Dark Angels: Lords of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  • LEGACY OF CALIBAN •

  RAVENWING

  MASTER OF SANCTITY

  THE UNFORGIVEN

  ANGELS OF DARKNESS

  THE PURGING OF KADILLUS

  A Space Marine Battles novel

  PANDORAX

  A Space Marine Battles novel

  DARK VENGEANCE

  ACCEPT NO FAILURE

  An audio drama

  TRIALS OF AZRAEL

  An audio drama

  MALEDICTION

  An audio drama

  Explore the origins of the Dark Angels in The Horus Heresy series

  DESCENT OF ANGELS

  A Horus Heresy novel, also available as an unabridged audiobook

  FALLEN ANGELS

  A Horus Heresy novel, also available as an unabridged audiobook

  THE LION

  A Horus Heresy novella, also available as an unabridged audiobook

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

  ‘Seventeen worlds have drowned in blood. Seventeen worlds and countless mil­lions hewn down by the battle-lust of a single man. Now that rage incarnate has beset Durga Principe. Here we will halt the tide.’

  So had been the last command of Master Nadael of the Dark Angels Third Company before he too had fallen to the horde of the arch-traitor Furion. In the darkness they had come, cleaving through the outer perim­eter like a blade.

  Now the warriors from the Tower of Angels looked to Sergeant Belial for leadership even as the night was torn apart by distant ­battle cries and the baying of Furion’s manic Skull-scythes. In the ruins of the Temple Saturnis, a complex of sandstone and marble that covered several square kilometres, looked down upon by cracked statues of the Emperor and his saints, Belial held swift council with the veterans of the company.

  ‘We cannot hold the temple. Master Nadael had hoped to fortify before Furion’s arrival, but it is too late. The naves and galleries provide too much cover for the foe and our superiority of firepower is for nought.’ Belial gestured westward to the palace-topped hill that overlooked the Temple Saturnis. ‘We must withdraw to the flanks of Mount Dawon and await the dawn.’

  ‘Fine strategy, but flawed,’ countered Sergeant Meneus, chosen representa­tive of the company’s Devastator squads. ‘The enemy will fall upon our turned backs before we can quit this place. It will become our mausoleum.’

  ‘True, brother, but only if we turn tail and flee like rats. This will be a withdrawal, not a rout. A rearguard will entertain the Skull-scythes while the remainder of the company relocates. I shall lead the defence.’

  There was no further argument from the others. They well understood the need for rapid action and the sacrifice Belial was willing to make. Returning to his squad, Belial ordered his warriors to break out from the Dark Angels line, heading towards the foe. Augur readings showed the traitors were less than a kilometre away and closing swiftly.

  ‘I am resolved to my death tonight,’ remarked Lederon, second only to Belial in seniority amongst the squad, ‘but is it wise to hasten that moment with our own advance?’

  ‘If we cannot hold, we must attack, it is that simple,’ explained Belial as the ten Space Marines marched through the tumble of toppled pillars, col­lapsed shrines and broken chapels. The skies were clear, allowing the three moons to bathe the ruins in pale blue light. ‘Every second and every metre are vital.’

  They met the first traitors in a crumbling, plant-choked cloister. Clad in white armour marked with handprints and smears of dried blood the Skull-scythes spilled through an archway. They were met by the fire of the squad’s bolters, missile launcher and meltagun.

  ‘No forgiveness! No retreat!’ Belial roared as the enemy tumbled to the ground amidst the torrent of bolts and blasts.

  The firefight was brutally short, but the peace that followed was only momentary as more of the slaughter-hungry foe converged on the Dark Angels. To tarry was to invite encirclement. Belial led the squad through the archway into the courtyard beyond, laying down fire with his bolt pistol. Like moths to a flame the Skull-scythes were drawn to the fighting, howling for blood and death.

  The Dark Angels took a heavy toll, manoeuvring through the ruins for ambuscades and crossfires that cut down the traitors as they plunged head­long into the attack. Through streaks of pale light and shadows in roofless cathedrals and across devastated quad­rangles Belial steered the squad, always seeking open ground, knowing that at close quarters his warriors would be overwhelmed. Building by building, street by street, they gave ground to the enemy advance, stopping to give fire when possible, moving back towards their battle-­brethren when they could not.

  ‘We have drawn their sting, brother-sergeant. It would be unwise to remain any longer,’ said Lederon. The veteran’s observation was correct: the rest of the Third were clear of the ancient Ecclesiarchy buildings and the squad was almost at the edge of the ruins.

  ‘Agreed, brother,’ replied Belial. ‘We fall back to the company.’

  As soon as he uttered these words, another force of Skull-scythes appeared in the darkness. At their fore strode a beast of a warrior. His plate was adorned with spiked chains, and from the chains hung trophy-skulls that clattered as they swung. In both hands he bore a massive chain-axe, its teeth glinting in the wan light.

  Furion, arch-traitor, thrice-cursed slaughterer.

  ‘Your little game of hide and seek is over, son of the Lion!’ Furion bel­lowed as he broke into a run. Behind him, the Skull-scythes screamed dedications to their dark god and followed their champion’s charge.

  The Dark Angels opened fire, standing their ground to blaze away at the approaching enemy. Furion ignored the detonations of bolt-rounds on his armour, sprinting through the storm without pause. His axe took Brother Mendeleth’s head clean off in one sweep; the traitor’s return swing eviscer­ated Lederon in a welter of blood and shattered armour.

  ‘Keep firing!’ Belial snarled as he bounded forward to meet the attack. He was too late to save Brother Sabellion, whose torso was cleaved from waist to shoulder. Belial would atone for his slowness if he survived.

&nb
sp; As shots from Belial’s pistol exploded across his armour, Furion turned to meet the sergeant’s counterattack. Raising his chainsword for the strike, Belial ducked beneath Furion’s blade as the traitor swept it towards the Dark Angel’s throat. The teeth of the chainsword bit into armour, screech­ing as they chewed into Furion’s left arm.

  Furion lashed out as blood spurted from his wounded limb, smashing the haft of his weapon into the side of Belial’s head. Out of instinct, the sergeant raised his blade to ward away the next blow. Razor-sharp shards of metal showered around him as chain-blade met chain-blade. Furion’s next strike shattered Belial’s weapon and sent him stumbling to his right.

  Lifting his axe in victory, the Skull-scythes lord loomed over the sprawl­ing sergeant.

  ‘Blood for the Bl–’

  Furion’s triumphant roar was cut short by the bark of Belial’s bolt pistol. The explosive round pierced the collar of the traitor’s armour and deto­nated inside his throat to send his head arcing away into the darkness. For a moment Belial was taken aback by his deadly reflex shot.

  The headless corpse crashed to the ground and Belial recovered, realising that only he and Brother Ramiel remained standing amongst friend and foe. Thermal registers betrayed the presence of other enemies close at hand.

  ‘The death of the Skull-scythes’ leader will cause our foe some strife, and let us hope the search for his successor delays them further,’ said Belial. ‘Our duty here is done to my satisfaction, brother. To Mount Dawon, where the guns of the Third wait to greet these traitors.’

  The cell stank of despair. There were ancient blood stains painted on the walls and floor, written in the adrenaline-filled reek of sweat in the air. The red glow of a single guttering lamp barely touched the walls, which were hewn from the raw foundations of the Rock, deep beneath the Dark Angels’ space-faring fortress-monastery. Here was not the carved stone and intricate tapestries of the Tower of Angels; here was the naked remnant of Caliban, preserved within countless power fields and held together by graviometic archeotech that perhaps even the Master of the Forge no longer fully understood.

  The weight of ten thousand years pushed down on Sammael every bit as much as the millions of tons of architecture above this dismal place.

  Stripped of his armour, clad only in a black robe of the Ravenwing adorned with a silver symbol denoting his rank as a Black Knight, Sammael was under no illusion regarding why he had been brought here. The two Deathwing Knights that flanked him, resplendent in full bone-coloured power armour, had treated him as a prisoner from the moment they had taken him from his solitary contemplation in the Reclusiam. By ways unknown to Sammael, and passing no other Space Marine or serf, they had brought him down to the lower levels. Though Sammael could not say where exactly in the dungeons of the Rock the cell lay, he knew well enough the reputation of the place and others like it.

  On entry to the Ravenwing he had been initiated into the first of the Rites of the Raven and had learn of the Fallen. He had absorbed such knowledge without shock. He was not sure why he had not been surprised by the revelation that warriors of the Dark Angels had turned on the primarch and the Emperor during the uprising of Warmaster Horus. It was possible that his suspicions of such an event had brought him to the attention of the Chaplains and ultimately the Ravenwing.

  As he had risen through the seven Rites, he had learnt more – more about the Fallen and how to hunt them, and more of the arts of the Interrogators that offered them the chance for repentance in cells like this one, dragging forth confession and absolution from bloodied flesh.

  A small wooden table and two sturdy chairs were all that furnished the cell; so simple, so domestic in their construction yet given an ominous air by context. Sammael would have felt more comfortable had there been a shelf of torture implements, brands and hooks and knives rather than the plain furnishings, but there was no overt sign of the excruciation suffered by others who had been brought here before.

  There was no fear in Sammael as his guards pushed him into the cell and slammed the heavy steel shut behind him. Not fear of torture, at least. He was no Fallen and he could not believe that his battle-brothers would turn their bloody attentions upon him as punishment for the debacle at Kapua. There was no need to extract any account, he would freely tell them what had happened and how the disaster had unfolded.

  That was not why he was here, though. There was another reason behind the secret abduction and the intimidating surrounds. The cell was the destination of a journey he had started before Kapua, before Gideon’s fall.

  The chatter of autogun fire echoed across the wide courtyard, masking the sound of punctured flesh and splintering stone. Only when they had emptied the magazines of their weapons did the firing squad cease shooting, drawing up their rifles to their shoulders in a salute to the armoured Space Marines overseeing the execution. Grand Master Gideon, his black armour overlaid with golden icons and the heraldry of the Ravenwing, gave a signal to their sergeant, who dismissed the troop. The ten defence troopers, natives of Kaphon Betis, filed away, leaving the two Dark Angels with a dozen bullet-riddled corpses.

  ‘A fitting end for traitors,’ said Sammael, glaring down at the bodies. ‘Filthy xenos-worshippers. The lowest kind of scum, turning on their own kind for the favours of aliens.’

  ‘Misguided for certain,’ agreed Gideon. He took off his helm, revealing dark hair and angular features, a scar across his throat disappearing behind the gorget of his armour. He looked at Sammael and shrugged. ‘Only a deviant mind could hope for succour from the very creatures that kill and enslave one’s kith and kin. Desperate, insane. The eldar plied their evil in Kaphon for many decades before we came. It is a shame that some succumbed to despair and started to entreat them, but they were a small minority.’

  ‘A tiny group, to be sure, but influential,’ replied Sammael. He was aware that Gideon had singled him out to oversee the firing squad, though there were many members of the Second Company that were his senior. It was no secret that the Grand Master had taken a special interest, and there were few that would argue that Sammael did not deserve the recognition and attention he received. Sammael wanted to prove that his superior’s faith was well-placed, to demonstrate the qualities worthy of a Black Knight and perhaps, one day, a Master.

  ‘Less than two hundred, but there are many in positions of power. They willingly allowed the eldar to harvest those that looked to them for protection. I am sure the aliens were more than happy to cooperate. Had we not heard rumours of instability and division in this system, the xenos cultists might have turned even more to their twisted cause.’

  ‘By the grace of the Emperor, we arrived and now the threat has been ended.’ Gideon waved a hand at the piled bodies. ‘These are the last of them. We will depart by nightfall and return to the Rock.’

  ‘The last?’ Sammael was surprised. ‘We have not yet caught the ringleader. The so-called Lord Cypher.’

  Gideon’s stare was as sharp as the Raven Sword hanging at his hip. ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  ‘Chatter from the prisoners. One of them thought they would be saved by a ‘Lord Cypher’.’ Sammael read consternation in the expression of his superior. ‘I have not yet had time to search the planetary records, but I am sure we will unearth this traitorous noble soon enough.’

  ‘You have not spoken of this to anybody else?’ Sammael answered Gideon’s question with a shake of the head. ‘Good, let it remain so.’

  Sammael felt as though he had done something wrong, but he had no idea what the infraction had been. He sought refuge in formality to hide his confusion. ‘If that is your command, grand master.’ Apparently the attempt was unsuccessful.

  ‘This is a far graver matter than you know, Sammael,’ Gideon told him. At first it looked as though that was all he would say on the matter, but after a pause he continued, his voice little more than a whisper as his eyes darted around
the courtyard before settling on Sammael. ‘The title is not from Kaphon Betis, it is from Caliban.’

  ‘Caliban? Our destroyed home world? How can that be possible?’

  ‘Cypher is one of the Fallen, Sammael. More than that. The worst of them, intent on destroying all that remains of the Legion he once served. If he has been in Kaphon there is far more at play here than eldar raids and heretic sympathisers.’

  The scrape of footfalls outside the door drew Sammael from his the recollection of when he had first heard the name of Cypher. The cell door opened and two familiar figures loomed large in the corridor beyond: Supreme Grand Master Azrael and Chief Librarian Ezekiel. The two most senior Dark Angels entered in silence and the door closed behind them.

  Azrael gestured for Sammael to remain seated and stood to one side, while Ezekiel sat in the chair opposite. The Librarian’s bionic eye gleamed red, matching the ruddy glow of the lantern. His other eye seemed a pit of blackness, swallowing the light. Sammael felt himself drawn into those depths, and shuddered despite every effort when he saw golden motes of energy within the gaze of the psyker.

  ‘You will tell me about Kapua.’ Azrael spoke the words without emotion, a flat statement of fact. Sammael answered, but his gaze was locked with the stare of Ezekiel, unable to break the trance the Librarian had set upon him.

  ‘There seemed little danger at first. We had detected an astropathic call for assistance in putting down a small-scale rebellion on the world of Kapua. We entered the system some seventeen days later and made orbit over the primary world, Kapua Seven. After short conference with the aides of the Imperial Commander, who we were told were overseeing the fighting personally, Grand Master Gideon organised and launched a standard drop assault on the rebel holdings less than fifty kilometres from the city of Vespengard.’

  Ezekiel had not blinked, but it was as though he had allowed Sammael a moment of release and the Black Knight took it, turning his attention to the Supreme Grand Master. Azrael’s cold stare was only slightly less intimidating.