The Unforgiven

by Gav Thorpe

  They rendezvoused just after the first sermons, when Sapphon had completed the mass for the Deathwing and Sammael had finished the hymnals with the Ravenwing. The chamber was devoid of features and Watchers, even the inscription on the floor and ceiling concealed in the absence of the Supreme Grand Master. Had anyone by some miraculous coincidence stumbled upon the chamber by accident, it appeared utterly uninteresting – perhaps an old storeroom for the dungeons.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Sapphon as he stepped across the threshold into the empty room. Sammael was already there, pacing impatiently where Azrael’s library had been revealed. ‘Greetings, Grand Master. Our apologies for engaging in subterfuge again but we must speak on a delicate matter.’

  Sammael stopped and looked at both of them.

  ‘When the two of you come together as one voice, I know it is time to be concerned.’

  ‘It is true that we rarely see eye to eye, Brother Sammael, which should tell you of the importance of our request today.’

  ‘Request?’

  ‘We need you to take the Ravenwing to the Perditus System,’ said Asmodai. ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Impossible.’ Sammael shook his head. ‘Azrael has already issued orders to my company for when we arrive at the Phyleaides Cluster. The Implacable Justice is to conduct initial scouting operations against the Varsine to establish their strength and disposition.’

  ‘A secondary consideration,’ said Asmodai, earning himself a frown from Sapphon. ‘We have intelligence that Perditus hides a secret from the Chapter’s ancient history.’

  ‘A secret? I have never heard of Perditus. What is the source of this intelligence?’

  ‘A recent interrogation of the Fallen, Methelas,’ Sapphon said quickly, before Asmodai could respond with the truth. The Master of Repentance opened his mouth to deny this but shut it again without protest. ‘Perditus is a small Adeptus Mechanicus station that houses a powerful weapon which may be used against the Dark Angels in the near future.’

  ‘Why come to me rather than the Supreme Grand Master?’ Sammael stared at Asmodai. ‘It is not like you to circumvent the Inner Circle, brother.’

  Asmodai looked uncomfortable. Sapphon knew he could not answer on his fellow Chaplain’s behalf without raising Sammael’s suspicions further. The Master of the Ravenwing had a keen nose for intrigue even though he was virtually incapable of it himself beyond the basic secrecy required by the Inner Circle.

  ‘We do not wish to make another blunder in full scrutiny of the Inner Circle,’ Asmodai replied eventually, seeking some truth he could fix upon. ‘The claim by the Fallen must be investigated but we would rather not distract the entire Chapter.’

  Sammael eyed both of them and then shook his head again.

  ‘Do not think me a fool,’ said the Second Company commander. ‘This claim comes not from the lips of Methelas but from Cypher. It is writ clear on your faces that you conspire and it occurs to me the source of your intelligence must be held in doubt or you would go directly to Lord Azrael.’

  Sapphon exchanged a look with Asmodai, who seemed relieved that their pretence had been ineffective.

  ‘Your insight is as acute as ever, brother,’ said Sapphon. ‘But let not the source detract from the possible value of the knowledge.’

  ‘How can I not?’ Sammael, jaw clenched, turned away and flexed his neck, trying to relax. ‘He tricked you into allowing him the opportunity to kill Anovel. He allowed himself to be captured by my Black Knights. There is some hidden purpose to this, and I will not place my company directly in the line of fire. From Port Imperial to Ulthor to Tharsis my Ravenwing have suffered casualties. I will not risk the rest of my warriors with such an obvious trap.’

  ‘Your company? Your warriors?’ spat Asmodai. ‘They are Space Marines of the Dark Angels, not some personal household troop!’

  ‘And yet above me, the only authority to which they bow is the Supreme Grand Master,’ Sammael snapped, turning back. ‘If you wish to go to Perditus, it must either be with the whole Chapter or you must convince Azrael to issue an order that despatches my company to almost certain extinction.’

  The Master of the Ravenwing stalked past them towards the secret stairway down to the dungeons. He stopped at the top step and looked back.

  ‘To preserve the honour of your positions, I will grant you the courtesy of one day to make good this arrangement with Lord Azrael. After then, I will approach him with what has transpired today and I expect him to demand full censure from the Inner Circle. How dare you try to drag me into your conspiracies and lies!’

  Sammael stormed down the stairs, leaving Sapphon and Asmodai looking at each other.

  ‘That could have gone better,’ said the Master of Sanctity.

  ‘If we had been open from the outset and not attempted deception, do you think he would have been persuaded?’ asked Asmodai.

  ‘The Ravenwing have been hurt of late, he is not wrong. Sammael feels the pain of his company and his caution is understandable.’

  ‘The Ravenwing are ever the first blade drawn, the first weapon thrust towards the enemy. It is their lot to face the strength of the parry alone. If Sammael has lost the daring on which we rely, his company is no longer suited to its purpose.’

  ‘Keep such thoughts to yourself, brother!’ Sapphon grabbed Asmodai’s arm in a tight grip. ‘We may not yet have made Sammael an enemy to our cause, but if you attack him he will defend himself at our expense.’

  ‘This is why I detest these games of half-truth and misdirection,’ said Asmodai. He pulled his arm free. ‘I agree with Sammael, we must approach Azrael and speak plainly of what we have learned. You are too close to this mess and I freely admit I am too belligerent. Let the wisdom of the Supreme Grand Master prevail.’

  ‘How the times change us,’ Sapphon said with bitterness. ‘You challenge Azrael at every opportunity but now you scamper to hide beneath his mantle.’

  ‘I will accept no weakness from others. I swore no oath to uphold our agreement, you made that clear. If I see no reason to continue with this concealment there is nothing to prevent me making known what has happened.’

  ‘You need a reason to investigate a probable threat to the Chapter?’ Sapphon stepped close and dropped his voice, even though they were alone in the Hidden Chamber. ‘In ten thousand years Cypher has only come to us eight times. Eight times! That’s less than once in a millennium! We will never have this opportunity again. And you want another reason to go to Perditus?’

  Asmodai thought about this for a few seconds and conceded Sapphon’s point with a solitary nod.

  ‘Context is paramount,’ said the Master of Repentance.

  ‘And we must create the correct context for the other Masters of the Hidden Chamber.’

  ‘The Masters of the…’ Asmodai looked around the room. ‘You have named our little cabal?’

  ‘It seemed appropriate.’ Sapphon shrugged. ‘Do you have a better suggestion? The Innermost Circle, perhaps? The Hub?’

  ‘You busy yourself with strange thoughts at times, Sapphon. I do not envy you the machinations of your fertile brain. If you wish to call our grouping the Masters of the Hidden Chamber, that is your business. I will trouble myself with greater matters, such as how we are going to convince our brothers to accept an expedition to Perditus.’

  ‘That will be my concern, brother. I will assemble the Hidden Masters.’

  ‘I prefer that. It is shorter.’

  ‘Then we have accord.’

  A Last Gambit

  ‘He seems…’ Sapphon was not sure of the word to use to describe Cypher’s behaviour over the previous hours. ‘Cooperative? Forthcoming?’

  Azrael looked at Sapphon from behind his desk, hands laid flat on the wood. The Supreme Grand Master seemed calm, despite the intrusion by Sapphon. Azrael stood up and seemed to regard his personal banner, h
ands behind his back.

  ‘We cannot change our destination to Caliban, not on the word of a traitor and proven liar.’

  ‘I understand, master. He must know this, and yet he still insists that we must act. Our fate lies at Caliban, he claims.’

  Azrael inhaled deeply. He did not turn around, but his voice became taut.

  ‘Each day I must weigh impossible decisions, Sapphon. To uphold my oaths to protect the Emperor’s domains and to prosecute war against His enemies, or to hold to those secret oaths I swore to the Inner Circle to prosecute the Hunt for the Fallen until we have erased the stain upon our honour.’

  He turned, still not looking at Sapphon, and lifted a few sheets of printed flexitrans from his desk.

  ‘Thousands have died in the last hour, across the Phyleaides Cluster. The Varsine Bloodflock is in full migration. Four worlds have already lost millions. The Emperor’s loyal servants, slaughtered by xenos filth. Millions more will die even if we could stem the Bloodflock this minute. The regiments of the Astra Militarum do what they can but they are too slow to chase down the Varsine. The Imperial Navy is stretched too thin to protect every system. We must find and destroy the worldnest or whole sectors may be lost.’

  Now he looked at Sapphon, with intensity not anger. ‘You want me to delay our intervention on the untrustworthy assertions of an admitted traitor?’

  Sapphon met his Chapter Master’s inquiring look with a regretful one.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How many millions more will die in the centuries to come if the Dark Angels do not survive to protect them? How many billions if, as Cypher claims, the Unforgiven will be destroyed in their totality? Not by aliens, or heretics or mutants. By the Imperium. By our fellow Space Marines. Civil war, Lord Azrael. On a scale we cannot imagine.’

  Azrael said nothing, his look demanding more from Sapphon. The Lord of the Rock wanted to be convinced, but had not yet been given sufficient reason to act.

  ‘Once in ten generations, turmoil such as this tears at the Imperium,’ said the Master of Sanctity. ‘Aside from a few of our most revered warriors interred in the sarcophagi of their Dreadnoughts, there is one alone that has witnessed all of these events. He is in one of our cells and requests an audience with you.’

  Sapphon leaned across the desk, resting on his fists.

  ‘This is not one of those days when you must weigh the Hunt against our broader duties. Today the Hunt and the protection of the Imperium are the same. I do not ask that you act, merely that you listen. I could relate Cypher’s arguments here and now, but it is better that you look into his eyes and listen to his voice, not mine.’

  ‘And if I remain unconvinced by his testimony?’

  ‘We kill Varsine and I speak no more of Cypher.’

  Azrael considered this, laying down the reports from Phyleaides back on his desk, using his finger to neaten the pile.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘One last audience.’

  The two of them made their way down from Azrael’s chamber near the pinnacle of the Tower of Angels into the depths of the dungeons in the Rock beneath. They reached the stretch of corridor where Cypher was imprisoned, nearly a quarter of a kilometre long, and empty of all other Fallen.

  ‘Where are the Deathwing that should patrol these passages?’ demanded Azrael as he noticed the guards’ absence.

  ‘I am sentry alone,’ said Asmodai, emerging from the shadows of one of the watch chambers adjoined to the tunnel. ‘We can trust no other.’

  ‘You approve of my visit?’ said Azrael, surprised.

  ‘The salvation of the Dark Angels could be at hand, Supreme Grand Master. Others may misunderstand my motives, but the erasing of the ancient shame has always been my goal.’

  ‘I see,’ said Azrael. He looked at the closest cell door. ‘He’s in here?’

  The two Chaplains nodded in reply.

  ‘He says he will only speak to you alone,’ said Sapphon.

  ‘He is restrained,’ added Asmodai. ‘He presents no danger.’

  Azrael darted an aggrieved look at the Master of Repentance and opened the cell door. Silhouetted against the glow of embers from within, the Supreme Grand Master stopped on the threshold.

  ‘I will listen to what you have to say.’ His words were addressed to the cell’s inhabitant, not the Chaplains outside. ‘If you persuade me you are telling the truth, I will act on your assertions. If I am unconvinced, I will have you executed. Are you willing to submit to these terms?’

  There was a pause that seemed to last for some time to Sapphon, but must have been only a couple of seconds.

  ‘Yes.’ Cypher’s voice seemed distant.

  Azrael pulled the door closed with a thud that resounded along the empty corridor. Sapphon and Asmodai looked at each other and retired to the guard room to await the decision of their lord.

  The Canker Of Doubt

  The pick shrieked as its head rebounded from the metres-thick ice clustered around the coolant exchange. Annael hefted it back over his shoulder and swung again. The ferrite tip caught in a jagged crack and split a chunk of ice a metre thick. The outer part fell away to the decking at Annael’s feet. He crouched and tossed it aside. Stepping back, he lifted the pick again.

  He had laboured for twelve hours and twelve hours more would not tire his superhuman muscles. The monotony of the first six hours had threatened his sanity. It was as though he had been locked in with his own thoughts just as he had, metaphorically speaking, been locked in the coolant exchange ducts by his penance.

  Into the seventh hour he had started to daydream. He had thought at first that his catalepsean node had been triggered, causing half of his brain to slumber. In fact it had been caused by something far more prosaic – boredom. A concept almost alien to the Space Marines, whose lives were filled with training, duty and attendance to their brothers even when not in combat.

  His idle thoughts had little space to roam. His childhood was an indistinct blur, his earliest recollections of any depth coming from his days as a novitiate of the Chapter. For the next four centuries he had been a battle-brother of the Dark Angels. A warrior cast in the mould of the heroes of ancient times. An unrelenting life of bloodshed and honing deadly skills.

  Such experiences left little to the imagination. Flights of fancy were heresy.

  Yet somehow Annael’s unencumbered mind had managed to find a place to wriggle free of catechisms and hymnals, bolter drill and armour maintenance doctrine.

  He had imagined a forest. The trees of dead Caliban, where the Lion had hunted great beasts and earned himself the rank of Grand Master amongst the knights of the Order. Annael had pictured himself as a knight of the Order serving beneath the Lion, joining him on the Great Hunts. They had been lauded and feasted on their return to Aldurukh, the very tower beneath which his tireless arms now swung again and again and again.

  The Lion was magnificent – an amorphous individual in his daydream, his features reminiscent of Lord Azrael and Belial and Malcifer and Sammael – the resemblance not simply superficial, as the primarch combined the authority, resilience, wit and daring of all four. Annael felt joy just to stand in the Lion’s shadow.

  He had dreamed of destriers. Hardy-bred steeds of flesh and bone rather than plasteel, the forefathers of Black Shadow and the other bikes of the Ravenwing. Whimsy distracted his thoughts at this time, to wonder if the machine-spirit of Black Shadow had been offended by Annael’s actions. Did the steed share in his shame, shunned by the other bikes and speeders of the company until its master made penance?

  Even in the fantasy of his daydream, Annael could not escape the crushing humiliation of his punishment. In the depths of his despair, he found the means to make himself feel even more wretched – he dreamed that he had disappointed the Lion.

  The Grand Master of the Order looked on him with benevolence, but there was also dismay in the pri
march’s eyes. Annael felt that gaze upon him and there was no greater punishment that could be meted out.

  He wept, his soul torn apart by the thought that he had failed the Lion.

  ‘Annael.’ A hand touched him on the shoulder. ‘Annael!’

  He looked up through tear-filled eyes. For a moment his vision swam and he thought he looked on the face of the primarch. It resolved into the features of Malcifer, crouched over him with concern knotting his brow.

  ‘Master Chaplain?’ Annael croaked. He realised that he must look a sorry state – curled around the pickaxe like an infant, head resting on a lump of ice. He sat up, wiping a hand across his face.

  Malcifer stood up and Annael sprang to his feet, embarrassment coursing through him. He tried to stand to attention but hours of lying on the ice had numbed his muscles and he stood lopsided, silently cursing his weakness.

  ‘Do you know why I sent you here, Annael?’ the Chaplain asked.

  ‘To clear the ice from the coolant exchange, Master Malcifer,’ Annael replied.

  Malcifer gave him a condescending look.

  ‘That ice has been here for millennia. Do you really think it needs to be cleared?’

  Annael thought about this, his gaze moving from Malcifer to the jagged frozen liquid and back again.

  ‘To break my spirit?’ he ventured.

  ‘What use is a Space Marine without spirit? Come, Annael, what has happened to you in these last few hours? Speak from your soul.’

  ‘I dreamed that I failed the Lion,’ Annael confessed.

  ‘Just a dream?’

  The Dark Angel looked deep into Malcifer’s eyes. Trying to interpret this question. He gained no insight from the impassive stare.

  ‘A realisation,’ Annael said eventually. ‘Acceptance of what I have done.’

  ‘And what have you done, Annael?’