by Gav Thorpe
The Assault
Except for the distant whine of anti-grav motors from the patrolling Land Speeder, the forest was silent. Their black armour rendering them almost invisible in the darkness, the warriors of the Ravenwing gathered, leaving their bikes and attack bikes in the shadows beneath the tree canopy. The mountain slope was rocky, the forest floor covered in light undergrowth, only a faint carpet of snow and bushes. Above, twin moons shone down, half full, but their silvery light did not reach through the entwined pine branches above. With Araton, Zarall and Sabrael, Annael joined the rest of the company, ranks of dark statues facing the Grand Master amongst the trees. The Black Knights stood beside their lord, hammers couched in their arms. Only the glint of eye lenses in the darkness betrayed the presence of the unmoving sentinels.
When the company had assembled, Sammael stepped forward, head bowed. His words were quiet over the vox, thoughtful rather than theatrical.
‘We have followed the trail of the hunt, from system to system and across the chill wilderness of this world. Our enemy have returned to their lair at last, unknowing of the vengeance that follows on their heels. They think they are safe, their fastness perched atop the summit of this mountain, but they are wrong. We are the Ravenwing and there is no hiding from our wrath.’
The Grand Master paused, resting one hand on the pommel of the Raven Sword at his waist.
‘To outsiders, even those amongst our Chapter brethren, our steeds are the symbol of the Ravenwing. We are the all-seeing eye that roams wide. We are the blade that strikes swift. They are not wrong, but we are far more than that. The Ravenwing are the hunters that cannot be eluded. Our mounts have served us proudly, bearing us into battle, and we honour their spirits with our victories as we honour the company and the Chapter. Yet we are not beholden to machines. We must forego our steeds to negotiate the terrain ahead. The enemy reside upon the pinnacle, unreachable by our mounts unless we wish to drive into the teeth of their defences.
‘We are a cannier hunter than that. On foot, we shall negotiate the slopes, coming upon our foes unseen. Though we relinquish our mounts, we do not depart from our honour and spirit. We are Ravenwing and the tenets of our company hold true tonight as they would any other time. Speed and surprise are our weapons. Daring and courage are our creed. I expect each of you to fight for glory and distinction, as hard as you would fight at any other time.’
Again the Grand Master stopped for a moment. Telemenus saw his hand tightening on his sword, the other forming a fist at his side. His voice grew more strident, edged with scorn.
‘We have hunted long, pursuing a foe most hated. You know that the rebels are bolstered by the presence of traitor Space Marines. These foes are beneath pity, worthy only of hatred. They have turned from the Emperor’s light and seek to spread their vile darkness upon this world. War they have brought to the Emperor’s domains, but in one night, one glorious battle, their darkness will be obliterated by the vengeful light of the Dark Angels. They have run as far as they can and can run no further. They seek to hide from retribution but it has found them. We are justice given form. The Emperor’s wrath incarnate! For the Lion and the Emperor, show no mercy.’
‘For the Emperor.’ With the rest of the company Annael spoke the words with conviction, not a boisterous shout but a simple uttering of a fundamental truth. ‘For the Lion.’
The squads broke at their leader’s command, the order of the advance already known to the sergeants. With Araton as acting sergeant, Annael and the others fell into line, alongside the Black Knights of Tybalain. The Huntmaster lifted a fist in salute and set off into the night, quickly consumed by the darkness.
The ascent was long but not arduous. Annael’s power armour made light work as he pulled himself over rocks and clambered along narrow ridges. Coming out of the trees, the Ravenwing found themselves on the shoulder of the mountain, the rock gleaming in the light of the twin moons. Looking up to the summit several thousand metres above, Annael could see nothing of the enemy stronghold. This was good, he decided, as it also meant that the foe could not see the warriors approaching from below.
The climb became monotonous, hour after hour, the temperature and air pressure dropping as the Dark Angels ascended the broken slopes and cliffs beneath the Death Guard’s fortress. Ice slicked the rocks, but was no barrier to powered fingers delving into cracks and, on occasion, driving into the rock itself to create hand- and footholds.
There was no conversation, each Space Marine intent upon his path, measuring the distances and gauging the strength of the rocks above. Ice became a coating of snow; snow became deeper and deeper the higher they climbed. The moons dropped below the peak and the cliffs were shrouded in utter darkness. Suit lamps at minimal power glowed into life across the slope, dozens of tiny pinpricks of light. Annael fixed on Araton ahead of him, following the squad leader’s every move precisely, as he in turn was following those in front.
After a particularly steep incline, the mountain shoulder flattened, a few hundred metres below the snow-covered peak. Moving quickly, the Ravenwing made their way across the snowy expanse, spreading out according to the orders of Sammael. With Tybalain’s Black Knights, Annael and his squad headed to the left, cresting a ridge a hundred and fifty metres further on. Attaining the height of the ridge, the two squads crouched, surveying the ground below.
From this vantage point the enemy installation was easy to see. Two narrow ridges formed natural walls to the north-east and north-west, the compound finished with a ten metre-high revetment some five hundred metres away, down the slope. Twin towers guarded the armoured gateway, search lamps lighting a stretch of broken roadway before it turned behind a shoulder of rock and disappeared from view. In the snow-reflected gleam Annael could see the armoured shapes of Death Guard manning mounted lascannons and heavy bolters on the tower roofs. Any approach from that direction would have been met with a devastating crossfire.
‘Not so much a fortress,’ said Tybalain.
He was right. The enemy stronghold consisted of a network of fourteen prefabricated units, each no larger than ten metres square, linked together by covered walkways. Snow was banked up against the ferrocrete blockhouses and strings of lanterns hung along the walkways, spreading light over small patches of ice and snow packed down by the tread of heavy boots. Yellow gleamed from slit windows in the hab-units, now and then eclipsed by a passing figure, but Annael could see no movement in the open. In the shadows the bulky shapes of the Death Guard’s transports sat, the snow around them melted by exhaust and engine heat.
‘That is more problematic,’ said Araton, pointing to the ridge on the opposite side of the site. Caught in the last light of the setting moons, a monstrous walker stood guard, as still as the buildings, clawed arms resting in front of it, multi-jointed legs furled beneath it like a spider lying in wait.
‘Not for long,’ Tybalain replied. ‘Air strikes are incoming.’
‘What do we do now?’ asked Sabrael. He had the Blade of Corswain in his right hand, bolt pistol in his left. Annael unholstered his pistol and knife too, looking along the ridge line to where other Ravenwing squads were waiting for the attack order.
‘After the air strikes, we head straight down,’ said Araton, glancing towards Tybalain who nodded in confirmation.
‘Clear and secure the nearest buildings,’ said the Huntmaster. ‘Remember that we need to take the enemy commander alive.’
‘Why so?’ asked Annael, eliciting surprised noises from his brethren.
‘That is the purpose of the hunt,’ said Araton, his voice tainted by a condescending tone. ‘We secure the renegades so that the Chaplains may learn of other traitors.’
‘Apologies for the question, brothers,’ Annael said quickly, feeling foolish. ‘This is the first conclusion to a hunt I have witnessed.’
‘And you are blessed because of it,’ Tybalain assured him. ‘So soon after your arriv
al, you will earn the greatest honour our company can know.’
‘Though we can never speak of it to anyone, for shame,’ said Sabrael.
‘For pride,’ countered Araton, ‘not for shame.’
‘You know well my meaning, brother,’ said Sabrael.
‘There is plenty of wide renown in other battles, Sabrael,’ Zarall said softly. ‘In this, our highest duty, we each know the measure of true reward, of service well rendered and honour upheld.’
‘Of course,’ said Sabrael.
They waited for a few more minutes, until the noise of jets to the south could be heard approaching quickly. They were not the only ones to hear the incoming craft, as armoured figures emerged from the blockhouses below.
‘Stand ready,’ said Araton.
Beside them, the Black Knights were already edging down the slope of the ridge towards the encampment. Araton held up his hand to stop Sabrael as he moved to follow.
‘We move after the first strike,’ said the squad leader. ‘Not before.’
Shaking his head, Sabrael settled back on his haunches but did not offer vocal argument.
From the dark skies lascannon beams stabbed into the buildings, followed by the spark of launched missiles. Annael looked across the mountainside in time to see the war machine rising up, its battle cannon turning skywards moments before two missile trails converged on it position. The mechanical beast disappeared down the far slope amidst the detonations, an inhuman roar fading into the distance.
In the compound, the Death Guard were caught amidst missile blasts and lascannon fire as they ran for their transports. Bolter and plasma gun fire erupted from the Ravenwing squads close to the gate towers, hammering into the warriors manning the heavy weapons.
There was no time to take in anything more as Araton gave the order to attack, pushing forward down the ridge towards the Death Guard camp.
Thunderhawks strafed across the stronghold, raking heavy bolter fire and missiles into the prefabricated buildings, punching holes in the roofs and walls. A battle cannon shell caved in the end of the building fifty metres in front of the squad as they hit the floor of the depression, cracking apart the ferrocrete slab.
Annael saw shapes moving in the smoke and dust, and raised his pistol.
‘Hold your fire,’ Araton barked. ‘All of you, mark your targets well. The commander is to be captured and the governor is in one of these buildings.’
Silencing a frustrated remark, Annael pounded across the stronghold with his brothers, wondering if he would know which enemy was their leader. The question became irrelevant as three power-armoured figures emerged from the darkness, opening fire on the Black Knights twenty metres ahead.
‘This way,’ Araton ordered, breaking to the right to move behind Tybalain’s squad as they charged into the Death Guard, their corvus hammers gleaming blue in the night. Araton led the squad towards a ferrocrete blockhouse near the back of the encampment. ‘Remember brothers, speed and surprise.’
Annael ran up to one of the slit windows and glanced inside. A single glow-globe lit the interior, which was bare save for metal crates and wooden boxes. The growl of engines rumbled across the depression and he looked across the camp to see lights blazing forth from the Land Raider.
‘The governor!’ declared Sabrael from the window behind Annael. ‘In here.’
‘Leave him!’ snapped Araton. He pointed to a group of Death Guard breaking out of another building twenty metres ahead. There were five warriors, all in power armour though one stood out amongst the others. By the light of flames and flickering bolts Annael could see that his armour was dark, black even, a white cloak streaming from his backpack as he and his guards dashed towards Tybalain’s Black Knights. The Huntmaster and his warriors were fighting their way into a breached blockhouse, unaware of the foes closing on them.
‘We have to secure the Imperial Commander,’ argued Sabrael, moving towards the door of the building.
‘He is not the objective!’ yelled Araton. The squad leader broke into a run towards Tybalain’s position.
Zarall followed Araton without remark, leaving Annael conflicted between two courses of action. The desire to rescue the Imperial Commander and redress the loss of honour inflicted by his capture won through.
‘Quickly now,’ he told Sabrael, charging past his squad brother, smashing through the flimsy door with his shoulder.
Annael came face-to-face with a traitor, who was moving towards the door from inside. The stench of death swamped Annael’s autosenses as he crashed into the warrior, flakes of rust and spatters of oil from the renegade coating the Dark Angel’s black armour. The enemy Space Marine lashed out with his bolter, smashing it across Annael’s helm, knocking him sideways. Annael moved with the blow, his momentum slamming him into the wall, the ferrocrete cracking under the impact.
Another Death Guard, helm encrusted with barnacle-like growths, greenish vapour wheezing from the distended vent, seized hold of Annael’s arm. A second later, Sabrael was there, the Blade of Corswain shining in the dim light of the cabin.
The power sword lanced through the chest of the Death Guard holding Annael, but the warrior was not moved by the blow. The other traitor kicked Sabrael in the midriff, sending him backwards into the wall, his grip on his sword lost. The spiked knuckles of the impaled Space Marine’s fist crashed into Annael’s mask, shattering the grille and breaking ceramite, and he tasted his own blood, mixed with foul pus from the decaying warrior’s armour. He brought up his pistol, jamming the muzzle under the chin of the Space Marine as he pulled the trigger.
Pieces of helm, skull and brains showered over Annael, overwhelming his autosenses. Fighting the urge to gag, Annael prised himself free from the warrior’s dead grip, but was too slow to defend himself as the remaining Death Guard fired his bolter.
The Dark Angel’s chest plastron gave way under the welter of detonations and Annael felt his ribs and sternum cracking with it. Gasping for breath, he fell back, his hearts thundering in his ears.
Sabrael hit the Death Guard with a flying tackle, the two of them turning a pile of wooden boxes to splinters as they tumbled across the floor. Heaving in painful draughts of foetid air, Annael pushed himself to his feet. In the corner of the room he could see Imperial Commander Drazinoff bundled on the floor, rusted chains binding his arms and legs. He was a middle-aged man, sporting a ragged beard and unkempt grey hair, but it was not this that Annael saw.
The governor’s skin was pockmarked with blisters, his eyes white with cataracts as they roved unseeing in their sockets. Blood trickled from lesions on his lips.
The bark of more bolter fire snapped Annael from the disturbing sight. Wincing with pain, he turned to see Sabrael standing over the remaining Death Guard, the enemy’s bolter in his hand as he fired into the warrior’s face.
‘Pestilence has him,’ gasped Annael as Sabrael tossed away the weapon and turned in his direction.
‘It may not be too late,’ said Sabrael. ‘If we get him to Gideon swiftly.’
‘Who’s there?’ Drazinoff demanded, trying to stand up despite his bonds. His voice was a thin whisper that became a wracking cough.
Sabrael snatched up the governor, easily heaving him over his shoulder, thick chains and all.
‘Allies, Imperial Commander,’ he said, setting off towards the door. He stopped just before the threshold and looked back. ‘Can you move, brother?’
‘Save the commander,’ Annael said. The pain was subsiding as his genetically enhanced body and armour systems suppressed and tended the wound. ‘I will follow.’
He reached the doorway with a few steps and stopped, finding Sabrael standing just beyond, as still as a statue.
‘Lion’s shade,’ cursed Annael as he saw what had stopped Sabrael.
Beyond his squad brother, Annael could see the bodies of Araton and Zarall, lying alongside th
ree Death Guard and several Black Knights. Their armour was rent open as if by some savage claw, steam rising from the grievous wounds. The snow was red with blood and flesh. Now and then sparks of white energy flickered over the corpses, tiny lightning flashes leaping from the ragged edges of their armour.
‘All brothers, converge on the gateway.’ The Grand Master’s command was terse, edged with anger. ‘The target is escaping!’
Annael pulled his gaze from the splayed corpses of his brothers and saw the huge bulk of the Death Guard Land Raider moving past the buildings, its lascannons and heavy bolters cutting a swathe through the Ravenwing around it.
Sabrael let the Imperial Commander fall to the ground as he sank to one knee, head bowed. Annael staggered over to his squad-brother, the strength draining from his legs.
‘Utter shame and dishonour,’ Sabrael muttered, shaking his head.
‘You can still save the governor,’ Annael told his brother, sinking to the ground beside him, the last of his stamina spent. He felt light-headed from blood loss, his sight dimming, everything around him spinning and moving in and out of focus. ‘The Grand Master will catch the prey, you will see.’
Sabrael grunted and stood up. He stooped to pick up Drazinoff, who was murmuring to himself, half-delirious, a fever-sweat soaking his face.
‘Wait!’ said Annael as Sabrael took a step.
With a last effort, gritting his teeth, Annael forced himself to his feet and stumbled back into the storehouse. He fumbled in the gloom for a moment until his fingers fell upon the hilt of the Blade of Corswain. Dragging it free from the Death Guard’s chest, Annael returned to Sabrael, thrusting the sword hilt into his grip.
‘This is yours, brother,’ said Annael. ‘As is the honour.’
‘Yours is greater, brother,’ said Sabrael as he turned away.
Contingency Planning
The drop pod was still shuddering from the impact as the door slammed down in front of Telemenus revealing a starry, cloudless sky and a wide expanse of snow. His descent harness snapped away from his armour with a hiss, releasing him from its embrace.