by Gav Thorpe
The man’s lips moved, muttering something so quiet even Sammael did not hear it. The Grand Master crouched and leaned closer.
‘Again,’ he said.
‘Thyestes,’ murmured the man, the word nothing more than a breath.
‘Well done,’ said Sammael, standing up. With hardly any effort, he drew the Raven Sword across the throat of the Divine, blood hissing and boiling as it spat along the powered blade. The man slumped, still looking at Sammael. For a moment the Grand Master thought he saw peace in that grey eye, and then all life fled, rasping from the man’s lips with his final breath.
‘Thyestes,’ said Malcifer. He looked at Harahel and then Sammael. ‘I have never heard of this place before.’
‘It means nothing to me,’ confessed Harahel.
‘Kill the others,’ said Sammael, waving his sword at the remaining Divine. ‘Scour the station database for mention of Thyestes. I shall return to the Implacable Justice and inspect our records.’
‘What if he lied?’ asked Harahel, gesturing towards the dead man at Sammael’s feet. ‘Allow me to inspect one of the others, to confirm that this place exists.’
‘He did not lie,’ said Sammael. He had seen the fear and the hope and knew that the truth had been told. ‘However, do what you wish to satisfy yourself. I do not think you will be able to glean much more from these creatures. They are no less fodder for Methelas’s plan than the Unworthy. Their ignorance protects them.’
‘As it protects us all,’ said Malcifer.
The Trail is Fresh
The view of Port Imperial dominated the screen on the main bridge of the Implacable Justice. With Harahel and Malcifer beside him, on the left, and Sergeant Seraphiel on his right, Sammael waited for the small flashes of blue to reach the grey structure. The gleam of the torpedoes’ engines was lost against the fires raging across the star fort. From a few thousand kilometres starboard of the strike cruiser, the Penitent Warrior unleashed another shell from its bombardment cannon. For the previous thirty minutes it had sent a steady stream of rounds into the station, cracking open the armoured plates, smashing crystalflex domes and punching through the reactor housing.
‘Twenty seconds to impact,’ reported Judoc Pichon, standing a short distance from the force’s commanders. ‘Torpedo separation in ten seconds.’
‘Very well,’ said Sammael. ‘Send word to the Penitent Warrior. Cease fire and make all speed for Rat One. Destroy target without delay. Sergeant Seraphiel will rejoin his company later.’
Seraphiel turned to look at the Grand Master, surprised by this announcement.
‘You wish for me to remain aboard, Grand Master?’
‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ replied Sammael. ‘There is much we need to discuss. Your debriefing on Port Imperial is not yet complete and there are plans to set in motion for our next act.’
On the screen, the three blots of blue became brighter sparks for a moment, becoming dozens of tiny red stars as the torpedoes broke into their final approach warheads.
‘The Fifth Company is to remain with the Ravenwing?’
‘That is one of the matters we will discuss,’ said Sammael, smiling reassuringly. ‘I would learn your thoughts before I make a decision.’
‘I am honoured, Grand Master.’
Sammael did not reply immediately. All eyes returned to the screen as the cyclotronic warheads hit their target. Blossoms of bright light grew across the towers and superstructure of Port Imperial, becoming raging spheres of energy. Lightning flashed from the expanding clouds of plasma and radiation, particles spewing in long streams like rivulets of burning ice as the ravening energies chewed through adamantium and ferrocrete, plasteel and armourglas. Like all-devouring whirlwinds, the cyclotronic tempests burrowed into the station’s interior, the mass of the star fort fuelling the reaction, its own size speeding its demise.
A harbour spar broke away, repulsed by an exploding artificial gravity module, sent spinning towards the distant star. Arcs of electricity forked from the summit of the central spire, earthing through the tips of the other towers, so that Port Imperial looked like a massive inverted chandelier burning with flames of lightning. Supports melted and walkways buckled, foundations cracked and linking bridges collapsed. Its heart melted through by the warheads, Port Imperial fell in upon itself.
A second star shone at its heart as the plasma reactor overloaded, releasing the energy of a sun. The white heat devoured all that remained, turning everything into a slowly expanding cloud of gas and dust, the debris swallowed up by the detonation.
‘The Unworthy know oblivion,’ said Sammael.
‘Falsehoods fed to them by the lies of the Overlord,’ said Malcifer. ‘If they are lucky they shall be taken by oblivion. If not...’
‘What then?’ asked Seraphiel.
‘A conversation best left to another time and place,’ Sammael said quickly, looking pointedly at the Chapter serfs attending their battle stations. Now was not the time for a discussion involving the vagaries of Chaos and the Sea of Souls. ‘Pichon, set course and full-speed for the crippled frigate. Have the torpedoes reloaded, standard warheads, and prepare all batteries for close attack.’
‘As you wish, Grand Master,’ said Pichon, bowing low. ‘I endeavour to please.’
‘Come with me,’ the Grand Master said to the others, striding to the entrance of the adjoining command chamber. ‘Let us turn our thoughts to subsequent acts.’
Passing in, the other Space Marines followed Sammael. He waved them to chairs arranged around the hololith. Harahel was the last to enter, deep in thought, and Sammael sealed the door behind him as the Librarian stood at one end of the console desk.
The commander of the Ravenwing sat down at the head of the glass-topped table and gently rested his hands on the edge in front of him. He looked at each of the others in turn. Harahel seemed distracted, his eyes looking at something not inside the chamber. Malcifer was intent, brow creased by a slight frown as he sat hunched over the hololith. Seraphiel was attentive, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the Grand Master.
‘We are agreed that the lead to Thyestes is genuine?’ he asked.
‘For certain,’ said Malcifer. ‘Despite the efforts of the Divine, the datalogs showed several repeated journeys to the system by the Scar.’
‘While it is in my mind, do we know anything more about this ship?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘Class, armament, crew?’
‘A light cruiser of some kind, or possibly a heavy frigate depending upon how you wish to make the distinction,’ said Malcifer. ‘Torpedoes and lance batteries.’
‘The ship was not expected to return,’ murmured Harahel. He realised the others were looking at him and focused, eyes moving between Sammael and Malcifer. ‘At least, the Divine I was able to scrutinise were not expecting the ship to come back to Port Imperial. The Rapacious, which is to say the starship designated Mongrel, was being re-equipped to fetch the Overlord and bring him back to the station.’
‘If I understand your preliminary report correctly, the Overlord – which is to say the Fallen – Methelas, was planning to move the station through the warp to Thyestes. Am I right?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘Do we know when he planned to perform this feat?’
‘Soon, but not immediately,’ said Harahel. ‘None of the heretics that survived knew the plan in detail. Indeed, it seems that Methelas wisely told them the bare minimum, keeping his plans to himself. The purpose of the transition, and why Thyestes is the target we can only guess at.’
‘Anything on the system from our records?’ asked Sammael, looking at Malcifer who had been tasked with the investigation.
‘Nothing remarkable,’ said the Chaplain. ‘The system is on our star charts, about fifty light years from our current position. Not so far to move Port Imperial without Navigators. One inhabited world, Thyestes Five. Last Administratum census was a little more than seven hundr
ed years ago. Population between three and three-and-a-half billion. Self-sustaining agriculture and industry, widespread settlement across two main landmasses. Normal tithes rate, met more or less on target for previous seventeen hundred years. Imperium-standard technology level, Planetary defence force called the Thyestes Provosts. Three Imperial Guard regiments raised there about fifteen hundred years ago, no longer active. Last threat, ork attacks nearly two thousand years ago.’
‘No priority supplies to strategic worlds?’ asked Seraphiel.
‘None. Utterly unremarkable, as I said.’
‘Almost a backwater, one might say,’ said Sammael. ‘A world unlikely to register highly on anyone’s scanners. If something were to happen there, nobody would notice for many years. Plenty of time for Methelas to establish himself as ruler. Who can say, it could be centuries before anybody in the Administratum realised all was not well, and another century or two before any response could be mounted.’
‘In that case, it is a stroke of luck that has brought it to our attention,’ said Seraphiel.
‘It is unwise to attribute to luck that which has an alternative explanation,’ said Harahel. The Librarian finally sat down, taking the chair to Sammael’s right, and steepled his fingers to his chin. ‘I am still collating the reports, but the account of Brother Annael and some of the images I gleaned from my psychic scans of the Divine suggests that the Overlord was not always alone.’
‘We know from Astelan that a third Fallen frequented Port Imperial,’ said Malcifer. ‘The renegade known as Anovel.’
‘Precisely,’ said Harahel. ‘Astelan parted company from the other two several hundred years ago, before his exploits on Tharsis. Why did he lie about the destruction of Port Imperial?’
‘He is Fallen, it is in his nature to lie,’ said Malcifer. ‘He needs no reason or excuse.’
‘Tharsis is only twenty-three light years from Thyestes,’ said Harahel. Sammael sat back in his chair, surprised by this fact.
‘I do not like the coincidence,’ said the Grand Master.
‘Conspiracy seems more likely than coincidence,’ said Harahel.
‘You think that when they parted ways, the three Fallen were not in fact separating, but instead instigating some wider plan?’
‘Anovel certainly visited Port Imperial on several occasions during the lifetime of the Divine I interrogated,’ said Harahel. He scratched his ear, and shrugged. ‘That or another Fallen, but Anovel seems the most likely candidate.’
‘Something does not sit right with me,’ said Seraphiel. ‘What does any of this have to do with Piscina?’
‘I do not understand,’ said Harahel.
‘Seraphiel makes a fine point. We have forgotten where the hunt began,’ said Sammael. He nodded with appreciation. ‘Perhaps the hound not quite so close to the chase sees more clearly than the courser on the tail of the prey.’
‘The testimony of Astelan, via Boreas, brought us to Port Imperial,’ said Malcifer. ‘It is Boreas that is the link.’
‘What of the Fallen that travelled to Piscina?’ said Sammael, his suspicions aroused by Seraphiel. ‘We witnessed what happened in the wake of their arrival: anarchy. Boreas was led astray by a deliberate ploy of the Fallen, allowing them to enact their plan on Piscina without hindrance. It is from that point, and with that fact in mind, that we progressed to our current position. It must bear consideration that it may not have been by Boreas’s hand that we were brought here.’
‘For what other purpose?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘If it was Anovel, for the sake of argument, he must have known that we would destroy Port Imperial, and why risk our discovery of the presence of Fallen on Thyestes? It is a grand sacrifice to make, simply to distract the Ravenwing.’
‘We must remember Boreas’s words,’ said Harahel. ‘We thought him heretic, but perhaps he spoke a truth we did not see at the time. He said that the Fallen had been able to mislead him because the hunt consumed his thoughts, making him predictable. That is a warning we must heed now.’
‘So we do not travel to Thyestes?’ asked Seraphiel. ‘Is it a distraction or perhaps even a trap?’
‘I will not countenance this second-guessing,’ snapped Malcifer. ‘It is in confounding reasoned thought and through duplicitous behaviour that the Fallen are able to elude our attention. We can fall victim to over-analysis and circular doubt. The Divine believed Port Imperial was destined to travel to Thyestes. Whatever answers we seek, and perhaps Methelas himself, will be at Thyestes. To waste energy contemplating nebulous schemes is to fall prey to the very manipulation we seek to avoid.’
‘Thank you, Brother-Chaplain, your words are timely,’ said Sammael. He received a nod of thanks from Malcifer. Turning his attention to Seraphiel, Sammael continued. ‘It is my intent to continue the hunt without reinforcement from the Chapter. To delay risks our quarry learning of our plans, or even the fruition of his. We cannot wait for the Rock to receive our message and meet us at Thyestes.’
‘And it is your intent that the Fifth Company continue in the deployment alongside the Ravenwing,’ said Seraphiel. ‘I am honoured, but I must speak a note of caution. The closer we come to Methelas, the greater exposure of my warriors to the potential truth and the magnitude of the hunt. I am a sergeant of the Fifth Company but my first loyalty is to the Deathwing and Inner Circle. If the Ravenwing wish to continue unaided, I will pass suitable explanation to my warriors.’
‘You have my gratitude for the offer, sergeant, but it is unnecessary,’ said Sammael. ‘The assistance of the Fifth may prove vital in apprehending Methelas.’
‘I disagree,’ said Malcifer. ‘The confrontation between Squadron Cassiel and Squad Amanael is a demonstration of the tension that can arise when the Ravenwing operates for too long in the company of the uninitiated. It compromises the company’s operational capabilities and weakens the morale and resolve of the Fifth.’
‘Your objection has been noted, Brother-Chaplain, but until we know what manner of enemy we face, the Fifth Company provide a vital bolster to our strength. Sergeant, during transit to Thyestes, you must do all you can to ensure discipline is maintained. If you cannot keep your squads in check, Brother Malcifer will assume command in your place, with my full authority. Am I clear? Brother?’
‘Yes, Grand Master,’ said Seraphiel. He stood up and gave a nod of respect. ‘Be assured that I will deal with any trouble promptly and effectively. In fact, with your permission I will return to the company as soon as practicable, to deal with those brothers who have shamed us’
‘Ill-discipline and disobedience must be dealt with surely and strongly, brother-sergeant,’ said Malcifer, also standing. ‘I am willing to offer my assistance.’
‘Not yet, Brother-Chaplain,’ Seraphiel said with a smile. ‘It serves my purpose better if you remain a higher, harsher authority to which I might turn if further pressed. Amongst my warriors, the name of Brother Malcifer carries more weight as a threat than a reality.’
‘As you see fit,’ Malcifer said with a short laugh. ‘They have fought hard for little glory in these past encounters. My advice would be to allow them an opportunity to vent their disappointment a little. Their frustration is understandable.’
‘Good advice, brother,’ said Seraphiel. ‘I have something in mind.’
‘Remain at battle stations and prepare to receive warp transit orders shortly,’ said Sammael. ‘Let us hope that we run our prey to ground at Thyestes.’
‘The Emperor wills it,’ said Malcifer. He raised a fist to his chest, the gesture duplicated by the others. ‘Death to the Fallen! Vengeance for the Lion!’
Honour
Three days from the translation to warp space, the Fifth Company and the Ravenwing came together aboard the Penitent Warrior at the behest of Sergeant Seraphiel. With the blessing of Grand Master Sammael, the veteran sergeant had announced a tourney, ostensibly to award Telemenus h
is marksman’s laurels and celebrate the achievement; in truth the Dark Angels knew there had been some growing rivalry between the companies and the tourney offered opportunity for divisions to be healed and arguments to be settled between the Second and Fifth.
Annael was pleased that Sergeant Cassiel was recovered enough to accompany the squadron to the Penitent Warrior, his missing lower leg replaced by a crude but sturdy bionic. They were shuttled across by Thunderhawk along with the rest of the Ravenwing, minus the seven warriors who had not survived Port Imperial and the sixteen others in the apothecarion of the Implacable Justice.
The sergeant walked with a pronounced limp, swaying as if on a sailing ship in heavy seas, but seemed in good humour. Annael was keen for the sergeant to return to the squadron. Though he did not confess as much to Cassiel, he found Araton inflexible and lacking the natural qualities of a leader. Cassiel did not know how long his absence would last; possibly until he had returned to the Rock and received a more sophisticated augmetic limb.
Annael had been surprised that the tourney was being held so soon after the battle for Port Imperial, and said as much to his companions as the Thunderhawk prepared to set down in the launch bay of the Penitent Warrior.
‘It is safe to say that we will not be seeing the Tower of Angels soon,’ said Cassiel. ‘In all likelihood our next warp jump will take us straight into fresh conflict. Seraphiel and Sammael wish all bad blood to be made good before the next battle.’
‘Is it always like this, with the Ravenwing, jumping from one battle to the next without pause?’ asked Annael. ‘I know the company is fitted for extended patrol, but we have fought three serious engagements without proper resupply and refit.’
‘Sometimes it is the way, though more often not,’ said Zarall. ‘Normally we would return to the Rock between missions like any other company.’
‘The Grand Master is on the scent,’ said Sabrael.
‘The scent of what?’ asked Annael.