by Gav Thorpe
Annael pulled up alongside his Huntmaster and slung his captive to the floor. The man rolled to his back and groaned, helm falling away to reveal a face marked with the scars of implant surgery and facial reconstruction. His teeth were steel points fastened into flesh, his ears replaced with bionic receivers. A bulge on the side of his neck revealed the presence of a subcutaneous vox-caster.
‘Obviously a leader of some rank,’ said Annael. ‘Modified for high-level communication.’
The man groaned, some semblance of alertness returning to his eyes. Tybalain dismounted, hammer in hand. The prisoner tried to rise but was pinned back to the floor by Tybalain’s weapon, the power field switched off. The Huntmaster knelt, one knee resting on the captive’s chest. He moved the head of his corvus hammer to the side of the man’s face. When he activated the weapon, a blue power field enveloped the hammer’s head and crackled across the rebel lieutenant’s flesh, melting skin and fat, causing sparks to fly from his artificial ear.
The rebel screamed until Tybalain deactivated the hammer.
‘It is time to find out what you know,’ said the Huntmaster.
The Hand Of Justice
Asmodai walked down the ramp of the Thunderhawk gunship, the huge overhead lamps of the docking bay gleaming bright spots on his ebon armour. He was just a few strides from the gunship when the pilot closed the boarding ramp and took off, the heat wave from the plasma drives washing across the Chaplain. In a few seconds, the Thunderhawk was gone, returning to its missions on Tharsis through open bay doors secured by the blue glow of a power field.
Every gunship the strike cruiser possessed was in action on the world below. Asmodai hurried towards a door in the bulkhead to his left, his footfalls echoing in the cavernous space. The door was barred by a lock, concealed with the skull-seal of Caliban centred on the heavy security portal. Taking one of the ornamental keys that hung from the rope belt of his tabard, Asmodai made two swift adjustments to the talisman, revealing a transponder. Activating the device, he stepped back.
The door seal split apart to uncover a runepad with thirteen buttons marked with the old alphabet of Caliban, used in many of the most ancient texts of the Chapter. Asmodai entered the codeword that he had learned on being accepted into the Inner Circle, each unique to the individual members. A faint green light confirmed the validity of the code and the bulkhead sighed open.
Beyond was another flight deck, far smaller than the one beside it, no more than ten metres square. It appeared on no plan of the strike cruiser, its purpose known only to the Deathwing and Ravenwing that used it. Its outer door was a slit barely large enough for the arriving Dark Talon to enter. Sliding into the opening, the aircraft came to a halt on pillars of plasma, hovering in place while the pilot affirmed that there were no unauthorised personnel present.
The Dark Talon dropped onto the landing zone depicted by the winged sigil of the Ravenwing – the only place such a symbol appeared on the Penitent Warrior, the only chamber where the Second Company were allowed.
The Dark Talon settled onto its landing gear and the whine of the engines died down and eventually fell silent. Wheezing hydraulics lifted up the tail boom of the aircraft, revealing an arched hatch sealed with several lockbars. The outer rim of the door was rimed with frost, a side effect of the stasis field within passing through the vacuum of space – water particles trapped in time had frozen on the exposed edge of the stasis chamber. The chamber itself was located just behind the cockpit, powered by the same arcane warp core that fed energy to the rift cannon mounted in the nose of the craft.
A short set of steps extended from the back and folded to the deck. Asmodai ascended and scraped ice from the central lock panel. He took another key, one of only six that existed – the others were in the possession of Sapphon, Ezekiel, Belial, Sammael and Azrael. Originally there had been eight keys, Asmodai had learned, but two had been lost over ten thousand years of fighting. Only the most senior members of the Inner Circle could open the stasis cells. The keys contained a unique crystal centre, the formation of which resonated with an emitter inside the stasis lock. Only the Keys of Devotion could conduct the signal across the divide and unlock the bars.
The background buzz of the field generator died away and after several seconds the cell door opened a few centimetres to release a cloud of vapour into the cool interior of the bay. Asmodai grabbed a handle and pulled, retreating down the steps as the door swung open.
Cypher stood inside the chamber like a corpse in a sarcophagus, head bowed, arms held to his chest as if in prayer.
‘Move,’ said Asmodai, knowing that the stasis field effects had already worn off. ‘Come here!’
Cypher looked at Asmodai. With slow, deliberate movements he disengaged his helmet. Hanging the helm on his belt, he pulled up the hood of his robe and descended towards Asmodai, walking with slow strides. Asmodai grabbed the front of the prisoner’s robe as he reached the last step and dragged him onto the deck, tired of the Fallen’s attempts to display power and control.
‘You are nothing,’ Asmodai told Cypher. ‘All that you once were has been wasted. Your plans, your ploys, your lies, schemes and alliances, they have failed and come to nothing. Your existence is meaningless. When you come to realise this you will be prepared to atone for your sins. But not before!’
Asmodai looked into the shadow beneath the hood and saw Cypher staring back at him, showing no signs of amusement. There was the faintest hint of a glitter in his eyes; a reflection of a gleam from Asmodai’s armour, the Chaplain told himself, nothing more. Asmodai pulled the prisoner away from the Dark Talon as the stasis cell closed and the engines built to a roar. In half a minute the craft was gone, returning like the Thunderhawk to the final battle for Streisgant.
‘Will you disarm?’ said Asmodai, pointing to the sword hilt protruding from the scabbard at Cypher’s waist.
‘Will you try to take it from me again if I refuse?’ said Cypher. ‘Or perhaps order some menial to do so for you?’
Asmodai considered the question. He had no desire to experience the unsettling vision that had assailed him aboard the Land Raider. The Chaplain weighed this against the protocol that demanded that all Fallen be disarmed and removed from their armour as soon as they were in secure custody. A faint smile had crept onto his captive’s lips, but the humour had not spread as far as his eyes. Normally Asmodai would have responded to such mocking with a short but intensely violent episode. Such outbursts usually forestalled any further attempts at ridicule. The Interrogator restrained himself with effort, knowing that not only was Cypher trying to elicit such a reaction, this was a prisoner like no other.
When he had been younger, first elevated to the rank of Interrogator and made aware of Cypher’s existence, Asmodai had heard the other Interrogator-Chaplains discussing their methodology in the event they were the ones to capture and admonish the legendary Cypher. Asmodai had scorned such debates, accusing his brethren of fantasising. He had asserted then that Cypher would be treated like any other Fallen, no better and no worse. Now that he found himself in that enviable position he knew two things. Firstly, that Cypher did require special treatment and a unique approach. He would have to work closely with Sapphon to ensure both mind and body were equally vexed. The prospect of such a cooperation made his mood darker still.
The second thing he realised was that the fantasies of the other Interrogators would not have worked. None of them possessed, or had possessed, the combination of brutality and determination embodied in Asmodai.
He came to the conclusion that he was procrastinating, second-guessing himself and his captive. This reaction annoyed Asmodai even more than Cypher’s attitude. He had allowed himself to be awed, only a little, but enough.
He punched Cypher in the face. It was a quick jab, nothing more, but it knocked the Fallen down by the shock of it.
There was blood on Cypher’s gauntlet as he pulled it
away from his face. Asmodai looked down and saw the same on his hand. It was reassuring to see such a thing, evidence of his prisoner’s mortal frailty.
‘You can keep the sword,’ Asmodai said as Cypher got to his feet. ‘If you attempt to draw it you will be slain. No threats, no bargaining. If you lay a hand on that hilt death will follow on swift wings.’
‘I understand,’ said Cypher, his tone sincere. ‘Fortunately I have as much desire to wield this blade as you do, but it is my curse and honour to bear it.’
Asmodai kept his eye on the prisoner and sent a short, wordless vox-burst, coded to be picked up by the Deathwing squad that stood outside the other door to the internment chamber. The door hissed open a few seconds later, revealing Belial and three Deathwing Knights. The armour of all four warriors bore the scars of the recent battle aboard the enemy flagship.
‘Wait here,’ Belial snapped at his men as he stepped into the chamber. He turned and closed the door. The lock light flicked from green to red again, indicating the chamber was secure.
‘You do not entrust this information to your Knights?’ said Asmodai. Like Sammael’s elite, the Deathwing Knights knew of Cypher’s existence and importance, if not his true nature.
Belial said nothing and strode past Asmodai. He did not wear his helm, his eyes fixed on the Fallen.
Just as the Deathwing commander reached for his blade Asmodai realised Belial’s intent. The Sword of Silence flashed free from its scabbard and Asmodai had only a heartsbeat to react.
The Interrogator-Chaplain launched himself at Belial, one hand reaching for the blade of the Grand Master’s sword while the other dragged the crozius arcanum from his own belt.
The Sword of Silence crackled as Asmodai’s fingers closed around the weapon. Pain seared up the Chaplain’s arm and he saw rather than felt his fingers and thumb falling away. Though he had lost his hand, the interruption had been enough to deflect the Grand Master’s blow.
As Belial turned, faced twisted with hatred, Asmodai lashed out with his crozius. Belial parried the blow easily – Asmodai was no match for the master swordsman, but he could not let the Grand Master attack the prisoner without cause.
‘Cease this madness!’ Asmodai bellowed.
‘You protect him?’ Belial snarled back. ‘The Damned One. The Cursed of the Dark Angels. The Lion’s Bane?’
Asmodai shoved Cypher aside with his mutilated hand as Belial moved to strike again, intercepting the Grand Master once more. Belial stayed his blade a centimetre from Asmodai’s head.
‘It is too dangerous to allow him to live,’ said Belial, his voice strained by conflicting, rare emotion. ‘We risk too much bringing him aboard. He will only die beneath your blades all the same. You must forego your bloody pleasures this one time.’
‘That is not the point!’ roared Asmodai, affronted by the notion that he was no more than an executioner. ‘He must be allowed to repent. His death condemns or exonerates his soul. I take no pleasure from the grievous harm I inflict. It is necessary to arrive at the unvarnished truth. Blood washes away the lies. Do not dare to call me a murderer, Belial!’
The vehemence of Asmodai’s rebuttal caused the Grand Master to pause. Asmodai was incensed and did not relent.
‘Is that what you think of me? A maniac, good only to slay our prisoners? Am I held so low in your regard that you would deny me the opportunity to extract the repentance of one we have held in such vile humour for ten millennia?’
‘He will manipulate us, bend our thoughts to his will. See what ruin Astelan wrought upon us and how easily he escaped, with simple words and opportunism. It is a mistake to allow him onto this starship, and I would no more let him set foot upon the Rock than I would invite an enemy army into the Tower of Angels.’
‘It is not your decision,’ Asmodai insisted with gritted teeth. The Chaplain knew that if Belial still decided he wanted Cypher dead, there was little – nothing, he admitted – that he could do physically to prevent it. But he would not be bowed by veiled threats. ‘Would you raise your blade against me, Grand Master of the First Company? Am I to be your foe as well?’
‘If you decide to stand in my way, you place yourself against me,’ Belial replied, taking a step, his sword raised.
‘I give you one last chance to submit to my will, brother.’ Asmodai did not say what he intended. Belial lunged at him, the tip of the Sword of Silence directed at the Chaplain’s shoulder, aimed to disarm rather than kill.
Asmodai swept up his crozius barely in time. The Grand Master’s blade sheared through the Chaplain’s pauldron, missing the shoulder within. Pulling back his blade, Belial readied for another blow. Asmodai could see in the Grand Master’s eyes that this time there would be no leniency.
‘Et spiritu vexatus!’ Asmodai shouted in desperation, using the words that had been implanted into the mind of every Dark Angel as a failsafe against this treachery. The message could be transmitted mentally by a Librarian also. Never again would a Dark Angel turn on his own.
Belial stumbled, face screwed up with pain at the verbal trigger. More calmly, Asmodai continued. ‘Libertaris non, Belial. Tu esta dominatus voxilis. Tu pacifica et somnalis.’
The other Space Marine sagged in his armour, eyes glazing. Asmodai’s incantation had caused Belial’s catalepsean node to misfire. Normally the implant allowed a Space Marine to relax one half of his brain at a time, remaining semi-functional whilst effectively asleep. Now the malfunctioning organ was rapidly activating and deactivating the Grand Master’s synapses, effectively rendering him into a hypnogogic state.
‘You should not have seen that,’ said Asmodai, looking at Cypher. The Fallen’s expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity. ‘If you speak of this to anyone…’
‘You’ll kill me?’
‘I have never claimed to be a complicated man.’
‘What will you do with him now?’ Cypher asked, stepping forward to inspect the stunned Grand Master more closely.
‘That is no concern of yours,’ Asmodai replied.
The truth was that Belial would be roused by another set of keywords, which would also erase his memory of the incident. In time, he would naturally construct a false memory to cover the gap, prompted by certain key elements inserted by Asmodai before Belial awoke.
He motioned for Cypher to walk towards the door. When the two of them were next to the portal, Asmodai hitched his crozius and used his remaining hand to activate the door lock. The door opened and he pushed Cypher into the corridor beyond.
‘Take him to stasis cell four,’ he instructed the Deathwing Knights.
‘As you command, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied Zandorael. The Knight Master looked at Asmodai’s fingerless hand. The blood had already clotted and the Chaplain’s armour had stemmed any pain from the wound. ‘What happened, brother?’
‘A mistake,’ said Asmodai, and shut the door.
The Wayward Angel
Annael was impressed by the mind-work of Tybalain. The Huntmaster had been right about the rebel lair being located in sector twenty, and the captive taken by Annael had not required much inducement to reveal the exact location.
The Swiftclaw was conducting a low-intensity scan of the area while the Black Knights waited a kilometre away from their target. Casamir provided a running commentary while his gunner stayed alert to immediate threats.
‘The manufactorum is an assembly plant, ground floor only on the main building, four-storey administration structure attached. We have three ingress routes to the west, thermal scan shows marksmen in the overzoom bridge to the north have that covered. Detecting low-rate pulse feeds, probably trip detectors on the road approaches. North access is cut off by a canal, nearest bridge looks to be the main highway, two kilometres north-east. They have a gun emplacement station covering the canal regardless. Two, perhaps three mounted weapons.’
There was a pause
while the Land Speeder circled. Casamir kept his distance and maintained a low speed to minimise the chance of detection. If the rebels had an inkling that they had been discovered they might bolt or try to kill Sabrael.
‘Shall we take another vote on whether we still want to rescue that Lion-forsaken rogue?’ asked Calatus. He had accepted the mission with good humour after voicing his arguments. It was the manner of the Black Knights to exchange frank truths with each other when necessary, but to harbour no malicious consequence of those opinions. As a brotherhood within the wider Ravenwing it was essential that they trusted each other without reservation.
‘It would not surprise me if we found the idiot drinking recaff and throwing dice with the rebels,’ replied Annael. ‘He has a knack of exploiting situations to his advantage.’
‘Fortune favours the fool,’ said Nerean. ‘And there are few fools greater than Sabrael.’
Any further exchange was cut short by the continuance of Casamir’s report.
‘Still no obvious sign of where they are holding Sabrael. We have heat clusters at various points in the plant, but that could be idling machinery, power armour or just a fire to keep them warm. We would have to get closer to uncover the finer detail.’
‘Negative, Swiftclaw,’ said Tybalain. ‘Mission security is paramount. Continue wide sweep.’
The Land Speeder pilot recommenced his description, transmitting the vague scan data to the steeds of the Black Knights squadron. Annael watched as a sketchy, three-dimensional image coalesced on the display, grainy detail added every few seconds with each pulse of the Swiftclaw’s surveillance systems. After another half minute, the rebel lair and surrounding buildings were mapped out, likely sentry points and enemy groups highlighted with floating red icons.