt the Fallen, chasing shadows through the dark places of the galaxy? Is it to pursue our quest at any expense, forgoing all other oaths and duties? Is it to lie, to hide and to plot so that others will never know of our shame? Is it to keep our own brethren unacquainted with the truth of our past, the legacy we all share in? Or is it to be a Space Marine? Is it to follow the path laid down by the Emperor and Lion El’Jonson at the founding of this great Imperium of man? To protect mankind, to purge the alien, cleanse the unclean?’
Sammael’s misgivings gave way to a simmering resentment, to hear his calling disparaged by one who had been a brother. That Boreas had not considered the Fallen a blight upon the galaxy was fast becoming clear. Somehow their corruption had passed to the Chaplain, twisting his view of the Dark Angels. To throw back solemnly held oaths spoke of a mind wandering in dark places.
The forlorn sight of the dead Space Marines upstairs had stirred sorrow, but listening to Boreas’s testimony turned that to anger; anger that the Chaplain had failed those who had looked to him for leadership; failed them to the extent that his lies had led them to kill themselves. The log continued, but Sammael barely registered the words, his attention caught by the intensity of the dead Chaplains voice, bordering on manic. The clash between Boreas’s words and the crimes he had perpetrated against his brothers told a tale of deep hypocrisy.
‘We must act as a shining brand in the night, to lead the way for others to follow. We are the warriors of the Emperor, guardians of mankind. Roboute Guilliman called us bright stars in the firmament of battle, untouched by self-aggrandisement. Yet we, the Dark Angels, commit the supreme sin. We put ourselves before our duty. We have buried our traditions, masked our real history in legend and mysticism to confound others. We are not bright stars, we are an empty blackness, a passing shadow that serves nothing but its own purpose.’
When the recording continued, Sammael detected weari-
ness. The words came slowly again, softly spoken. The tone was one of utter resignation, evidence that Boreas had strayed from the path of a Dark Angel. No true warrior who knew of the sacrifice of the Lion would weary of the task of hunting down those who had betrayed the primarch. Of the many sins it seemed the Chaplain had committed it was this lack of fortitude that condemned him the most in Sammael’s eyes. A Space Marine of more fortitude would have overcome moments of doubt and remained strong to the beliefs of the Chapter.
‘Included in this log is a complete account of the disaster that has befallen Piscina and us.’ The three Dark Angels exchanged glances and Malcifer bent to the runepad, tapping the keys swiftly as he searched for the report. ‘For this I take sole responsibility. Our enemies know us too well. We have become anathema to ourselves, as this plot of the Fallen demonstrates. Everything that has transpired has led us to this place and time, and there is nothing left to do what we must. Ten thousand years ago our soul was split. We tell ourselves that the two halves of us are the light and dark. I have learnt a bitter lesson, that it is not true. It is a comforting lie, which keeps us safe from doubt, so that we do not ask questions whose answers we fear. There is no light and dark, only the shades of twilight in between.’
Sammael had heard enough and was eager to find out what the accompanying log entry contained, but Boreas’s message continued.
‘If once there was a chance to redeem ourselves, it passed away ten thousand years ago. For a hundred centuries it has driven us, and consumed us at the same time. Not while one Fallen stays alive can we know peace within ourselves.’
The words sounded all too familiar, the reasons that drove him and brought him purpose as Grand Master of the Ravenwing, but to hear them spoken by Boreas they sounded like a curse. The Chaplain’s tone grew stronger again, more fervent, almost desperate if such a thing was possible for a Dark Angel.
‘But what then? If not, there will never be salvation, and all that we aspire to will come to nothing, all that we have achieved will be in vain. I beseech you not to allow this to happen. We are to make the ultimate sacrifice for the people of Piscina, and to safeguard our future. Do not make the deaths of my Brethren be for nothing.’
The log hissed and then the chamber fell into silence. Sammael flexed his fingers in agitation, but Boreas was not done. The recording started again, the Chaplain’s voice not much louder than a whisper, the last words sounding as if spoken through gritted teeth.
‘I have one more message to deliver. Walk that dark road through the rooms of the interrogators, past the catacombs into the deepest chambers. Go to that solitary cell at the heart of the Rock and tell him this: you were not wrong.’
The log finally finished with a short high-pitched tone. Sammael exhaled sharply, having not realised he had been holding his breath, the tension in him building towards the Chaplain’s final words. He looked at Harahel and saw the Librarian’s gaze was on the floor, hands clasped at his waist as he contemplated the contents of Boreas’s speech.
‘Do not spend too long pondering the words of a heretic,’ warned Sammael. ‘It is folly to welcome their lies into your thoughts.’
‘Yet that is what the Interrogator-Chaplains must do,’ Malcifer said quietly, ‘each and every time they bring one of the Fallen to repentance. It seems to me that Boreas was wounded in soul long before coming to Piscina.’
‘What did he mean? About a solitary cell?’ asked Harahel. ‘Who was not wrong?’
Sammael looked at Malcifer, who had straightened at the question. The Chaplain glanced at the Grand Master, shook his head slightly and returned to his work at the terminal, leaving Sammael to deal with the question. It was not for the Grand Master of the Ravenwing to divulge the greatest secrets of the Dark Angels to an Epistolary – such matters could only be dealt with by one, the Supreme Grand Master or the Master of Sanctity. If there was one piece of knowledge that could destroy all faith in the Chapter it was this and he could not even bring himself to think of it.
> ‘One of the Fallen Boreas interrogated, most likely,’ Sammael lied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I doubt it is of significance.’
Fortunately Harahel’s next question was cut off by an urgent communication across the company channel.
‘This is Sergeant Cassiel. We have a potential threat developing.’
Heresy Begets Retribution
For several minutes, the scanner readings had been changing. The mass of life signals within the buildings surrounding the park was dispersing. Annael could see the citizens of Kadillus hurrying out onto the roads, moving further into the city, some of them leading and carrying children, others with armfuls of clothes and other belongings.
‘What is the significance of this?’ asked Araton. ‘What has put them to flight?’
Though the exodus had cleared out many of the augur returns, there were still several dozen heat signals registering in the tenements overlooking the squadron’s position. It was a situation Annael had not encountered before and it made him uneasy as he looked at the buildings with magnified autosenses. There were people at the windows, far fewer than before, moving from floor to floor and room to room. On the roofs of several of the buildings he saw the glint of the sun on lenses.
‘We’re under magnocular observation, sergeant,’ he said quietly, running through another targeter calibration on his guns.
‘Confirmed, brothers,’ said Araton. ‘Four separate observers. Civilian clothing.’
‘What are they watching for?’ asked Sabrael.
‘Report.’ Sammael’s command cut through the squadron’s observations. Cassiel relayed a brief description of what was occurring but offered no conclusion.
‘Stay alert,’ the Grand Master instructed them. ‘Thunder-
hawk overflight incoming to appraise the situation.’
‘I think I see a heavy weapon,’ said Zarall. ‘Sector two, third storey, left corner window.’
Annael saw movement to the north, where Zarall indicated. He edged his bike forward, turning the bolters towards the possible threat. There were two men at the window, holding something bulky between them.
‘Missile launcher!’ snapped Cassiel. ‘Evasive action!’
Engines screamed as the squadron burst forwards. A projectile blurred from the window leaving a faint trail of vapour, the missile arcing down towards the position the Dark Angels had occupied a moment before. The explosion sent a shower of dirt high into the air, the noise of the detonation drowned out by the bark of bolters as the squadron returned fire. The ferrocrete wall around the window exploded into fragments and dust and Annael saw the two men cut to pieces by bolt impacts, tumbling out of view.
Accelerating to full combat speed, the squadron changed course, following Cassiel as he swerved left. The red beam of a lascannon seared overhead, missing by several metres. Annael’s autosenses picked up the zip and crack of smaller las-weapons as more fire erupted from the tenements. The distinctive whine of falling mortar shells caused the squadron to turn again, zigzagging towards the scorched, body-littered hill at the centre of the park. Three bombs landed a dozen metres behind the swiftly-moving bikes.
‘Under sporadic fire from armed civilians,’ Cassiel barked over the vox. ‘Fifty-plus targets surrounding us in dominant position. Returning fire.’
There was little the bikers could do as the insurgents popped out of hiding, loosed off a few wild shots and then disappeared into cover once more. The tenement walls absorbed the fire of the bolters, and the enemy were scattered across several buildings, giving no single target onto which the squadron could concentrate their fire. Along with the others, Annael fired off short bursts where his thermal imaging indicated attackers moving towards the windows, able to cut down three of them as they came into view.
‘Why are they shooting at us?’ demanded Sabrael. ‘What is happening here?’
A las-bolt struck the cowling on the front of Zarall’s bike, sending up a puff of paint and ceramite dust. The rattle of autogun fire heralded a hail from a second-storey balcony to the squadron’s left. This was not the sort of battle the bikes of the Ravenwing were prepared for. The open space of the park gave them plenty of room to manoeuvre and the enemy fire was inaccurate, but the Dark Angels could not afford to linger in one place to unleash a full fusillade at their foes.
‘The canker of heresy sets grip on Piscina,’ said Zarall. His bike’s gun unleashed a blast into the lower floor of one of the buildings, the thumb-sized bolts leaving brief streaks of yellow in Annael’s thermal display, punching a hole through the ferrocrete to tear into a knot of attackers hiding within. ‘Fortunate it is that we are here to purge the taint from a world we thought loyal to the Chapter.’
‘As you say, brother,’ replied Sabrael. ‘Such ingratitude seeks a reckoning.’
‘Keep moving,’ said Cassiel as more mortar bombs detonated several metres to the right of the squadron. ‘Fire at any presented targets.’
An explosion tore through the upper floor of a tenement directly ahead of Annael as he swerved his bike to the left, away from the mortar impacts. The roar of plasma jets accompanied the Thunderhawk as it launched another salvo of missiles from its stubby wings, obliterating the entire top storey of the building. Chunks of ferrocrete, glass and mangled bodies spilled down onto the street bordering the park to the east. Several fires started, smoke and dust billowing up on the thermals to join the cloud that already swathed much of Kadillus.
‘They are withdrawing,’ announced Araton. Annael glanced at his sensor display and saw that the registers were moving away. Looking up he could see nothing on the streets though.
‘Where have they gone?’ Annael said, turning his bike about so he could check the buildings to the west. The roads were likewise empty in that direction too.
‘Sub-levels, basements, sewers perhaps,’ said Cassiel. ‘West. Rendezvous with the rest of the company. We cannot do anything meaningful here.’
The Thunderhawk’s battle cannon sent shells into the buildings to the north as it came to a hover over the park. The downwash of its jets caused temperature warning symbols to blink into life across Annael’s display as the squadron raced beneath the gunship, a pall of dirt and dust kicked up from bikes and the Thunderhawk.
‘Request orders,’ barked Cassiel as the Dark Angels raced onto a winding track between rows of blossoming trees. Scatters of white and pink filled the air as they roared west across the park.
‘Establish safe cordon to the south gate,’ came Sammael’s reply a few seconds later. ‘Prepare to extract from the city.’
‘Are we leaving already?’ said Sabrael, obviously disappointed. ‘We just withdraw?’
‘We have our orders, brother,’ replied Cassiel.
Zarall was in the lead now. He slowed as they reached the boundary fence, crashing his bike through a wide gate leading to the main road. Land Speeders whirred overhead, towards the attack, their assault cannons, missile pods and heavy bolters sending a storm of fire into the tenement buildings, though there were few targets left inside them.
Hitting the ferrocrete of the road, the squadron turned south, towards the Chapter Keep. Annael glanced back across the park, his senses alight with adrenaline. One of the tenements was slowly collapsing under the bombardment of the Thunderhawk, the others were half-ruined, their facades shredded by fire from the converging Land Speeders.
Slowing his bike as Cassiel brought the squadron to a halt, Annael checked his armour and bike for damage. There were some superficial marks and scattered cracks in the fairing of Black Shadow but all of his mount’s systems were working well. His armour was equally intact and he took a deep breath, shaking his head, still confused as to why the people of Piscina had turned on the Dark Angels.
The Trail of the Fallen
In the bowels of the Chapter Keep the only evidence of the conflagration of fury unleashed by the Dark Angels less
than a kilometre away was an occasional tremor and the reports of the company across the comm-net. While Sammael attended to the tactical needs of his warriors, Malcifer had been kept busy at the data terminal, accessing the records of Chaplain Boreas.
‘We have another sensor build-up to the east, around the transit station. Large number of civilians on foot. Some sidearms and improvised weapons. Threat currently minimal. How should we proceed, Grand Master?’ Sergeant Orphaeus’s report was just the latest to suggest that there was a much wider anti-Imperial sentiment on Kadillus. The attack on Squadron Cassiel had been a spark, falling upon the tinder of resentment that had been kindled by the attack of the Fallen.
Sammael wrestled with the thought of opening fire on what, to the heavily armoured Space Marines, amounted to unarmed citizens. To strike against insurgents who had opened fire on the Dark Angels with heavy weaponry was one matter; to gun down disaffected, desperate civilians was of another order of magnitude entirely.
The damage to the reputation of the Chapter had already been inflicted but there was no point in adding fuel to the fire of rebellion. If the Ravenwing responded in force there would be a bloodbath, solidifying opposition against the Dark Angels. As the situation stood, there was a chance that a peaceful settlement could be reached when the Tower of Angels arrived. That would become impossible if the true Dark Angels slaughtered those they had been sworn to protect. Such aggression would likely turn even Colonel Brade and others trying to restore order against the Chapter, at a time when their efforts had to be focused on the resurgent ork attacks.
‘Do not engage civilians unless threat increases,’ he announced over the command channel. ‘Withdraw perimeter by five hundred metres. We will be ready to extract shortly.’