Dark Angels: Lords of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Describe the rebels,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing untoward, master. Dissidents led by political opponents of the Imperial Commander, with weapons looted from the stores of the local forces. Nothing to offer significant resistance to warriors of the Adeptus Astartes.’ Sammael shrugged. ‘We took a few casualties, but in a matter of days the strength of the rebellion was broken, their command shattered and their lairs destroyed.’

  ‘Gideon became over-confident.’ Again it was a statement, not a question. ‘Faced with poor opposition he underestimated potential threats.’

  ‘I disagree, master.’ Sammael kept his tone level, trying to be critical of Azrael’s assessment and not the man who uttered it. ‘At that time there was no evidence to suggest any foe more significant than the rebels we had encountered.’

  ‘Perhaps you do not question Gideon’s judgement because it reflects poorly on his later declaration in support of your elevation to the position of Grand Master. If we doubt the first judgement we must also doubt the second.’

  The suggestion riled Sammael a little but he did not rise to the baited words.

  ‘Your judgement will be final, master. I relate the events simply as I experienced them. You wished for me to offer opinion and I did so.’

  Azrael nodded in acknowledgement of this defence. He gestured for Sammael to continue.

  ‘No commander I have served with could have predicted what happened next,’ said Sammael.

  The torrent of reports over the vox-network was the closest to panic Sammael had ever encountered in his time with the Chapter. Each measured, clipped message belied the anarchy that had suddenly engulfed the Ravenwing and it was by its mass rather than individual parts that the underlying consternation could be felt.

  Sammael understood the shock in those voices all too well. The same sense of dislocation and unreality was raging in his thoughts as bolter fire and missiles screamed down at the Black Knights from camouflaged bunkers ahead.

  ‘Power armoured enemy, moving through the woods to the west.’

  ‘Highly accurate heavy weapons fire, we are withdrawing.’

  ‘Converging fire from ground level and above. Where did they come from? Sergeant! Sergeant?’

  ‘Is that a Dreadnought, brother? Sector five. I swear I saw a...’

  A blast seared through Teranto’s bike just a few metres from Sammael, turning mount and rider into a roiling ball of superheated vapour and molten ceramite. Sammael swerved to avoid the expanding cloud of gas and atomised matter, recognising a multi-melta hit. His shouted warning was lost amongst the din filling the vox.

  ‘Armoured vehicles, old Legion patterns, breaking through the buildings on our flank.’

  ‘By the Emperor, traitors everywhere! Rebels have launched massive counter-attack through the marshalling yards!’

  ‘Autocannon position, end terrace. Covering fire with grenade launchers.’

  ‘We need a Nephilim strike, sector seventeen. Heavy armour incoming. Urgent request for air strike! Where is the air cover?’

  ‘Squadron Astrael reporting. Two Land Speeders destroyed. Request Apothecary retrieval for survivors. Providing cover fire. Enemy are pushing forward, support needed immediately.’

  Sammael glimpsed colour ahead: bulky shapes moving through the rubble of a refinery that had been levelled by orbital bombardment. The fortifications around it had shown clear on the auspex scans. Sammael checked his steed’s display again. Still it registered no enemy despite the torrent of fire that had erupted from the supposedly empty bunker line.

  ‘Some kind of masking shield,’ he said, but nobody seemed to be listening. The Black Knights were each concentrating on staying alive, dodging between mortar bomb eruptions, whickering heavy bolter fire and the stabbing ruby beam of a lascannon. Sammael turned his bike towards this last threat, unleashing a salvo of shots from its plasma talons into the firing pit where the heavy weapon was stationed.

  It was then that he saw something that caused him a moment’s pause. The lascannon was no tripod-mounted support weapon as he had expected. It was carried on the shoulder of a warrior in power armour, dwarfing the poorly-armoured rebels.

  A Traitor legionary.

  Sammael did not know the foe from his deep red livery, but as the enemy Space Marine turned to fire his lascannon the yellow and black sigil emblazoned on his shoulder revealed his former allegiances. A renegade of the Word Bearers Legion. There were others around him – more giants in red armour, some in black, pushing out to encircle the Ravenwing advance.

  ‘All vanguard squadrons to pull back!’ This last came from Gideon, cutting through the chatter. ‘Withdraw immediately, do not get drawn into prolonged engagement.’

  To Sammael’s right the Grand Master pulled his jetbike into a tight turn, pulling away from the refinery and its defenders. Sammael followed suit, the wheels of his mount sending up showers of grits and dust as he hauled Withermare across the broken ferrocrete of the street.

  The shots of the rebels and Traitor Space Marines followed them as they sped back up the road, Sammael’s soul heavy with thoughts of failure.

  ‘Gideon’s response to evidence of the Traitor Legions was to break off the attack. He surrendered what momentum the assault had gained.’

  Sammael looked at the Supreme Grand Master and wondered if Azrael was conducting this inquiry to find the truth or was simply seeking to confirm an opinion already formed. The Black Knight spoke up in defence of Gideon. Nobody else could.

  ‘Grand Master Gideon assessed that we were not in a position to prosecute a successful attack with the speed and decisiveness required. Although it transpired in our later reconnaissance that the Traitor legionaries were no more than a few dozen in number, they had armoured vehicles and heavy weaponry that negated the advantages we had over the rebels. As well as their direct military impact they were also leading the enemy, who numbered several thousand, coordinating their attacks, bolstering their resolve, and had been doing so since the outset.’

  ‘So it was a trap?’ It was the first question Azrael had asked.

  ‘I believe so. Gideon also thought that it was likely. Our early successes had been an attempt to lure us into a false sense of confidence so that we might over-extend our efforts. Grand Master Gideon’s swift command to withdraw enabled over ninety per cent of the company to escape the ambushes. Had we stayed to fight, we would have been wiped out.’

  ‘That is your assessment, Sammael. I have my own.’ Azrael folded his arms, jaw set. ‘Continue with your account. Gideon thought it wise to continue with the attacks even though the enemy were well-prepared in fortified positions.’

  ‘The Grand Master convened a council of the veterans and the decision was unanimous to continue the offensive. We considered waiting for Chapter reinforcements or the weight of the Imperial Guard, but the risk that the traitors would gain a further grip on the populace, or perhaps escape from Kapua, outweighed the dangers of continuing the campaign.

  ‘The next phase of fighting vindicated the Grand Master’s decision. Our orbital support had been curtailed by intervention from the traitor’s warships, and our air power seriously compromised. Lacking the firepower needed for a direct attack, the company began a series of supply raids and feint assaults. Over the course of seven days these proved troublesome enough for the enemy to react. The rebels led by the Word Bearers in particular were prone to being lured out of position by these baiting attacks. We later discovered there were also Space Marines bearing unaffiliated black livery, who proved far less headstrong.’

  ‘To what purpose were these attacks directed?’

  ‘With precision strategy, we were able to weaken part of the cordon around the city of Vespengard. If the company could breach the city then the enemy defensive line would be rendered worthless. Once the fortifications had been penetrated, forces still loyal to the Imperium could assa
ult Vespengard while the company continued to confound the enemy from behind their line.’

  ‘A strategy that seems to have some merit.’ Azrael scratched the side of his nose, his attitude seeming to soften for a moment. Then his expression hardened again and the next words rasped angrily. ‘But it was not, was it? Due to imprecise intelligence, the attack ran into fierce opposition. Gideon led the Ravenwing into an even greater trap than the one they had already survived.’

  With Nephilim and Dark Talon fighters screaming overhead and Thunderhawks and Land Speeders pounding the buildings and streets along their flanks, the bikers of the Ravenwing plunged towards the heart of Vespengard. Sammael and his Black Knights accompanied Gideon as always, a few metres behind the Grand Master’s jetbike, their steeds leaving dust and exhaust fumes filling the street in their wake.

  Missiles from Land Speeder Typhoons raked along rooftops, setting factories, administration buildings and hab-blocks ablaze while the battle­cannons and lascannons of the gunships shredded the improvised barricades that had been thrown across the roads along the path of the attack squadrons on the ground. Heavy bolters and assault cannons on Land Speeder Tornados held the rear, keeping the rebels pinned in their bunkers and trenches.

  A sudden surge of energy flashed across the auspex display of Withermare. At first Sammael thought it was one of the inner city power stations exploding, but the truth revealed itself half a minute later when a monstrous engine stepped into view at the far end of the boulevard ahead.

  The Reaver Titan was a colossus of the Dark Age of Technology, twelve stories high, its vaguely humanoid form obscured by the purple and blue flickering of void shields. The street underfoot cracked and sagged beneath its weight while windows exploded as its void shields touched them, filling the air with glittering shards. The blare of its war horn roared down the boulevard, overloading Sammael’s autosenses and shattering more glass.

  The Titan’s original battle colours, black and orange, could still be seen on the war banners hanging from its weapon mounts, emblazoned with a horned skull and flames. Its body was more like living flesh than metal and ceramite, flexing and bulging with ruddy muscles corded with brass-like veins, protected by serrated, overlapping armour plates. Where once the head and crew deck had been there was now a monstrous daemonic face surrounded by curling horns, its mouth rimmed with whirring chainblades like teeth. Piercing yellow eyes blazed with hideous light as its murderous gaze fell upon the Black Knights. Its right arm was a multi-barrelled gatling blaster, its left a huge fist encased in coruscating black energy that crackled from the tips of its barbed claws. Atop its angled carapace a twin-muzzled turbo-laser swung towards the gunships now converging on its position.

  With a blinding flash, the turbo-laser opened fire, giving Sammael no time to wonder how such a monstrosity had been concealed from the Dark Angels augurs and orbital surveys; the reality was that it had. The beam intersected with a Thunderhawk, splitting it from cockpit to tail. As the remains of the gunship rained down on the city the gatling blaster spewed a torrent of shells along the boulevard.

  The Black Knights reacted without command, veering hard to the left as Gideon wrenched his jetbike away from the stream of explosions tearing towards the squadron. The turbo-laser fire stabbed out again, incinerating a Land Speeder Tornado racing across the rooftops from the west. Too fast for the Titan’s main weapons to target, the Nephilim fighters and Dark Talon interceptors plunged down, opening fire with rift cannons and missiles.

  Sammael’s last glimpse of the Reaver was of the Titan wreathed in coruscating warp power as its void shields absorbed the attacks of the aircraft. Autocannons and anti-air missile streaked up from the surrounding streets, driving off the interceptors and fighters midway through their attack runs.

  ‘All units, break off attack. Withdraw to assault point alpha.’ Gideon’s voice was laced with regret. ‘All units, withdraw.’

  A moment after the order had been issued, a communication arrived from Sergeant Versian leading the rearguard.

  ‘Grand Master, Traitor legionaries converging on our withdrawal sector. Word Bearers and heavy armour have cut off retreat route alpha.’

  The news was almost as devastating as a salvo from the Titan. The Ravenwing were trapped inside the city.

  Sammael closed his eyes, reliving the moment of realisation. His hearts were beating faster even now, months later. He calmed himself and when he opened his eyes, he found himself locked by Ezekiel’s unblinking stare once more. Azrael’s voice seemed to come from a distance, muffled and indistinct.

  ‘Gideon did not form up the company for a forced breakout. He chose to remain in the contested city.’

  It was with some difficulty that Sammael dredged up the facts from his memory. The Black Knight had to wonder if Ezekiel was deliberately dulling his senses, or was this simply a side effect of the Librarian’s scrutiny?

  ‘Had the company come together and been baulked in the breakout, we would have been exceptionally vulnerable to encirclement. The situation was dire, but we still had the advantage of mobility. By dispersing the company we were able to maintain a moving threat. The Traitors and their war engine could not be everywhere, and if they tried to tighten the trap then it would present opportunities for counter-attack.’

  ‘Surely the battle for Vespengard was already lost, Sammael. What did Gideon hope to achieve by remaining in such close proximity to the enemy?’

  ‘It was the Grand Master’s firm belief that the skill with which we had been deceived indicated a superior level of intelligence possessed by the enemy commander. We faced a coalition of forces, and the nature of their purpose in luring our formation onto Kapua suggested a very specific reason why we had been targeted.’

  ‘He thought the enemy commander was one of the Fallen?’ Azrael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Supposition, nothing more.’

  ‘At the time it made sense, and the possibility of capturing one of the Fallen could not be overlooked. The enemy’s only strength was the abomination of the traitor Mechanicus. If the Titan could be overcome, the city would swiftly fall into the hands of loyal forces again and the enemy commander run to ground.’

  ‘A rash decision. It seems uncharacteristic of Gideon to be so foolhardy so soon after being ensnared.’ Azrael’s voice became more determined even as Ezekiel’s stare bore deeper and deeper into Sammael’s soul. ‘What are you not telling us, Brother Sammael? Why are you holding back?’

  ‘By the Lion and the Emperor, I swear I am being forthright and truthful,’ the Black Knight replied, trying hard not to plead. There was no pain, not of the kind he had felt before, but Ezekiel’s psychic probing was like tiny lacerations in his thoughts, parting his mind into a thousand pieces to inspect the constituent parts.

  Suddenly the sensation ended. Sammael flopped back, realising that he had been hunched forward with every muscle taut. His breath came in short gasps and his hearts thundered in his chest.

  ‘If you insist,’ said Azrael, looking unconvinced. ‘Gather your thoughts. Do not leave this cell. We will return shortly.’

  Ezekiel stood up and followed the Supreme Grand Master out into the corridor. Sammael tried to relax, taking long breaths to ease himself back into a stable state. Through the open door he could see the pale armour of the two Deathwing Knights.

  The Black Knight knew that the departure of his superiors was simply part of the interrogation, perhaps to unsettle him further or otherwise disrupt his thinking. It was hard not to get drawn into the notion that this was a battle of wits, Sammael versus Azrael, trying to prove something out of principle and opposition rather than to arrive at the truth.

  Sammael forced himself to calm down. Even if he didn’t regard this as a battle, it appeared that Azrael did, and Sammael had learnt long ago the importance of using any lull in hostilities to regroup, resupply and relax. His interrogators could be back any mo
ment or at any day, but he had to be prepared for either eventuality.

  A shout from outside snapped him back to full attention. He was uncertain whether moments or hours had passed. Normally his internal time perception was perfect, to all intents and purposes, even when unconscious – an effect of the gene-crafted catalapsean node interacting with his cerebellum, basal ganglia and other time-sensitive brain networks. The sensation of dislocation was alien and awkward.

  ‘Stay there,’ barked one of the Deathwing Knights through his vocaliser, disappearing from view as quickly as he had appeared. In the darkness of the corridor, the armour of the other faded from view.

  Sammael did as he had been told, suspecting that this was part of the interrogation, a test of his obedience to orders. Azrael had commanded him to wait, so he would wait.

  Several more minutes passed before the other Deathwing warrior returned. He recognised the posture of a vox-link exchange between the two guards. There seemed to be some form of disagreement between them. After the exchange, the Space Marine that had left departed again. A few seconds later the remaining Deathwing warrior approached the cell.

  ‘One of the Fallen has slipped his captivity,’ the Space Marine confided. ‘I’ve been ordered to stay here to watch you, but we both know that would be a waste of manpower.’

  Sammael hesitated. Was this a snare constructed to betray disloyalty? It seemed possible, but Sammael could not be sure. If there was actually a Fallen on the loose in the dungeons there could be untold havoc before he was recaptured. Sammael would rather be damned for something he did than something he didn’t, but caution tempered his desire for action.

  ‘Do not remain on my account, brother,’ he told the other Dark Angel. ‘Assist your brethren.’

  The Deathwing Knight nodded his thanks and moved out of sight, leaving Sammael alone in the cell with the door open.

  The echo of boots drifted away and then returned, along with other noises: the report of a bolt pistol firing and the rasp of motors and screech of metal. The corridors turned these sounds into drawn-out reverberations, but Sammael recognised their sequence easily enough – a close range shot followed by a brief duel of chainswords.