by Gav Thorpe
Images formed in his head, of towers toppled and forests razed, and innocents put to slaughter by gun and blade wielded by a monster. Annael’s hands formed fists and his body quaked as Malcifer painted the picture of calamity and shame, of the sky torn asunder by a storm of energy and the traitors plucked from the jaws of justice by the infernal powers to which they had enslaved themselves.
The renegade was a pitiful, mewling thing, concealed within the body of a magnificent warrior in shining armour. He was deceit incarnate, his serpent’s tongue spilling forth lie upon lie, claiming innocence and fraternity with those that would see him slain.
Such crimes deserved retribution. It would come, but not swiftly. The cowardly, feeble thing that had taken hold of one of the Emperor’s finest would be driven out, brought forth from the darkness by the attentions of the Interrogator-Chaplains so that the soldier of the Emperor who had been brought low could redeem himself in the eyes of his Chapter. Only repentance would bring justice. The renegade was to be captured, not slain.
Again and again Annael felt these commands pulsing through his thoughts. His hearts were racing as if in full battle, muscles corded with tension, his breath coming in long, deep draughts that brought in the taste of blood and incense. His throat burned with the taste, like ashes in his mouth, and his lungs were filled with the bitterness of shame. Only the capture of the renegade would bring release, his repentance a gale of fresh air that would cleanse the foulness of treachery that was tainting Annael’s body. To cleanse himself Annael had to cleanse the soul of his quarry. Only then would he know peace.
Slowly, as if surfacing from a long dream, Annael became aware of his surroundings again. Overhead a filtration unit buzzed into action, drawing away the fume of the incense. Malcifer paced around the Reclusiam, lighting more candles with a spark-rod, bringing a warm glow to push back the darkness that had enveloped Annael. The Space Marines looked at each other and there was a fierce light in the eyes of Annael’s brethren, matching the heat of resolve that lingered still, burning inside like an ember set into his heart.
Malcifer completed his circuit of the chamber and came back to the altar. Tattooed mail rippled as he brought his palms together, his hands at his chest. Annael copied his pose, feeling a state of calm pushing aside the anguish he had felt as his hands came together. Once more the Chaplain bowed his head, his words strong but not forced.
‘Give praise to the Emperor for the life that flows within us,’ he intoned.
‘We are his weapons,’ replied the kneeling warriors, lowering their gazes.
‘Give praise to the Lion for the purpose that drives us.’
‘We are his loyal servants.’
‘Give praise to the Chapter for nurturing the wrath within us.’
‘We are the Dark Angels.’
The Black Knights
When his first assembly had departed, Malcifer pulled off his skull mask, a puff of vapour escaping from its rebreather unit. He had a few moments before attending to his second congregation and took the opportunity to compose his thoughts with some silent contemplation. He walked around the altar and knelt down, reaching up with one hand to touch the sigil upon its surface. Feeling the cold stone beneath his fingers Malcifer closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to what it meant to bear the symbol of the Dark Angels.
For him, and the others of the Chaplaincy, to be a Dark Angel was to walk along a precipice between light and dark. It was his duty to ensure the shame of the Chapter remained a secret, even from those he led into battle, but it was also his task to oversee the wellbeing of the company’s warriors. He was the bastion against doubt that would hold against the questions his charges would ask, always ready to provide explanation to the worthy and to offer assurance to those not yet ready for the truth.
As Sammael prepared the battle plan that would see the Ravenwing and warriors of the Fifth Company victorious, Malcifer faced a labour no less daunting: to ensure the faith and resolve of the warriors was fortified, the mysteries of the Chapter upheld.
He had accepted that fate, and took honour from the fact that he had been chosen for the Chaplaincy, for there were few with the strength of mind to utter the half-truths necessitated by his calling. Even Sammael, lauded Grand Master, did not know everything that Malcifer knew. There were layers of truth even within the Inner Circle, and Malcifer was keenly aware that everything he thought was true might one day be revealed to be not quite as he believed. Revelation and acceptance were the burden of the Chaplain, and to keep apart the disparate levels of truth was a stretch on his willpower.
Boreas had been left alone for too long. The weight of the truth had broken his spirit, with no guiding hand from the Inner Circle to show him the path of righteousness. The dead Chaplain’s warning was timely, but it was not the content of Boreas’s message that held a deep truth, but the manner of its delivery. Malcifer knew there would be an inquest when he returned to the Tower of Angels and he would give voice to the opinion that members of the Inner Circle and Chaplaincy should not be allowed to remain away from their brethren for so long. The sturdiest faith could be shaken by abandonment, each passing day becoming a torture on the spirit. Boreas had been one of the most devout members of the Chapter and yet even he had been broken by solitude and the machinations of the Fallen.
That it was sometimes necessary to lie to those that trusted him was another duty of the Chaplaincy that Malcifer was willing to bear. The Space Marines who had just departed had been manipulated to believe what the Chapter required them to believe. Most of them would die, later rather than sooner he hoped, not knowing fully the treachery that had brought the Dark Angels to the brink of destruction. It was a blessing for them to be ignorant, and a mercy for their souls that Malcifer did not encumber them with the unabashed truth. Even within, if the knowledge that the Dark Angels had turned upon themselves was widely known the Chapter would be destroyed.
This way was better, he reminded himself.
He stood up as the reclusiam doors hissed open, admitting the next congregation. There were fifteen of them, the Black Knights, their ebon robes stitched with a red Chapter symbol on the right breast. Hardened warriors all, their clean-shaven faces and close-cropped hair showed the scars of battle on cheeks and scalps. Some had silver and gold service studs in their brows, marking half-centuries and centuries of war.
The small procession was led by the two Hunt-
masters, Tybalain and Charael. The left breast of their robes was embroidered with a silver hammer shaped like the head of a raven, duplicating the weapons the Black Knights wielded from their bikes. Tybalain had a scar on his right cheek, a slash of white from nose to ear, pierced with tiny dagger-shaped pins. Malcifer remembered the day an eldar power blade had cut through the Black Knight’s helm, moments before the alien had its head crushed by Tybalain’s hammer. That night, following the battle, Tybalain had replaced slain Gethion as Huntmaster. Charael was more orthodox in appearance, free of brand, scar or tattoo, though his right eye had been replaced by a plasteel and adamantium augmetic, the red lens glinting in the candlelight that bathed the reclusiam.
The two were fearsome warriors and after this campaign Malcifer expected one or both of them to be elevated to the ranks of the Deathwing. They had certainly earned the honour of such promotion and their service to the Chapter deserved reward. The Black Knights were Sammael’s elite; amongst the highly specialised Ravenwing that was a profound honour. The Huntmasters had to exemplify the tenets of the Company, both military and spiritual, and as the warriors knelt in front of the altar, Malcifer wondered which of the others would be suitable replacements for Tybalain and Charael should they be elevated.
Such concerns were for later thought and consultation with the Grand Master, for there were much more pressing matters to address. Malcifer sat between the Black Knights and the altar, facing them, the gathering more informal than the previous service. These wa
rriors were as much Malcifer’s progeny as Sammael’s, inculcated in all seven Rites of the Raven, possessors of knowledge above their brethren; though not yet made aware of the Fourth Level of Initiation. Such truths were only passed on to the Deathwing, but the Black Knights knew enough for Malcifer to be candid about the foe they hoped to face.
‘We embark on a battle to claim one of the Fallen.’ The Black Knights exchanged pleased nods and grim smiles. This was their true purpose brought to the fore. ‘We suspect that they have made lair on an ancient star fort, dubbed Port Imperial by the renegades. You will learn the battle plan from Grand Master Sammael, but it is my duty to make you aware of the possible consequences. In the close confines and hectic fighting of a boarding action you must stand ready to respond immediately if there is a possibility that one of your brethren from the Fifth Company will come into contact with the Fallen. You must ensure that all protocols and cordons are maintained, and by preference ensure that one of you or the Grand Master conducts the apprehension of the renegade.’
‘What tapestry is to be woven for the other warriors of the force?’ asked Charael.
‘Our brothers in the company are aware that we may face a traitor Space Marine at Port Imperial. I have agreed with Sergeant Seraphiel that those in the Fifth will be told that the enemy are led by an Imperial officer turned renegade. His capture is necessary to locate other forces that broke from Imperial governance with him. Standard communications protocols will apply. The target is marked as Diabolus and will be referred to as such in all broadcasts.’
‘And if there is a Fallen on this station, what of other witnesses?’ asked Tybalain.
‘Knowledge of the Fallen must be contained. All archives will be searched for data. This is a renegade base – there are no innocents,’ Malcifer replied, looking at each of the Black Knights in turn. ‘No one is to be spared.’
Three
PORT IMPERIAL
Opening Salvo
It was with relief that Sammael heard from Judoc Pichon of the arrival of the second strike cruiser. The Implacable Justice had been waiting on the edge of the system for the other ship for six days, the vessels having been separated by the tides of the warp during transit to the Polgoth system. For those six days, passive sensor readings had detected the mass of Port Imperial and three small vessels. Fortunately none of the rebels had attempted to leave the system, which would have forced Sammael into action before the arrival of the Fifth Company. Now that the Penitent Warrior had arrived, the Dark Angels could move on their target. Fortunately the two strike cruisers had translated in close proximity to each other and the star fort was only four days away at cruising speed.
Lacking any powerful scanning equipment or psykers to detect the arrival of the Dark Angels’ ships, the pirates were wholly unaware of the two strike cruisers that prowled in-system. They made swift progress, the outer reaches of Polgoth relatively free of asteroids and other stellar phenomena that would slow their progress. Forty-two standard hours after the Penitent Warrior had arrived both ships were in position to scan for the enemy.
On the command bridge of the Implacable Justice, fully clad in his armour and his warriors at their battle stations, Sammael monitored the situation with Harahel by his side. The two of them stood on the gallery overlooking the main floor of the bridge, their voices soft so that the non-augmented serfs below could not hear their conversation. On the main screen, magnification at maximum, Port Imperial was a small blur of grey and silver against the stars. Not wishing to risk discovery with aggressive scanning, the Dark Angels had not yet determined the exact nature of the base and its capabilities were as yet unknown.
This gap in his knowledge was of minor concern to Sammael, trumped as it was by the sense of satisfaction he felt at finding the star fort where he had hoped, intact and operational. To have arrived at Polgoth to find an empty system after much anticipation would have been a serious setback. Sammael felt justified in leaving battle-ridden Piscina, though he tried hard not to let optimism run wild.
‘Astelan lied in his testimony,’ said the Librarian. ‘Port Imperial was not destroyed.’
‘As we suspected,’ replied Sammael. ‘No void shields detected, which is good news. I do not think our foes have the means to maintain their base to any competent standard. Certainly they lack the means to move from the system. They are deficient of tech-adepts. One of the many disadvantages of being renegade. I am surprised they can even find this place after their raids, lacking navigators.’
‘There is a warp-beacon within the lair,’ said Harahel. ‘I could feel its signal before we translated. The navigators reported detecting several more surrounding the system out to fifty light years. The pirates’ hunting ground is small.’
‘Yet those same beacons are the bait that draws in the unwary. A lone ship, perhaps needing to re-establish its bearings, would make transition at one of the beacon sites, only to be ambushed by these pillagers.’
‘I scoured the datalogs but there is no mention of how the fort comes to be here. Do you think the Fallen were the founders or did they simply discover the turncoats’ nest?’
‘Malcifer tells me that there are no clues to the origin of this place in the transcript of Astelan’s confession, and he has read the log many times since we left Piscina. This system is almost cut off by ork encroachment that has been expanding for several hundred years. I would not be surprised to learn that the garrison turned renegade after being forgotten. These pirates are probably descendants of the crew.’
‘Or were seduced from service to the Emperor by the Fallen,’ suggested Harahel. ‘A secure base such as this would be valuable to them.’
‘Three ships poses a dilemma,’ said Sammael, deciding not to speculate further. ‘Any one of them may be carrying our quarry and if they split from each other, we can only chase two.’
‘What sort of vessels are they?’ asked the Librarian.
‘Two smaller ships, equivalent to a destroyer or rapid strike vessel in size, and what appears to be a rebel Imperial Navy frigate.’
‘Our prey will be on the largest ship,’ said Harahel. ‘The Fallen are driven by selfish needs, and to command a smaller vessel than another would be a thorn to their pride. Target the frigate first if you fear they will escape.’
‘Good advice,’ said Sammael, nodding in appreciation. He raised his voice. ‘Assign primary target to enemy frigate. Designation Mongrel. Report range, repeat on standard intervals.’
‘Four hours until optimum range, Grand Master,’ Pichon replied. ‘No enemy sensor sweeps detected.’
‘Very good, Pichon. Designate smaller vessels as Rat One and Rat Two.’
‘Designations assigned, Grand Master.’
Sammael waited, the distance-to-target reports slowly creeping down. The watch below changed over the intervening hours, though Pichon did not relinquish his command position. Just after the two hour mark. a serf appeared with a tray of food and drink for the Grand Master and his companion. The two of them withdrew to Sammael’s command chamber confident that Pichon would notify them of any urgent news.
‘First a trio of citadels and then a city, and now a star fort,’ muttered Sammael as he broke off a chunk of heavy, blackened soyslab. ‘This latest patrol has not been kind to the Ravenwing in the battlegrounds it has offered.’
‘We fight where we must, brother,’ replied Harahel.
‘True enough.’ Sammael chewed mechanically, the dark loaf of synthetic food almost tasteless. ‘At least we know that if there are the Fallen aboard Port Imperial they cannot escape.’
‘It is your hope that we follow the trail of our hated foe, brother,’ said Harahel. ‘Do you really think we may have cornered him at last?’
‘No,’ said Sammael. He wolfed down the last of his meal and pushed the silvered platter across the dull slate of the hololith projector. ‘The security here has lapsed so badly I am un
der no illusion that the arch-quarry will be found at Port Imperial. He is far too cunning to be so easily trapped.’
‘But one of his companions, perhaps?’
‘The coordinates appended to Boreas’s log have proven correct and Astelan admitted the Fallen frequented this place, even if he tried to mislead us about its destruction. I am confident.’
Sammael looked at Harahel, who returned his gaze with an intent stare.
‘This is what we do, brother, the long hunt,’ said Harahel. ‘I share your confidence. The Fallen have been here and we take another step closer to redemption.’
‘A road the Chapter will continue to tread long after you and I have departed this mortal plane,’ said Sammael.
‘Yet along the road we still move, as inexorable as the turning of the stars. Have faith, brother. From the fruit of our labours shall be sown the seeds of the new Dark Angels. One day the Lion shall know peace and one day our Chapter can forget the legacy of Caliban lost.’
‘No, we shall not. We must never forget, lest we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past.’ Sammael smiled. ‘You are fortunate that Brother Malcifer is not present to hear such words from your lips. Your ears would ring with his chastisement for some time.’
‘Each of us knows his own righteousness,’ laughed Harahel. ‘Malcifer simply knows it a little more than the rest of us.’
With still an hour left until the attack began, Sammael and Harahel returned to the bridge and took up station at the centre of the command deck, surrounded by the bustling of the serfs and technicians. Servitors wired into the scanner arrays and communications consoles whispered and croaked a constant chatter of information, monitored by the attending crew. Dataslabs were exchanged and reports made, everything of routine importance passed to Pichon so that Sammael was able to concentrate on the wider situation.