by Gav Thorpe
Annael immediately noticed a particular pattern to their dispersal.
‘They appear to be concentrated on the ground and first floors,’ he said.
‘Fearing orbital or air attack?’ suggested Nerean.
‘The reason is unimportant,’ said Tybalain. ‘It is a weakness we can exploit.’
‘If our steeds had wings or we had a gunship, perhaps,’ said Calatus. ‘I do not see how it favours us without.’
‘We have other means to part ways with the ground,’ said the Huntmaster. ‘Casamir, what would be your maximum altitude with four extra crew?’
‘Hitch a ride on the Swiftclaw?’ Annael laughed, but his brothers did not share his humour.
‘A highly exposed target,’ said Calatus. ‘One good shot would see us all drop, vulnerable to every gun in the surrounding buildings.’
‘A fourth-storey roof would be attainable, Brother-Huntmaster,’ confirmed Casamir.
‘If they fear the skies, they will be holding Sabrael as far down as possible,’ said Annael. ‘Basement, sub-levels. Anything of that sort, Swiftclaw?’
‘Extensive basement and sub-basement structures beneath the main plant and linked to the accompanying structure. Pipes, energy cables, storage space, a jumble of conduits, chambers and passageways. Once we launch the attack, I can perform a low-altitude pass and perhaps pick up something more definite.’
‘Affirmative, Swiftclaw,’ said Tybalain. He dismounted and the others followed. Annael was reluctant to leave Black Shadow, fearing something might happen to his steed in his absence. He patted the saddle and left one hand on the fuel tank as he awaited instruction from the Huntmaster.
‘Are we sure of this course of action, brother?’ said Calatus. ‘To risk the lives of six brothers to reclaim a single wayward soul seems a poor exchange of effort for reward.’
‘No order has left my lips,’ snapped Tybalain. ‘If you did not wish to accompany us, you have come a long way for nothing.’
The Huntmaster and the Black Knight stared at each other for several seconds, before Calatus bowed his head in deference.
‘Your will is my command, Brother-Huntmaster,’ Calatus said. ‘No order need be voiced.’
The growl of the Swiftclaw’s engines reverberated down the street and they turned towards the approaching skimmer.
‘It is fortunate that we have expended most of our ammunition reserves,’ Eladon told them. ‘We should be just within the weight boundary.’
The sound from the anti-grav plate became a moan as Annael and Calatus climbed onto the boarding steps on either side of the Land Speeder. It increased to a loud whine to compensate for Nerean and Tybalain, the Swiftclaw dipping slightly before resuming its place a metre above the ground.
‘Are you positive you can put us on the roof?’ asked Annael.
‘Yes.’ Casamir’s tone made it clear he did not appreciate Annael’s question. ‘Everybody secure?’
After receiving their affirmatives, the Land Speeder pilot took his machine into a vertical climb, rotating the nose towards the target.
‘Straight in and out,’ he said. ‘I’ll set up a distraction attack on the east side once you are on the roof.’
The speeder rose to about ten metres, just enough to clear a cluster of power cables stretching along a line of pylons beside the road. The nose dipped and the thrusters eased them forward, a little more than walking speed.
‘Can you not dawdle?’ said Nerean. ‘The enemy are bound to see us if we meander into their midst.’
‘I have almost no trim or roll control, let’s not make this any harder,’ Casamir replied, his mood tense.
They crossed several streets and manufactoria, moving through clouds of steam and smog from exhaust stacks, the ground below lit by idling forges and the gleam of lamps through bulls-eye-glassed windows, the headlights of abandoned ore movers and cargo haulers. Perhaps to conceal their presence, the invaders had doused the street lanterns in the processing plant and surrounding buildings. Rather than hide their whereabouts, the blot of darkness made it clear that something was amiss in the area.
It also meant that the Swiftclaw moved almost invisibly, the black-hulled craft a shadow against the smoke that swathed the sky. The wind carried away the noise of the protesting grav-plate. Unseen and unheard, the Black Knights alighted on the roof of the target building.
Annael was the first to land, his armour absorbing the impact of a three-metre drop. He had his bolt pistol in hand, but it was his combat knife in the other that would be his weapon of choice on this operation. It was key that the enemy did not know they were compromised until it was too late.
The roof was made of plasteel sheeting that sagged under his weight.
‘Disperse,’ he hissed to the others. ‘Fragile surface.’
He moved a few paces so that the others could spread out, distributing their weight more evenly.
‘I see no ingress point,’ he told them, looking around. ‘No stairs or conveyor.’
‘Heating spill shaft here,’ said Nerean, kneeling beside a grille-topped pipe that extruded about a metre from the slight cant of the roof. ‘Let me just see if…’
He fell silent and pulled the pipe with one hand. It resisted and then slid upward. An extraction unit followed, leaving a metre-square hole in the roof material. Tybalain moved to the edge while Nerean set down the piece of machinery. Taking the lip in both hands, the Huntmaster pulled, peeling back the roof like the lid of a rations tin. Moving backwards, he opened up a gap large enough for a Space Marine to drop through.
Nerean went in first. Annael heard the clump of his battle-brother landing and the tread of his boots as he moved around the top floor.
‘Abandoned,’ Nerean declared. ‘Not even being used for storage.’
Tybalain, still holding back the roll of plasteel, gestured for Calatus and then Annael to descend. They quickly formed a defensive perimeter and were joined by the Huntmaster. Annael missed the auspex of Black Shadow, but even without its enhanced systems, he could see that the floor was mostly one open space, crisscrossed with ducts and pipes from the environmental and communications systems situated on the floors below.
‘Stairwell,’ announced Tybalain, from the north-west corner.
A dull rattle broke the still. Though dampened by the walls, the sound of the Swiftclaw’s heavy bolter was unmistakable. Between fusillades, Annael could hear exclamations of shock from the floors below, and the sound of running feet came up the stairway.
They followed Tybalain down a level. The third storey, from what Annael could see through the open door on the landing, was divided into several illuminators’ stations, split by chest-high partitions and bookshelves. The easels and magnifiers of stencillists and the pict-capture devices of the crystographers had been left undisturbed, along with the sheaves of reports and archives the administrators had been transcribing.
The sound of descending soldiers on the stairs below faded away. Tybalain started down the next flight, followed by Nerean and then Calatus. Annael was bringing up the rear. While the others continued down, he stopped just before the landing. He heard the scuff of feet and muttered cursing.
A moment later a blue-skinned soldier, head shaven, body bulging with boosted muscle, stepped out in front of Annael. The rebel’s attention was fixed on the large-calibre automatic weapon he was carrying in one hand, and the drum magazine he was trying to slot into place with the other.
The clump of Annael’s stride brought the renegade spinning around, mouth opening to shout a warning. Adrenal stimms gave the man preternatural speed, but he was still not as swift as the Dark Angel.
Annael’s knife stabbed up into the man’s throat, sliding effortlessly through his enemy’s windpipe, cleaving up through tongue and soft palate to fix the dying man’s mouth shut. The base of Annael’s pistol grip smashed into the man’s
temple, shattering bone, killing him instantly.
‘Target slain,’ he reported to the others. He paused, listening intently. ‘No sign of any remaining, I think he was the last.’
He caught up with them on the next floor, but Tybalain moved on without pause until they had reached the bottom. The stair had brought them to a vestibule area, a broad door flanked by two high arched windows. The flicker of muzzle flare strobed through the coloured glass and the panes rattled with every discharge from the Land Speeder’s assault cannon.
‘No entry to the sub-levels,’ said Calatus, who had been checking the space beneath the ferrocrete steps.
‘Casamir, we need a basement entrance point,’ said Tybalain.
They waited several seconds for the reply, eyes and ears straining for any sound of the enemy close at hand. There was none; it seemed the building had been emptied by the Swiftclaw’s diversion. Casamir replied, the background zip of las-fire caught in the transmission.
‘I have your position. There is a service elevator in a docking bay seven metres to the south. It goes down one level.’ There was another pause and through the windows came the bright flash of an explosion. ‘Frag warhead, minimal damage. Fire control systems activated. The service elevator takes you into the connecting duct with the main facility. Head east, there is a branching point, the second one that turns north again. I am reading a strange thermal cluster. Could be a generator, but it looks worth investigating.’
‘Acknowledged, proceeding to target point,’ said Tybalain. ‘Maintain attack for thirty seconds and then break off. We will be in the sub-levels at that point.’
‘Confirmed, Brother-Huntmaster.’
They followed Casamir’s directions, moving from the stairwell via a short corridor into a cage-like storage pen and through into the loading bay. The metal shutters were closed, the conveyor doors open. Tybalain stepped into the elevator, followed by Annael.
‘Wait!’ said Annael, holding up a hand as Nerean was about to step aboard. He pointed to the plate above the door indicating the maximum load weight. ‘We will have to descend two at a time.’
Nerean took a step back and Annael slid the door closed. Tybalain pulled the lever and they made their rattling descent. When the conveyor had touched the bottom, a bell chimed outside.
Annael wrenched the door open and stepped out quickly, pulling his knife free, aware that the elevator’s bell might attract attention. He was in a corridor only a little wider than the elevator, which ran for a few metres and then met a larger passageway cutting perpendicular across the end. Thin glowing wires set into the ceiling cast a jade light across the sub-level.
Without needing any command from Tybalain, Annael strode forward and stopped at the junction. He checked both ways.
‘West runs about thirty metres, east ten metres and then turns. No activity.’ In fact there was very little at all in the corridor. A pipe ran along the joint between the wall and the ceiling, dripping at a few broken seams, leaving a mouldy growth on the walls. The sound of the drops echoed starkly in the silence. Down here, nothing could be heard of the Land Speeder’s attack or the rebels’ response.
‘Move to the turn,’ Tybalain said, as he sent the elevator clattering back up to collect the others.
Annael obeyed, long strides taking him swiftly to where the corridor bent thirty degrees north-east.
‘Forty metres, I can see another conveyor at the end. Two doors on the left, wheel-locks. Three branching corridors on the right.’ Annael stopped, his auto-senses filtering something from the air. He boosted the olfactory receivers and audio conductors, his vision dimming slightly while the system compensated. ‘I can smell sweat, gun oil, explosives. Picking up breathing, multiple respirations per second. Footsteps!’
The pad of feet grew louder and a shadow emerged from the end of the corridor Casamir had indicated. Decisive action and surprise were the key tactics of the Ravenwing, whether mounted or on foot. Annael responded without thought, dashing forward with pistol and knife at the ready.
The man that stepped out of the passage looked surprisingly normal, in comparison to the heavily augmented warriors that made up the bulk of the enemy force. He wore loose grey trousers and a long blue coat, a tattered forage cap jammed onto a head of white hair. Annael was still several metres away when the rebel turned his head towards the sound of the onrushing Space Marine.
The traitor gave a shout of warning and brought up his lasgun.
The crack of Annael’s bolt pistol sounded loud in the confined space, as did the impact detonation that split the man’s head apart.
Annael had seconds to make the most of the enemy’s shock and confusion. He threw himself around the corner into the side-tunnel, cracking the ferrocrete as he rebounded from the far wall. Ahead, the metal door at the end of a ten-metre corridor was closing. Annael loosed off as many rounds as he could, the bolts sparking from the hatchway, but the door slammed closed with an ominous clang.
He reached the door, slamming his shoulder into the ferrite, the reverberation of the impact accompanied by lock bars scraping into place.
‘Melta charges,’ he told the others. ‘We have to breach.’
Calatus had the melta bombs and ten seconds passed before he arrived at the barred door. Annael stepped back to allow his companion to work.
The Black Knight placed three charges, one at each hinge and one about two-thirds of the way in where he judged the interior lock to be located. Waving for Annael and the others to back away further, Calatus pulled a priming pin from each charge and rapidly retreated.
Three seconds later the melta bombs detonated, vaporising the metal of the door. The hatch continued standing, but the hinges and the wall around them had been turned to blackened slag and dust.
Annael heard shouts from inside the room beyond – panicked yells.
He pushed past Calatus, about to raise a boot to kick the door, when the hatch fell towards him, clanging to the floor in a swirl of charred motes and dissipating vapour.
In the doorway stood Sabrael. He wore his armour, except for his helm, and there was fresh blood sprayed across his chest, his gauntlets ruddy with gore. Half a dozen corpses lay mangled in the storeroom behind him, hearts and throats ripped out. Annael could see another door open behind his battle-brother, almost ripped from its mountings.
Noticing the direction of his gaze, Sabrael stepped back and looked at the dead men.
‘They made the mistake of trying to kill me,’ he said quietly. ‘They really should not have opened that door.’
Annael grinned inside his helm and stepped forward, offering a hand. Sabrael took it and they stood looking at each other. Calatus intervened, stepping between them to break the handshake.
‘Brother Calatus, it is s–’
Sabrael’s intended witticism was cut short by Calatus’s fist crashing against his chin. Dazed, Sabrael reeled back and Calatus followed, throwing another punch that slammed against the side of Sabrael’s head. Annael leapt forward, taking Calatus to the ground. The two of them struggled for several seconds as Calatus tried to rise again.
‘Enough!’ The stern command from Tybalain separated the two grappling Black Knights. ‘Show some discipline, both of you. We are still in enemy territory.’
‘Thank you for your intervention,’ said Sabrael, extending a hand in gratitude.
The Huntmaster ignored him and looked around the room. On a table was the Blade of Corswain, lying in its scabbard. Tybalain pushed past Sabrael and took up the sheathed sword in one hand.
‘I was about to…’ Sabrael’s protest died as Tybalain turned round, one finger raised to silence him.
‘When we return to the Chapter it will be decided whether you may retain the swordsman’s honour. Until then, you have forfeited the right to bear the Blade of Corswain. That you risked its loss is evidence enough that you do not deserve
it. However, it will not be my judgement, but the Supreme Grand Master’s.’
‘Of course, Huntmaster,’ said Sabrael, bowing his head in submission to Tybalain’s command.
‘If you have any honour, you will not contest its confiscation,’ the Huntmaster added.
‘The shame you have brought upon yourself, the squadron and the company is monstrous,’ said Calatus, pushing himself free from Annael’s grip. ‘If you have any honour, you will seek the penitent’s fate at the next opportunity.’
The Black Knight stalked back to the corridor, where he received a nod of agreement from Nerean. Sabrael said nothing as he turned and helped Annael to his feet. He looked pensive as he retrieved his helm from a shelf and fitted it to the collar of his war-plate.
The penitent’s fate – death in battle.
Part Two
Piscina
End Of An Age
‘If I might ask, what does that mean, Chapter Master?’
Colonel Brade looked up at the giant warrior who stood next to him in the cratered remains that had been a roof terrace on the Imperial Commander’s palace. The ranking officer of the remnants of the Piscina Free Militia looked haggard, his skin loose where he had lost considerable weight in a short time. His uniform was carefully pressed, the collars starched stiff, but such treatment could not hide the stains and wear of recent months. The de facto ruler of Piscina Four looked weary beyond caring.
‘You might ask, colonel, but I feel no inclination to answer,’ replied Azrael.
The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels stood in his full war panoply, his dark green armour embellished with gilding and gems, his personal standard affixed to a pole that extended from his backpack. He wore the Sword of Secrets at his belt, which banded his robe about his waist, the cloth the bone-white of the Deathwing to mark his passage through the First Company.
He glanced down at Brade and then returned his gaze to the broken city that lay about the palace. Kadillus Harbour was less a metropolis and more a ruin. It had never fully recovered from the invasion of the ork warlords Ghazghkull Thraka and Nazdreg. The uprising and ork resurgence of the past year had brought down everything that had been rebuilt and more. Tactical squads from the Chapter and specialised Free Militia units were using flamers and pyrobombs to cleanse the shattered remains of the city, to ensure no ork spores remained.