Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

‘Outsider…’ The word was whispered behind Annael, growing in volume.

  ‘Enough,’ snarled the Dark Angel. He grabbed the man’s arm to push him aside, not seeking to injure him. The old man, who wore a necklace of finger bones Annael noticed, perhaps signifying someone of status amongst this disgusting cult, tried to resist. He lashed out at Annael’s arm, his weak blows barely registering on his armour’s systems.

  Out of patience, Annael flung the man to one side. He was a lot lighter than the Space Marine had accounted for and flew across the small chamber, smashing face-first into the wall. He fell to the ground and lay in an unmoving, crumpled heap. Annael turned as the Unworthy surged towards him. He pulled his pistol, expecting attack, but the Unworthy broke around him, converging on their fallen companion.

  ‘Is he dead?’ one asked. There were nods from those around the man.

  Annael detected no sorrow in the Unworthy as they lifted up the limp form, their aging limbs making hard work though the dead man had been so light to the Space Marine. The people started muttering, a hushed chant surrounding Annael as the Unworthy bore the body out of the room. A few remained, watching the Dark Angel, but they were as lethargic as when he had entered, no aggression in their posture or expressions.

  He stepped up to the altar and lifted the vox-unit from the scraps and bangles around it.

  ‘The Emperor provides,’ he muttered with satisfaction, seeing that the device was of normal Imperial build, thankful for the gift of Standard Template Construct that meant the unit would work with the systems of his steed. There were several scratches and dents in the casing but a closer examination showed nothing other than cosmetic damage. As their conduit to the Overlord, the Unworthy had taken care of the device as best they could.

  Ignoring the Unworthy drifting listlessly around him, Annael left the hab-units, closing the door with a resounding clang behind him. He was still not sure what to do with the degenerates. Though they were clearly corrupt and deranged, it still seemed to Annael to be dishonourable to slay them out of hand. There was also a practical issue. To conserve ammunition he would have to slay them all by hand or knife; a time-consuming activity that would keep him from the main battle. Fortunately, with the discovery of the vox-set he would be able to pass on the decision to one of his superiors.

  Returning to Black Shadow, Annael placed the comm unit on the saddle of the bike, punched in the disarm code for the self-protection mechanism and opened up a protective plate beneath the display of his mount. Pulling free a cable, he plugged the set into the cogitator of the bike. The comm unit crackled into life.

  ‘Praise to the artifices of the Machine-God,’ he muttered, adjusting the channel dial in the middle of the set’s front. With the unit to boost the bike’s transmission power, he would be able to contact someone. Anyone. Lifting the mouthpiece to the speaker grille of his helm he carefully pressed the transmit button, wary of damaging the fragile device.

  ‘This is Annael. Broadcasting from enemy device. Channel not secured. Send response.’

  He waited for several seconds with no reply. Inspecting the unit, the device appeared to be functioning properly. He lifted the handset again but before he could speak there was a burst of static.

  ‘Message received, Brother Annael.’ A wave of satisfaction washed over Annael as he recognised the voice of the Grand Master. It was not until he heard Sammael that he realised how tense his isolation had made him. To be in contact with his commander was a relief, though he had been in no physical danger. ‘State your position, brother.’

  Annael read out the coordinates from the screen of Black Shadow. He felt he needed to apprise the Grand Master of what he had found, but was not sure where to begin.

  ‘Grand Master, I have discovered a cadre of Unworthy non-combatants. Zero threat to the attack. They are... They eat their own dead, Grand Master.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Annael. There are no depths to which these depraved souls will not plunge. Their behaviour condemns them, their extermination will be a cleansing.’

  ‘How should I proceed, Grand Master?’

  ‘I have despatched Lion’s Vengeance to your position. Await the Thunderhawk.’

  ‘And the Unworthy, Grand Master?’

  ‘They are no threat, brother. Unless they hinder your extraction, leave them be. Save your ammunition and strength for harder foes.’

  ‘Understood, Grand Master. How goes the battle?’

  ‘Your timing is perfect, brother. All entries to the central spire have been isolated. Fifth Company squads have encountered unexpected resistance in the form of a tribe of orks. The extermination will commence shortly. You should be with us again in time for the final assault.’

  ‘It is a blessing to hear that, Grand Master.’

  ‘You will receive full debrief on the Unworthy from Brother Malcifer once the station is secured. Until then, do not speak of it with your brothers.’

  ‘As you command, Grand Master.’ Annael was not sure why the horrific rites of the Unworthy should be deemed a secret but he was not one to second-guess his superiors. ‘I will await extraction.’

  ‘Stand steady, Annael. You will soon be amongst your brothers again. Sammael out.’

  The vox-unit clicked and fell to a quiet buzzing. He kept the unit plugged in, shifting it into his lap as he stepped across the saddle of his steed. He was alone again but now it did not seem so burdensome, knowing that he would be reunited with his squadron soon.

  It took some time to turn around his bike in the close confines, a fact he had overlooked earlier he was ashamed to realise. Heading back to the main concourse, he waited patiently for the Thunderhawk sent by Sammael, glancing back now and then towards the hab-block of the Unworthy. They had not ventured from their chambers and he had a sickened feeling as he wondered what perverse rites they were performing over the body of the dead man. Despite his earlier misgivings and the order of Sammael, the more he thought about what they had become, the more Annael wanted to wipe out the depraved cannibals. He had used the word abomination and that was just what they were; abhorrent to any right-thinking servant of the Emperor.

  The comm sparked into life, breaking through Annael’s disturbed thoughts.

  ‘This is Haeral, pilot of Lion’s Vengeance. I have your position on scope, brother. Do not move from your location. Creation of extraction point commencing.’

  The concourse shuddered from a shell impact, the roof caving in a hundred metres ahead of Sammael. Two more battle cannon blasts smashed a large hole through the ferrocrete through which the navigation lamps of the Thunderhawk blazed. The harsh blue of plasma jets lit the concourse as the Thunderhawk descended, stopping with its nose within the breach like a hound sniffing at the bolthole of its prey. With a whine of hydraulics the boarding ramp lowered, turning the rubble beneath to powder.

  ‘Come aboard, brother.’

  The Purification

  Hunkered next to the pock-marked shell of the pump, Telemenus fired again, placing a shot squarely into the chest of an ork pulling itself up a ladder to one of the roofs in front of the Space Marines. The alien fell back to the ground, landing on top of another ork. Pushing itself free of the body, the green-skinned warrior was an easy target for Telemenus’s next shot, which turned the side of its skull into a blossom of blood and brains.

  The floor of the pumping chamber was piled with the greenskin dead, many of them charred from the flamer; smoke from burning shacks choked the air. In the firelight, the bestial warriors roared and raged, pressed back for the moment by the weight of fire unleashed by the five Dark Angels. The enemy waited in the shadows, red eyes glinting, perhaps sensing that their foes would soon be vulnerable to another charge.

  ‘Last magazine,’ Telemenus told the others as he reloaded.

  ‘The laurels are yours brother,’ said Cadael. The ragged hole in the armour above his elbow leaked blood occasion
ally as he moved. He had little motion in the wounded arm and rested his bolter against the corner of the pump housing for extra stability as he fired with his other hand. ‘You are a credit to the Fifth Company.’

  ‘I have exceeded the mark by four kills already,’ replied Telemenus. ‘The tally will be higher shortly.’

  ‘We may not see the award given,’ said Achamenon. He pulled a grenade from his belt, armed it and tossed the explosive overhand, looping into a shed-like lean-to beside one of the workshops. Two seconds later the corrugated metal exploded outwards, showering body parts of the gretchin that had been cowering within. ‘Still, the honour will be yours even in death.’

  ‘One hundred thousand bolter kills is a remarkable achievement, brother,’ said Amanael. ‘It is a privilege to fight alongside you.’

  Telemenus had never really considered the raw number of kills before; it had existed as only an abstract target to achieve. When he had gained the marksman’s award at fifty thousand he had thought nothing of it, and now that he had earned the laurels for that award it seemed inconsequential. Despite their dire situation, there was only one thought in Telemenus’s head.

  ‘Each fallen foe moves me towards the golden skull for a quarter of a million kills,’ he said to the others. ‘Only seventeen brothers have ever reached that mark. A shame that I have not enough bolts for every foe we face here.’

  ‘Have mine, brother. You can make better use of them.’ said Cadael. He laid his bolter against the pumping machine and drew a magazine from his belt with his good hand, tossing it to his grateful battle-brother. Telemenus caught the magazine easily, slapping it to his thigh, the bonding plate on the side of the magazine sticking to his armour. Cadael left his bolter where it was and drew his knife, the monomolecular-edged blade shining in the light of the flames.

  ‘Gratitude, brother,’ said Telemenus. He sighted on a particularly bulky greenskin half-hidden behind a pile of debris from a toppled building. It was pointing at the Dark Angels and bellowing at its companions, no doubt giving the call to attack. Telemenus smiled as he pulled the trigger, sending three bolts into the ork leader’s chest and head. It collapsed onto the rubble, howls of shock erupting from the warriors around it. ‘Be assured they will not be wasted.’

  ‘They are readying to come again, brothers,’ warned Amanael. The sergeant gestured behind the squad, indicating the doorway to the vaporisation vat by which they had entered. ‘Fall back on my command and we will make a choke point at the exit.’

  The sergeant was not willing to meekly turn tail and raised his bolt pistol as a group of orks came running around a building only a dozen metres ahead, waving cleavers and serrated swords, guns spitting shells and las-bolts.

  Telemenus was not sure for a moment what happened next. His sergeant fired into the press of aliens, targeting the closest. A massive detonation hurled orks in every direction, bodies ragged with cuts, limbs hewn away by the unexpected blast. Only after his autosenses returned did Telemenus see the telltale vapour trail of a missile. Following it back to its source, the Dark Angel saw Brother Nethor to the left, the squad’s missile launcher on his shoulder. With him was the rest of Squad Amanael, advancing swiftly, their bolters spewing a storm of fire.

  ‘Praise the Lion,’ laughed Daellon. ‘You took your damned time, brothers!’

  ‘You have been entertaining most of these beasts, but not all,’ came the reply from Saphael, the combat squad leader.

  The growl of engines sounded across the pumping hall and black shapes darted through the flames: three Ravenwing attack bikes. In the armoured sidecar of each was mounted a heavy weapon, unleashing a furious salvo as the machines skidded into view between two buildings a few dozen metres in front of Telemenus. A beam from a lascannon sliced through an ork as it turned towards this new threat, cutting it in half, while bursts from the heavy bolters of the other two machines stitched bloody holes across more of the greenskins.

  ‘And you have brought us more friends,’ said Cadael. ‘How thoughtful of you to share the glory.’

  ‘The Grand Master insisted his company lent their aid,’ Saphael told them as he and the other combat squad ran across the hall to rejoin their battle-brothers. The orks had been thrown into disarray by the unexpected attack and were caught between the Fifth Company squad and the attack bikes, ineffectually firing at both.

  Halted again, Nethor fired another missile, the fragmentation warhead scything down three more orks as they broke into a loping run towards the squad. Telemenus sent a bolt into one of the greenskins as it tried to push itself up despite missing a leg. He turned to Nethor who was now standing to his left, his stance braced, firing on full automatic.

  ‘A spare magazine, brother?’ Telemenus said as he loaded the one given to him by Cadael. ‘I am running a little short.’

  ‘I am sure you are, brother,’ replied Nemean. ‘You have earned enough honour today, it is time you allowed the rest of us a fair attempt at the foe.’

  ‘We will resupply when we link up with the rest of the company,’ Amanael assured them as Telemenus emptied the magazine into the remaining orks.

  There were still thirty or forty orks still alive, and they were converging on the squad from ahead and to the right, snarling and bellowing. The attack bikes circled around to the left, preparing for another drive-past.

  ‘I would prefer to defend myself than rely on the charity of others,’ Telemenus complained, ejecting his spent magazine.

  ‘That is why we have knives, brother,’ said Cadael, holding up his blade. ‘There is yet time for you to start earning the swordsman’s award, yes?’

  Hooking his bolter on his hip, Telemenus drew his knife and looked at it. In two hundred and twenty-three years since becoming a full battle-brother he had killed only four hundred and seven foes with it, compared to the immense tally of his bolter. Even in the press of melee he preferred his bolter, and many were the times that a point-blank shot had served him better than fifty centimetres of razor-sharp plasteel.

  Telemenus looked at the orks, now barely twenty metres away, charging at full-speed despite the fire of his squad-brothers. Many of the aliens toppled and tumbled from the fusillade, and though sensing defeat the enemy struck with venomous spite, determined to exact some kind of payment for their fallen. The blade felt light compared to his bolter, flimsy and weak. It was no weapon for a true warrior, more useful for cutting into rations containers and prying open ammunition crates.

  ‘Needs must when the Lion turns a blind eye,’ he muttered to himself, launching himself at the orks as they closed with the squad. Around him the others met the attack with blade and bolter too.

  With his right arm Telemenus batted aside a pistol shoved into his face, driving the point of the knife in his left hand through the eye of the ork. Amazingly, the creature did not fall, but wrenched its head back, pulling free of the blade with its eyeball still attached to the knife. A cacophony of impacts rang in the Space Marine’s ears as the alien fired, a cloud of metal pellets scattering from Telemenus’s helm, one of them ricocheting back into the open mouth of the beast, felling it as blood fountained from the top of its scalp.

  There was no time to process the unlikely demise of the ork as another smashed headlong into Telemenus, trying to barrel him from his feet. His armour locked at the first moment of impact and the charging alien slammed into him with the same effect as running into a solid wall, its head bouncing from the Space Marine’s midriff. Telemenus drove his dagger into its spine as it tried to stand, separating the vertebrae with a twist. Its legs paralysed, the ork collapsed while Telemenus pulled his knife free. With a sneer of distaste the Dark Angel stamped on the wounded alien’s head, crushing it to a pulp beneath the tread of his boot.

  While his squad-brothers spat battle-cries and sang litanies, Telemenus fought in silence, as collected and calm as if he were on a firing range. He saw the gleam of a powered ax
e just in time to dodge aside from the sweeping blade, cognisant of the danger posed by such a weapon, which would make a mockery of his armour if it struck. He lashed out with a fist, breaking the ork’s jaw and cracking teeth. As thick blood trickled from its lips, the ork seemed to laugh; a laugh that was cut short by Telemenus’s knife slashing across its throat.

  ‘Hand-to-hand is so... barbaric,’ Telemenus commented to the others as a maul smashed across his left pauldron, showering splinters of ceramite. He grabbed the handle of the weapon as the ork tried again, aiming for his face. With a twist of his arm the Dark Angel pulled the club from the alien’s grip. The creature lunged forwards to regain its weapon, but was met by Telemenus’s swing, the jagged head of the maul cracking open the side of the creature’s skull. He let the bloodied weapon fall from his grasp onto the dead ork’s body and stepped forward to confront the next foe. ‘It is so brutal and wild.’

  The roaring of Amanael’s chainsword sounded to the Dark Angel’s right, a second before the sergeant’s weapon lopped the head from an ork ahead of Telemenus. Realising there were no more foes in front, the two of them turned, only to find that the orks were all dead. Amongst the heap of bodies lay Cadael, his armour awash with alien blood, his armour scored and cracked in dozens of places. Telemenus feared the worst and stepped forward, speaking his battle-brother’s name. The toppled Space Marine pushed aside a corpse and sat up, shaking his head.

  ‘You were supposed to watch my back, brother,’ Cadael said as he offered up his good arm to be hauled to his feet. Telemenus assisted him and bowed his head in shame.

  ‘Apologies, brother, I became distracted,’ he said.

  ‘You shall receive fresh instruction in squad combat doctrine when we return to the strike cruiser,’ said Amanael. ‘You have grown so fond of your bolter you have forgotten the lessons of the mêlée. It is fortunate that Brother Cadael has not suffered further injury.’

  ‘Had Brother Nemeon furnished me with the ammunition I requested it would not have been an issue,’ replied Telemenus. ‘I would have been better placed to defend my brother if armed properly.’