by Gav Thorpe
Needing no order from Saphael, acting-sergeant since the ambushed convoy, Telemenus leapt down to the ground, unslinging his bolter as he hit the snow. Half a kilometre to the west, the sky was lit by more drop pods and the streak of Thunderhawks plunging down from orbit.
‘Sergeant Seraphiel was clear in his orders,’ said Saphael as the squad mustered on their leader.
‘Create a cordon but do not approach the target,’ Zarall said, his disapproval evident. ‘Are we really going to let the Ravenwing steal our glory again?’
‘No,’ said Saphael. ‘Seraphiel lost us honour in his mishandling of the Imperial Commander’s escort and we must restore the name of the company. If we see the enemy, we attack.’
‘About time,’ said Telemenus. ‘Apollon, which direction?’
‘North-west, brother.’ Apollon pointed to the right. ‘If we move fast we will be at the road leading from the enemy base within fifteen minutes.’
‘It would have been easier if we had dropped directly to the site,’ grumbled Nethor as the squad broke into a loping run, leaving billows of snow in their wake.
‘Seraphiel would have noticed,’ said Telemenus. ‘Better this way. No interference.’
There were grunts of assent from the others. Following the debacle at the gorge, the squad, diminished in number and spirit, had returned to the Penitent Warrior to nurse their wounds and their pride. Losses were not easy to bear at any time, but the manner in which Amanael, Achamenon, Cadael and Nemeon had been killed or injured was a particularly sore wound from which to recover. It had been remarked that Sergeant Seraphiel had constantly shown poor judgement in his command of the company and his latest order to hold back from the battle was in a similar vein.
The squad ran on in silence, heading up the mountainside through the snowdrifts, leaving behind their brothers in the Fifth Company. They knew they were disobeying orders, a grave crime for which they were all prepared to be judged. It did not matter to Telemenus. Since Piscina, the company had lost pride and honour at every turn, playing second to the Ravenwing. The fresh laurels upon his armour were meaningless if the company was to return to the Rock in shame, and with the enemy on the loose an opportunity was presented to restore some measure of balance.
They reached the road, lined by low walls banked with snow, and turned north, towards the summit of the mountain. From this distance nothing could be seen of the battle that had raged there save for a pall of smoke that smeared across the stars. Like fireflies, the distant jets of Thunderhawks and fighters passed back and forth across the slope, sending reports of the enemy heard only by the Ravenwing.
Even in the night it was easy to follow the tracks left on the road by the Death Guard’s vehicles. The road wound back and forth like a ribbon, but the Dark Angels were able to cut across the great loops, in places climbing rocky escarpments and ridges to speed their progress. After half an hour the pursuit from above was getting closer, the overflights of aircraft only a few kilometres away as they scoured the wilderness for their fleeing enemy.
‘Let us ease haste, brothers,’ said Saphael as they clambered over the stone wall onto the road once more. ‘Better that we come upon our target prepared.’
Slowing to a swift walk, the squad strode along the road, Apollon with auspex slowly swinging back and forth in one hand, bolter in the other.
‘Faint signal, directly ahead,’ he reported. ‘Heat source. Not strong enough to be a vehicle.’
‘The quarry seeks sanctuary on foot,’ said Telemenus. ‘That makes the task simpler.’
‘I can imagine the curses from the Ravenwing when we deliver their target to them, trussed like a hog ready for roast,’ said Daellon. ‘Nectar after the vinegar we have supped of late.’
Telemenus was less concerned by the reaction of the Ravenwing than he was Grand Master Zadakiel, commander of the Fifth Company. He was not entirely convinced their rogue action would be welcomed by their leader when they returned to the Tower of Angels, as good as the intention was to restore the company’s honour. He kept his misgivings to himself though, his silence a sign of solidarity with his brothers. As a squad they would stand or fall.
The Ravenwing aircraft were close now, Thunderhawks moving slowly down the mountainside less than a kilometre away.
‘We have to be close,’ he said. ‘Keep alert.’
His autosenses on full magnification, Telemenus scoured the darkness ahead, looking for any thermal signal. Apollon checked the auspex once more and gestured to a cleft in the rocks to the left. Silently, he stowed the scanner and took his bolter in both hands, all the signal the squad needed.
They moved into the defile two abreast, Menthius and Saphael in the lead, Telemenus and Nethor next, with Apollon and Daellon taking the last position. The crack in the mountain was about twenty metres wide, the sides swiftly becoming sheer, the floor of the rift littered with snow-covered rocks. Small, leafless bushes clung to crevices in the walls, but there was little cover.
Telemenus saw a faint blotch of orange ahead and whispered a warning to his brothers. The squad halted, spreading out across the defile as the smear of colour resolved into two distinct figures, heading straight towards them, their armour giving off clouds of heat from their backpacks.
‘How should we proceed?’ asked Menthius.
‘A wounded target is easy to subdue,’ replied Saphael. ‘Open fire on my command.’
A few seconds later, the two figures stopped. They were close enough now to see in the starlight, one a Death Guard in filthy armour, the other slightly taller, his suit equally archaic but painted black. The latter wore no helm, his pale face lit by the stars, framed by long black hair. A white cloak draped behind him, tattered at the edges.
Telemenus felt Saphael shift beside him, about to give the order. He raised his bolter, expecting the command, but before the words were spoken the black-clad warrior raised a gauntleted hand towards the squad, crackles of energy playing across his fingertips.
‘Psyker!’ hissed Daellon, a moment before blue lightning streamed down the defile, crashing into Saphael. The squad leader was thrown black by the sorcerous blast, his armour ripping open from within as unearthly energy pulsed through his body.
Telemenus fired on the move as he darted to the right, away from the ripples of psychic energy crackling from the psykers fingers. His bolts flew true but seemed to slam into an invisible wall just in front of his target, detonating uselessly in mid-air.
The unholy energy coursed across the defile, seizing upon Menthius briefly, splitting open his armour, wisps of smoke drifting from the joints as he fell backwards. Telemenus suppressed a shout of grief, leaping to the right as the Death Guard aimed a meltagun in his direction.
Nethor fired as a boulder was turned to glass by the melta blast just behind Telemenus. The missile hit the Death Guard Space Marine in the chest, the shaped warhead breaking open his armoured plastron milliseconds before the charge exploded, cutting the renegade in half.
The psyker drew a long blade, its edges glimmering balefully with a sickening yellow light. Unperturbed by the bolts shrieking around him, he strode towards the squad. Telemenus could see that his skin was pale like a corpse, the bones of his cheeks showing through torn flesh, eyes red with thick veins.
‘Brave but foolish, brothers,’ the traitor declared in a rasping voice. His words were accompanied by a gust of air that carried the stench of disease and rotting meat. ‘Your masters have betrayed you.’
Giving up all thoughts of taking the warrior alive, Telemenus emptied his magazine at the ghastly apparition. As before, the bolts did not hit. Nethor steadied himself again for another missile shot, but was too slow. The psyker thrust his sword in the Space Marine’s direction, a blast of churning warp energy flying from its tip to smash Nethor from his feet. His armour crumbled, turning to dust in moments, exposed flesh wrinkling and decaying beneath.
<
br /> Apollon fell next, sent spinning to the ground by a fresh wave of psychic lightning that surrounded him with a cloud of energy. Telemenus skirted to his right, glancing at his battle-brother’s twitching body.
‘It is folly to oppose me, brothers,’ the psyker spoke without malice, blood trickling from split lips as he uttered the words. ‘Your sacrifice will go unremembered, your glory unrewarded.’
‘I am no brother of yours,’ snarled Daellon. A swirl of burning promethium engulfed the enemy warrior, setting fire to his cloak and hair. The psyker staggered to the left and raised his empty hand against the inferno. More sickly yellow light spilled from his open palm, pushing back against the gout of flames.
Fingers curling into a fist, the psyker seemed to grab hold of the streaming promethium, lashing it like a whip back at Daellon. The Dark Angel flung the flamer away and dived to the ground as its fuel canister exploded, showering the defile with burning liquid.
‘You are all my brothers,’ the psyker continued. ‘If your blind masters had half the honour you possess, they would tell you the truth. I was once like you.’
‘I know you, traitor,’ said Telemenus. ‘You have shunned the Emperor and have no honour. You have the filthy heart of a heretic even if you were once a Space Marine.’
The psyker grinned, bearing a few rotted, pointed teeth, even as flecks of promethium continued to burn through the flesh of his face and flickered on his armour.
‘Not just a Space Marine, brother. A Dark Angel.’
‘Lies!’ roared Telemenus. There was a fresh magazine in his bolter, his instinct performing the act even as his conscious mind had been occupied. He opened fire, the thunder of his bolter loud in the defile. The hail of rounds swamped the psyker with detonations, but he did not stop in his stride.
The bolter clicked empty in Telemenus’s hands and he looked into that dead face and knew he was doomed. The psyker lifted his sword, the gleaming tip pointed at Telemenus’s heart.
‘May your soul take with it the torment of the newly-learnt truth,’ said the warrior, his grin turning into a sneer.
Telemenus narrowed his eyes. He recoiled more at the realisation that the sinister creature in front of him had once been a son of the Lion than at the thought of impending death.
Nothing happened.
The psyker’s brow creased in a heavy frown as he looked down at the weapon. His eyes widened a moment later and he turned, staring with shock up at the rocks overlooking the defile.
Telemenus followed his gaze. Three figures stood there, their armour as black as the night sky behind them, their outlines just a glimmer in the starlight. An axe head blazed into life, lighting the armour of Epistolary Harahel. The cables of his psychic hood buzzed with sparks of energy. Beside him a golden aquila gleamed; the crozius arcanum of Brother Malcifer. Between the two a long, silver-edged blade slid from a scabbard as Sammael unsheathed the Raven Sword.
‘Back away, brother,’ the Grand Master said, the words calming, cutting through the haze of confusion left by the psyker’s shocking pronouncement.
Telemenus did as he was told, stepping back down the defile, eyes still fixed on the Grand Master. Below Sammael, the psyker looked like an animal trapped in a snare, head twisting left and right as he sought a means of escape.
Sammael jumped from the top of the defile, the Raven Sword held in both hands. As he thudded to the rock, the silvery blade plunged into the renegade’s gut, erupting from his back. Pulling his sword free, Sammael swept the blade low, slicing through the psyker’s left knee, toppling him to the ground.
Harahel and Malcifer followed the Grand Master into the defile. Sammael reversed his grip on his blade and drove it through the shoulder of his prey, pinning him to the rock. Harahel laid the edge of his axe against the chest of the psyker and energy flowed, coursing with white light through the traitor. A scream of agony and despair echoed from the rocks and Telemenus turned away, stumbling back towards the road, mind boiling with the unthinkable truth.
Behind him the shrieking abruptly ceased, but he knew that the psyker was not dead. A worse fate awaited the traitor.
No, he corrected himself.
The Fallen Dark Angel.
Epilogue
Consequences
The five penitents sat with heads bowed in front of Sammael in the strike cruiser’s reclusiam. They had not looked at him since he had entered. Two he knew well, brothers from his company. The other three were of the Fifth, but the extent of their deeds had been made known to him by Malcifer and Seraphiel.
‘Sabrael, Annael,’ he said, intoning the names slowly. They did not raise their gazes, but stared diligently at the tiled floor. ‘In the midst of battle with the enemy, you shunned the duty of the Ravenwing. Our mission was to subjugate the traitor, yet you chose to act upon your own course to free Imperial Commander Drazinoff. Do you deny this?’
‘No, Grand Master,’ whispered Sabrael.
‘I cannot deny the charge,’ said Annael. His gaze flicked up to Sammael for a brief moment and then returned to the floor. ‘Did we save the governor?’
Unseen, Sammael’s lips twisted in a brief smile.
‘He recovers after a fashion,’ the Grand Master replied. His smile faded. ‘What have you to say in defence of your actions?’
Both Dark Angels said nothing.
‘You offer no justification for your deeds?’
‘We are subject to your will, Grand Master,’ said Sabrael. ‘Your judgement is the truth.’
‘I see.’ Their response pleased Sammael and made his final decision easier. He waited a moment, choosing the right words. ‘Such behaviour cannot pass without consequences. You will each spend ten days in the penitentium.’
‘Ten days?’ Annael looked up in surprise. The movement caused him to wince and his hand moved to the bandaged wounds beneath his robe. ‘Your leniency is unwarranted, Grand Master.’
‘There is a greater punishment in store for the both of you,’ Sammael continued solemnly. ‘You have seen a deeper truth than most. It is not honour or glory to act without thought, simply obeying orders for their own sake. I place a great burden upon you, because you have shown the character and strength of will to bear it in silence, resolute and unyielding. I am short of Black Knights and you will serve me in that role.’
Sabrael’s expression was one of confusion, while Annael showed relief.
‘Some may think this reward for your ill-discipline, but do not take it as such,’ the Grand Master warned. ‘As Black Knights you will be subject to the highest demands of body and soul. It is an onerous duty, but one of which you are both capable. When you have passed the Seventh Rite of the Raven you will understand that truth is the harshest master to serve.’
The two Space Marines nodded and remained silent. Sammael moved his attention to the three others.
‘Menthius.’ The warrior of the Fifth was still swathed in dressings, the flesh beneath burnt across much of his face and chest. He met Sammael’s gaze with a look of deference. Next to him Daellon, his burns only superficial, nodded without looking up as the Grand Master spoke his name.
‘Telemenus,’ Sammael intoned as his gaze moved to the last of the Dark Angels. The Space Marine’s hands were clasped fists in his lap, and his scalp was freshly shaven as a sign of penitence. At the mention of his name, Telemenus raised his face, a haunted look in his eyes.
‘You have been brought before an even darker truth,’ Sammael said, genuine sorrow filling him. The darkness of the Fallen had been cast upon them, despite his best efforts to shield them from the horrifying truth. All three had heard Methelas’s claim. In a way, their squad-brothers who had been slain had suffered the kinder fate. All three had been brought directly aboard the Implacable Justice and segregated from the other battle-brothers lest a careless word spilled from their lips. They had borne their incarceration stoicall
y, but there was no other course of action open to Sammael. ‘You do not serve under the aegis of the Ravenwing and it is not in my power to pardon or punish you. I have spoken with Sergeant Seraphiel on the matter.’ Sammael felt the warriors tense at the mention of their leader’s name. ‘I find myself in agreement with his judgement.’
Sammael stepped away and walked to the altar. He stood behind it and called for the three warriors to look at him.
‘As with the Black Knights, you shall know the burden of knowledge,’ he said slowly. ‘I cannot guide you on that path, but there are others that will. Upon our return to the Tower of Angels you shall be rendered into the care of the Deathwing. May their teachings salve the wounds you feel in your souls. Serve in the First Company with honour, and expunge the guilt and shame that has laid its dark grip upon you.’
Their eyes widened as realisation dawned. There were no smiles, for as with Sabrael and Annael, they realised the expectation and duty being placed upon them. They accepted the news with grim nods.
When he had dismissed all five of the warriors, Sammael left the reclusiam, exiting through a small door behind the altar. He followed a short corridor and came to a metal portal. Opening, he stepped into the room beyond; a cell with bare plasteel walls and floor.
Malcifer stood to one side, his armour discarded for his robe though he still wore the skull mask of his rank. There was blood on his bare hands and on a slab-like table in the middle of the chamber Methelas lay chained. Harahel stood on the far side of the room, arms folded, eyes closed in contemplation. The Fallen turned his head and spat blood as Sammael joined Malcifer.
‘There is no torture you can inflict upon me that will loosen my tongue, brothers,’ he said. ‘My patron guards my flesh and soul against suffering.’
‘Many have claimed as much,’ said Malcifer. ‘They have been wrong.’