Space Marine Legends: Azrael

by Gav Thorpe

The heavy thud of their tread reverberated around the vaulted space, echoing back from bare ferrocrete walls along which were mounted yellow lanterns like torches in sconces, fed by exposed cabling that crawled over the grey artificial stone. Overhead lumen strips hung from the metal rafters, their dull light barely enough to reach the slabs of the floor.

  The Deathwing advanced swiftly, a broad line abreast, weapons angled to cover the archways and doors to either side. The returns from the sensorium shifted, signals melting away, heading down and beneath the Terminators to flow behind them like the sea churning in the wake of a ship.

  ‘Therizon, watch your rear,’ Belial warned.

  ‘We see them,’ the other sergeant replied. ‘We have your backs.’

  Azrael had pushed on in full confidence that the other squads would secure the battle zone behind them. He trusted his sergeants and their squads to fight impeccably, freeing him to concentrate solely on more strategic matters. His thoughts were fixed on the fluctuating sensor beacon from his objective.

  ‘What is the mission, Grand Master?’ asked Belial.

  ‘To retrieve the Chapter banner and the corpse of the Supreme Grand Master. We will secure the area and await reinforcement from the Fourth Company. We will then scour the remaining area of all rebels.’

  ‘Understood, brother-captain.’

  They continued in silence, unmolested until they reached the far end of the hall some three hundred metres from the entrance.

  ‘Daeron, flank left,’ Azrael told the accompanying squad. ‘I see an energy cluster about thirty metres away. Possible conveyor control chamber. Investigate. We will secure the transit lobby.’

  The assault Terminators peeled away, heading to one of the large archways leading to the surrounding rooms. As the distance increased, the sensorium link wavered. When Sergeant Daeron passed into the adjoining corridor the link was severed, reducing Azrael’s input to the Terminators in his immediate vicinity.

  ‘Thermal concentration ahead,’ remarked Meritus. ‘Could be enemy.’

  ‘Or an environmental heat exchange,’ said Azrael as he studied the blur of orange on his display. He motioned for Belial, Meritus and Galad to break right towards one set of doors while he led Turivael and Garvel to another doorway to the left.

  Garvel went first with his thunder hammer readied, storm shield raised against possible attack. The door was barely high enough for him to pass through, and his pauldrons scraped the frames as he turned sideways through the doorway.

  ‘Tight fit,’ he muttered. ‘Barely room to swing a sword.’

  The foyer beyond was small, just large enough for Azrael to follow Garvel, the two of them shoulder to shoulder in front of a flight of steps and the doors of an ascender cage. Belial and Meritus arrived at the other end of the corridor, the space filled with their bulk.

  The conveyor beside Belial was open and he backed away as far as he could while he gestured to Azrael.

  ‘I doubt more than one of us could get in there,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘If it can take the weight,’ added Meritus.

  ‘Perhaps that is the intent of the foe,’ said Azrael. ‘To divide and isolate us in the close confines.’

  Before the others could respond, the sharp crack of bolters rattled in the distance and the vox snarled into life.

  ‘Targets engaged,’ reported Therizon. ‘Nothing dramatic, brother-captain.’

  ‘Daeron, report,’ said Azrael, concerned that the sergeant and his squad were separated from the sensorium link. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘As you suspected, Grand Master, we have located a generator chamber. Oil-fed, very basic. Shall we shut it down?’

  Azrael looked at the small conveyors and then the stairs.

  ‘No, not at present. We will attempt to find a more suitable route to the upper levels. Continue to guard our flank.’

  ‘Affirmative, Grand Master. The enemy are keeping their distance at present. Will report any significant change.’

  Azrael turned to Belial.

  ‘There must be some means for the citadel to transport heavier loads to the gun turrets. A munitions elevator or similar. Back to the hall – we shall investigate the rooms on the northern side of the fortress.’

  They filed back into the central grand chamber and followed Azrael as he headed towards the archway opposite the one by which Daeron’s squad had departed. The bareness of the walls disturbed Azrael. Though the Iron Stalagmite was military in origin it was also a seat of planetary governance that would have played host to visiting dignitaries, trade delegations and others. It was too austere for such ceremonies.

  He realised the hall must have previously been decorated with banners and other hangings – torn down when the occupants had rebelled against the Imperium. Even so, the lack of slogans and graffiti was at odds with his experience. Dissidents were keen to make their own mark in the vacuum of Imperial sigils, to display their independence and greater power, but there was nothing to denote the allegiance, goals or ideals of the rebels at all.

  Did they have an agenda at all, or had they merely been manipulated into uprising by the Night Lords? What precisely had brought the renegades to Rhamiel? The Supreme Grand Master had believed it was the work of the Fallen, the Dark Angels own secret traitors from the dark days of the Horus Heresy. If that was the case there was still a monumental task ahead: to overthrow the rebels, defeat the Night Lords and, if possible, apprehend the Fallen without involving battle-brothers kept ignorant of their existence.

  In the light of such thoughts, Azrael understood a little better Naberius’ decision to launch a focused lightning strike against the Iron Stalagmite. The Chapter Master had hoped to deliver a decisive stroke against their foes whilst isolating any potential Fallen involvement. The Deathwing, each First Company veteran already aware of the Fallen’s existence, had been on standby to provide a swift response. Similarly the Ravenwing, the mounted Second Company, formed a swift moving cordon to intercept any traitors that might escape the fortress, taking them into custody before they reached the battle-brothers of the main siege line.

  It had been a good plan, right up until the moment the Supreme Grand Master’s gunship had been shot down.

  The corridor beyond the hall was tight, forcing the squad to advance in single file. Belial took the lead, Azrael a couple of metres behind, and the rest of the squad following with Meritus bringing up the rear. The sensorium did not provide much assistance or direction, except to display the rough layout of passageways and chambers, which became increasingly maze-like away from the main hall. There was, however, a broader space fifty metres ahead. It was just inside the citadel’s wall. Azrael highlighted this in the sensorium, marking it as their objective.

  ‘A hidden secondary gate, perhaps,’ he told the squad. ‘Internal loading area with bulk conveyors, I hope.’

  ‘Am I the only one that isn’t happy about how easy this has been?’ said Cadael. ‘Resistance has been virtually non-existent.’

  ‘Stay focused,’ said Azrael, though he shared the Terminator’s concern. ‘If they think to draw us in for ambush, they will not live long to regret the favours they have granted us.’

  They continued in silence, moving past storerooms filled with consumables in boxes and sacks. Each chamber was almost full, small walkways left between the piles of stores and sagging shelves.

  ‘They brought in a lot of supplies,’ remarked Cadael.

  ‘Preparing for the worst,’ said Belial.

  ‘I think they must have been expecting attack before we arrived, brother-sergeant,’ Cadael continued. ‘It would have taken weeks to gather all of these stores.’

  ‘That means little,’ the sergeant replied. ‘They have broken from the Imperium – they must have expected some form of retaliation.’

  Azrael only half-listened to the ongoing conversation, subconsciously assimilating their exchanges in the same way he monitored the occasional vox chatter and reports from the other squads. He was oc
cupied with the same issues that Naberius must have wrestled with. As Grand Master of the Deathwing he was well acquainted with the necessity to prevent knowledge of the Fallen spreading too far through the Chapter. It had been his duty on several occasions to directly intercede to ensure that his warriors were present at a crucial moment to spirit away the offending traitor.

  But it had been Naberius’ strategy that had engineered such opportunity. Now that he was confronted with the reality of the potential task - to win a military campaign whilst hamstrung by the need for secrecy at the highest level – Azrael found the proposition daunting.

  A fluctuation on the sensorium pulled him out of his thoughts. The squad had reached a T-junction. A wider corridor, broad enough for two Terminators abreast, ran across their line of approach, with the objective just ten metres further on. The passage to the left continued for about thirty metres before a turn to bring it alongside the outer wall.

  His attention had been drawn by an energy surge that rippled through the surrounding rooms. The others had seen it and instinctively paused in their advance. Belial took a few paces towards their objective while Azrael turned left to cover the opposite approach. He could see nothing in the standard visual spectrum, but the overlaid rendition of the sensorium picked out a tracery of orange and yellow power feeds that snaked along and through the walls ahead.

  A buzzing started, low and indistinct. He could not isolate the source; it was emanating from the ceiling and walls, in front and behind.

  ‘Can you hear that? Can you see that?’ asked Meritus. The Deathwing Terminator covered the corridor along which they had advanced, and via the sensorium Azrael could see a shadow creeping slowly up the passageway towards Meritus. ‘I think I’m experiencing a malfunction.’

  ‘I hear it, brother,’ replied Galad. ‘We all can.’

  The darkness was not a thing in itself, but the absence of the power grid. This was no shutdown – no immediate cessation of supply. It was as though something was moving along the conduits, devouring the electricity within. In its wake the sensorium went dark as well, just flickers of sound and the occasional spark like a distant star.

  ‘Emperor’s throne, it’s... eating the light!’ Meritus’ exclamation was dramatic, impossible, but accurate. The shadow had reached the extent of his suit lamps, twenty metres ahead, but the beams from the high-powered lumens of his armour simply stopped as though hitting a black wall. A wall that was edging closer, a few centimetres every second.

  ‘Shall I open fire, Grand Master?’

  ‘Test rounds, four rapid,’ Azrael replied, monitoring the other sensor feeds. The shadow was definitely originating from a single source rather than approaching from multiple directions.

  The bark of Meritus’ storm bolter was sharp and loud. The four shells shrieked down the corridor. Their propellant sparks blinked out and then disappeared into a black veil, their detonation suppressed or enveloped by the encroaching shadow.

  ‘Sergeant Daeron, report.’ Azrael kept the command short, forcing a calmness he did not feel. ‘Therizon, what is your situation?’

  Static replied.

  ‘Movement!’

  Belial’s warning startled them all, their fixation on the shadow delaying their reactions for a split second. The sergeant opened fire. Through the shared visual feed Azrael glimpsed a flutter of robe and a pale face a second before three bolt-round detonations blossomed brightly in the gloom. The sensorium was suddenly alive with signals, approaching from ahead of Azrael and Belial. Only darkness remained behind the squad.

  ‘I swear something’s in there,’ whispered Meritus. ‘Something moving in the dark.’

  The darkness was a spear of nothingness on the sensorium, depleting everything around it, surrounded by an aura of sonic diffusions and visual blackness. Where sensor readings remained, the life signs tripled and then quadrupled over the course of several seconds – masses of rebels pouring up and down from the levels around the Terminators.

  The squad opened fire as more figures appeared at the extremity of visual range, the whip-crack of las-blasts searing down the corridor from both directions. Azrael could make them out more clearly now – dressed in robes rather than combat fatigues, their heads hooded and masked like those at the citadel gate. That the hail of bolts that greeted them had not slain them all stood testament to the armour concealed beneath their robes.

  ‘More hereteks,’ he said to the others. ‘Blasphemers against the Machine God.’

  ‘Traitors of all types deserve nothing but scorn,’ replied Galad. ‘Their particular delusion is irrelevant.’

  ‘But not their capabilities,’ said Belial. His sword flashed with a pulse of blue. ‘Prepare for close assault.’

  ‘Grand Master?’ Meritus was subdued. If Azrael hadn’t known it to be impossible, he would have thought the warrior was afraid. He could understand the battle-brother’s concern. The darkness was ten metres from the Terminators, obliterating all scans of everything beyond it. It was like staring into a bottomless abyss, a maw that threatened to swallow everything. ‘Orders, Grand Master?’

  ‘Belial, lead the assault.’ Azrael opened fire again, targeting the helmed heads of his foes. Two fell to the salvo, a third forced back into the cover of a doorway. Beyond them a handful more levelled their weapons and unleashed a flurry of las-bolts. ‘I shall hold this flank. Meritus, withdraw to my position.’

  ‘Gratitude, Grand Master,’ replied the veteran warrior. He moved backwards, storm bolter still raised against the slowly incoming wave of blackness.

  ‘Garvel, on my left,’ snapped Belial, waving the other Terminator forward with his sword. The field of Garvel’s thunder hammer crackled sporadically, blue light glinting from fittings and cables along the walls.

  The two Terminators advanced shoulder to shoulder. Belial kept up bursts of fire from his storm bolter; Garvel had his shield raised against the intermittent las-fire that returned. A coruscating ball of plasma screamed down the passageway, glancing across Belial’s shoulder. The blast erupted into a spray of cerulean energy, bathing the Terminator and wall with a pulse of power.

  Date Ident: 887939.M41#1441

  ‘Cover fire!’ barked Azrael.

  Cadael opened up past his reeling sergeant, firing on full automatic for several seconds while his squad leader recovered from the plasma impact. A handful of hereteks retreated from the furious blaze of bolts.

  Azrael was aware of Meritus just behind before the heavy thud of steps sounded through his suit’s auto-senses. The sensorium and a decade of experience fighting together joined them beyond the physical – they shared senses and knew each other’s manner and instincts intimately. The Grand Master steeled himself against the infectious discomfort that flowed from Meritus’ unease.

  ‘Some kind of anti-tech pulse field, I warrant,’ Azrael said to calm his companion. He fired at movement to his left, a flurry of bolts that turned a stone doorway to a cloud of flying shards.

  ‘Of course, Grand Master,’ Meritus replied, unconvinced. ‘Very likely. Nothing arcane or unnatural at all.’

  The crash of Garvel’s thunder hammer resounded down the corridor, swiftly followed by the higher pitched crackle of Belial’s power sword and a scream cut short. Azrael had to reload.

  ‘Swap positions,’ he told Meritus. ‘Hold them back.’

  The two Terminators rotated around each other like a single mechanism, leaving Meritus free to continue firing at the hereteks. Azrael came face to face with the approaching shadow. While he ejected his weapon’s magazine and pushed home another, he studied the wall of blackness. It was hard to remain objective, as though an aura of menace preceded the dark wave.

  The sensorium had no reading from the shadow, so he was forced to estimate its distance. Seven-point-five metres. Another flare of plasma brightened the feed from Garvel and the Terminator cursed, falling to one knee as his leg armour gave way under the strike. Immediately Cadael was there, standing over his battle-brother, his fi
st smashing aside a heretek lunging at the Terminators with a serrated axe.

  Azrael fought against the distraction and tried to focus on the edge of the cloud where it touched the wall. From the lack of data picked up by the sensorium, he knew the field, or whatever it was, extended through the ferrocrete and into the surrounding rooms for several metres.

  He fired a grenade. The charge arced onwards until it met the shadow and then vanished. He waited, and two seconds later heard the faintest of noises, almost a sigh that issued from the blackness.

  Belial hewed the helmeted head from a heretek as he reported.

  ‘Passage to the objective is secured, Grand Master.’

  He and Cadael were at the doors to the large room Azrael hoped was some kind of conveyor chamber. From what he could see on the sensorium scan, once they were in there would be no other way out. The hereteks seemed content to allow them into the room, perhaps knowing they would be trapped there until the energy-eater reached them.

  ‘Hold the line.’ Azrael fired a flurry of grenades at the shadow-wall and ran towards it with storm bolter blazing. ‘I shall return.’

  His outstretched power fist touched the blackness. Warning sigils and a piercing whine exploded through his war-plate as systems overloaded. The stacked crystal core of the reactor burned at one hundred and fifty per cent for almost a second to compensate for the sudden energy drain.

  Azrael could feel himself slowing, the servos and artificial muscles of his Tactical Dreadnought armour shutting down as the shadow swallowed up its power. Like a vampire, the darkness leeched every­thing from the suit – sensorium, locomotive and environmental systems blacked out in rapid succession.

  For a heartbeat, and then another, nothingness swamped Azrael. There was no feedback from his armour at all, but he could smell his own sweat inside his helm, taste the metal of the suit. He could see his eyes reflected in the red lenses just centimetres in front, devoid of head-up display and sensorium readings.

  It was like losing a limb; the jacks and sockets of his black carapace that linked him to the armour became cold metal embedded in his flesh. Not painful, but suddenly stark against the warmth of his own body.