by Gav Thorpe
‘I failed. I brought shame to myself, to the squadron, to the Black Knights.’
‘And how did you feel?’
Annael bowed his head and looked at the floor.
‘Less than worthless. It was not that the Lion was angry with me. Or even that he was disappointed. There was something else.’ He looked at Malcifer and gritted his teeth. ‘He gave me a particular look. It seemed as though he no longer trusted me, and it was the most grievous wound I have felt.’
The Chaplain folded his arms and nodded, but said nothing. Annael realised he was supposed to continue. Rather than attempting to marshal his whirling thoughts, the Black Knight gave voice to them as they occurred, trying to find some sense in the stream of ideas.
‘If the Lion does not trust me, nobody will. The bond of brotherhood, my honour, the oaths sworn, they were all meaningless in that instant. Once broken, never repaired. No word I could utter could heal that injury, could mend that fracture. All that I had done before was as naught. Dust scattered by the wind. All that I would do was tainted, marred by the doubt of my lord.’
The anger Annael had felt for weeks was no longer in his breast. He tried to find it, the spark of outrage that he had been treated so poorly, but nothing of his defiance remained. Something else was missing too. He looked sharply at Malcifer, confused by the sensation.
‘I do not feel sorry,’ Annael admitted.
‘Oh?’ Malcifer rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. ‘Why is that?’
Annael tried to articulate the feeling. He started several times before he could find the right words.
‘It no longer matters what I did. The deed was unimportant. The betrayal…’ He felt the confession stick in his throat. A look at Malcifer, open and honest, forced it out. ‘I was a Black Knight. I was to be above reproach. Others looked to me for inspiration, for guidance, for honour. We disobeyed… That is, I disobeyed Sammael, and in that act I cast doubt on his commands. If the Black Knights are above obeying orders, why not the other Ravenwing? What of the commands of the Supreme Grand Master, the instructions of the Chaplains? Loyalty is not flexible. Obedience, true obedience, is absolute.
‘Doubt is a canker. You have warned us so many times that perhaps I no longer heard the sermon. When Sammael issues an order to me, will there be doubt in his thoughts? When the other brothers see me, will doubt erode their respect for the position I occupy? Even my squad-brothers, even with Sabrael, though we acted in concert, can we trust each other again?’
Malcifer accepted this with a thoughtful nod. He stepped towards Annael and his hands moved to the Space Marine’s, lifting them to Annael’s chest. Annael felt the intensity in the Chaplain’s stare as though it was the glare of a Land Raider’s lamps, blinding him with its strength. He felt that strength flowing into him, his fists clasped in Malcifer’s hands, the beating of his twin hearts suddenly fierce in his chest.
‘What do you have to say to me, Annael?’ asked the Chaplain.
Annael felt as though his soul was burning him from the inside out, flushing cleansing flames through his body. Dishonour, shame, weakness. Everything that he reviled, everything that he hated about himself that he had not accepted, it was all purged. The greatest punishment had been within and it was strength, not weakness, that brought it forth.
‘I repent,’ he whispered, lowering to his knees. He kissed the Chaplain’s knuckles and closed his eyes.
‘Do not be afraid. Declare it to me. Let the universe know the mettle of your soul, Annael.’
‘I repent,’ he said again, louder. He felt a tug from Malcifer, lifting him to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw that the Chaplain was smiling. Annael grinned, astonished by the emotion flooding through him. He had thought this moment would be sombre, a dour instant of indignity and disgrace. Instead, he lifted his voice in a joyous shout. ‘I repent!’
‘Truly you do,’ said Malcifer, stepping away. His smile was replaced by a sincere expression, and the gravitas spread to Annael, his own happiness fading to a more sober mood. ‘Welcome back, brother.’
Ancient Deeds
Cypher had been moved from his interrogation chamber to a detention cell. There was very little difference – the absence of the Chaplains’ excruciation implements and the fact that the prisoner was chained to a cot rather than a slab. Even so, it irked Azrael that Cypher had managed to dupe not just Sapphon but also Asmodai into alleviating his circumstances in promise of knowledge. The Supreme Grand Master had huge reservations about the Master of Repentance’s attitude, but he had thought he could always rely on Asmodai to give short shrift to any of the Fallen. Apparently he had been wrong.
‘Your doubt is obvious, and I cannot blame you for harbouring such sentiment.’ Cypher stood, his ankle manacled to the leg of the bed. He spread his arms in supplication. ‘The consequences of our last meeting were drastic.’
‘An understatement. They were appalling.’
‘And you will never believe another word I say.’
Azrael hesitated, remembering what he had told the Fallen before entering.
‘I am dubious of every word that falls from your tongue. But I promised I would give you this last chance to vouch for the usefulness of your continued life. On my honour, such as is left of it, you have my word that I am not wholly deaf to what you have to say. I will give you fair hearing.’
‘You claim to have little honour left, but you have never broken an oath, nor have you done anything less than your utmost to uphold the name and standing of the Dark Angels. You would have been a fine seneschal to the Lion.’
The Supreme Grand Master tried hard not to let this praise affect him, but the sincerity in Cypher’s voice made it impossible not to feel a small swell of pride. Azrael pushed it to the back of his mind.
‘Empty words.’
Cypher’s lip turned down and he looked away, sighing. Azrael did not speak, but he chose not to harry the prisoner to continue. The Fallen was deep in thought.
‘The dishonour was not yours,’ he said, still staring at the floor. ‘Whatever misdemeanours you feel you have perpetrated in the cause of the Hunt, you have atoned for a hundredfold by your dedication to the Imperium. The crime was not yours, not any of the Dark Angels that now bear the burden of shame.’
‘No, it was you, and the other Fallen. You turned on the Lion. That act is the wellspring of our dishonour.’
‘And yet you carry that shame as though your robes were made of lead. I have met many of those you call Fallen. Some are vile creatures, like Methelas, who have descended into the pits of the darkness. Some retain their honour, caught up by good faith in bad superiors, given no chance to make amends for being used and discarded. Some are twisted, but believe in all their soul that they were on the right side of the argument. Many were willing, but many were not.’
‘I would expect you to make apology for your fellow traitors.’ Azrael crossed his arms. ‘I hear nothing that exempts you from our condemnation or merits any comment.’
‘I ask for another indulgence, Lord Azrael.’ The Fallen’s use of the title confused and irked Azrael. It was uttered with respect, or seemed to be, but sounded alien from the mouth of this treacherous dog.
After a few seconds Azrael realised that Cypher was being literal, asking for permission to continue. The Supreme Grand Master waved for him to carry on speaking.
‘To understand how your brothers might be saved, you must understand the journey that has brought you here,’ said the renegade.
‘So you are to recite to me the history of my own Chapter?’
‘Not at all, but to remind you of the part I played in it. Whatever the chroniclers have recorded in secret, I can tell you much of what has happened and what it is that you seek to repent.’ Cypher sat down and indicated for Azrael to do the same – there was a stool beside the door. Azrael ignored the invitation. ‘I have stood in the H
idden Chamber. I have walked the Forever Passage. I have in my time seen most of the Tower of Angels, as prisoner or guest.’
‘Yes, that is a matter I would have you clear up for me. How do you intend to escape this time?’
‘I do not.’ Cypher sat forward, earnest. ‘The Rock is a void-borne fortress, escape is impossible. I intend to leave your company the same way I left the company of seven prior Supreme Grand Masters. With your permission, perhaps even your blessing.’
Azrael laughed, shocked by this incredible assertion. Cypher smiled, sharing his humour.
‘I am going to let you go, is that what you are telling me?’
‘Yes.’
It took a few more seconds for Azrael to control himself. As the last of his laughter died away, the Supreme Grand Master sat down.
‘Tell me, thrice-cursed, what wisdom you have for me. What do you know of the atonement of my gene-brothers that I do not?’
‘It was not the turning of the Fallen that sealed the fate of the Dark Angels for ten thousand years. If you could see with eyes undimmed by the lies of your forebears you would know the truth, see the last ten millennia for what they are. Nearly half of the Legions joined Horus. They have been forgotten, their memory denied to the common people of the Imperium, their primarchs half-whispered names of devils and slain traitors.
‘And there were those within the Legions recorded as loyal defenders of the Emperor that did not remain true to their oaths. They split with their brothers and gene-fathers, for Horus or personal gain, or were tricked into selfish acts by promises from the agents of the Dark Powers.’
‘There is rumour of such in the oldest annals,’ said Azrael. ‘It does not compare to the crimes of the Fallen.’
‘No, it does not. But also, the fact that your ancient records contain such knowledge proves that the other Legions that suffered such treachery in their ranks were of no mind to conceal it. Those that remained loyal used the evidence of deserters and defectors to reinforce their dedication to the Emperor. But in the annals of the Space Wolves and the Ultramarines, in the spoken mysteries of the White Scars and the halls of records on Baal Secundus, where does it speak of the Fallen?’
‘Nowhere!’ Azrael was alarmed by the thought that the Dark Angels great secret might be known to anyone outside the Unforgiven.
‘A secret kept for ten thousand years. Not strength drawn from division, but shame. A shame multiplied every day by your denial to the Imperium and yourselves. The crime for which you must atone is not the turning of the Fallen, but the decision to conceal it. That first lie, that the Dark Angels had remained loyal, told to the primarchs of your brother Legions. Years later, a second lie, even greater than the first, told to your own warriors. When I returned to warn that the Fallen were not dead, I hoped for openness, but instead my news was greeted with distrust and secrecy. Every lie begets a new secret, every secret begets a new lie. If you capture all of the Fallen, if this moment I was to repent every sin I have knowingly committed against the Lion and the Emperor, your shame would not be ended. You carry it in your souls, not the Fallen.’
Azrael resisted the urge to get up and strike the corrupted Dark Angel, and shook with the effort.
‘Why do you take such umbrage at my words?’ said Cypher. ‘Dismiss them as the ranting of a Fallen. The seeds of doubt sown wildly by a traitor. You cannot argue, because in your soul you know what I say is true. Every warrior that bore your title, Supreme Grand Master, carries the guilt not of the Fallen but of every Chapter Master that has chosen a path of deceit rather than honesty.’
‘And that would save us? To confess to ten thousand years of manipulation and secrecy? The Unforgiven would be declared Excommunicate Traitoris. Not even our cousins in the other Chapters would side with us. All of the Imperium and the Adeptus Astartes would hunt us down.’
‘And your pride would force you to defend yourselves, rather than meekly accept your execution as you should. Deluded to the end that you were in the right, a curse on the Imperium spat from the lips of the last Dark Angel to die to a righteous blade.’
‘And what is this to do with you and Astelan and Caliban? Is it your blade that will hunt us?’
‘You misunderstand me. I would save you and the Imperium this fate. No good comes of forcing the truth into the light. Only by your own admission of guilt will you ever be free.’ Cypher stood up, a hand extended towards Azrael. ‘No matter what you think of me, I am a Dark Angel too. The same gene-father’s blood runs in our veins. We are so alike, creations of the Emperor, but your blindness sets us light years apart.’
‘You think that I would trust you?’ Azrael asked.
‘No,’ said Cypher. His expression was fierce as he continued. ‘You must never trust me! There is no oath that I will keep, no power that I can swear by that you can hold me to. I am the thrice-cursed, liar, traitor and enigma. The more I assert I am telling you the truth, the less you should believe me.’
‘But you ask me to believe you now? How can you say such a thing and then expect me to stay here and listen to your lies?’
‘I am not asking you to believe me. That would be fruitless. Open the door.’
‘What?’ Azrael glanced towards the heavy cell door.
‘Please, I am chained, I cannot escape. Open the door.’
Azrael, frowning, stood up and did as he had been asked. He swung the cell door out, revealing the corridor. The Supreme Grand Master stepped back in shock. Instead of the empty passage he had been expecting, he was confronted by dozens of glinting red eyes in the gloom.
Watchers in the Dark, at least thirty of them.
The air was filled with the same sense of dislocation he had felt when he had been taken to see Luther for the first time, as though a fog hung across his senses. He glanced to the left, seeing the flickering light of the lanterns in the guard room where Sapphon and Asmodai waited. Azrael could see them now, talking to each other, but moving with extreme slowness, their gestures changing by tiny degrees, lips opening and curling with tectonic speed.
To the right the corridor stopped abruptly, two hundred metres short, and a huge hydraulically-locked door barred further progress.
‘They wish us to follow.’
Azrael turned at the sudden voice at his shoulder, hands rising to protect himself, but no attack came. Cypher rubbed feeling back into his wrists, his bonds laid out behind him on the bed and floor.
‘Not my doing,’ the Fallen said quickly, lifting his hands in surrender as Azrael took a step closer. ‘It was their act.’
Azrael thought he understood the strange nature of the Watchers now, or at least had an inkling of the source of their power. Space was something they could rearrange at will, creating stairs and corridors and gaps between walls whenever needed. He had no doubt the portal was real, somewhere else in the Rock, but for convenience they had brought it close for him.
‘Do you know what is inside?’ Azrael said, looking at the forbidding door in front of him. It was reinforced with heavy bands. Ancient symbols of the machine cult were etched into the metal, with no sign of tarnish or weathering. ‘Is this what you were going to tell me?’
‘I have no idea what this place is,’ confessed Cypher. ‘I answered only the urge from our small friends, an instinct that we needed to meet again.’
‘Then there is only one way to find out,’ said Azrael, striding forward. The Watchers parted before him.
Heirloom Of The Lion
The door opened with a hiss, swinging inwards to reveal a metal-lined hall within. For an instant Azrael thought he had seen the chamber before, but the memory would not stand still for scrutiny, constantly changing in slight details. It was a dream, he realised. One that had come to him again and again but not until now had he remembered it.
Like most of the dungeon beneath the Tower of Angels, the cathedral-like space was lit by electric lantern
s, at least fifty of them casting a yellow glare across the hall’s contents. The walls, nearly a hundred metres apart, were covered in stacks of machinery and monitors, so that the bare metal was hidden behind banks of dials and levers and flashing lights and coils of cabling and pipelines. The precise position of each mechanism seemed slightly out of place, ajar with the dream-memory.
Gantries and walkways, steps and ladders were arranged around something that had always appeared as a blur in his dreams, with sensor probes, monitoring dishes and scaffolding further enmeshing the centre of the warp device.
The thing itself was there, clearer than anything else. A sentience, or at least semi-sentience that had been quietly calling to him for a century and more. It was a perfect sphere of marbled black and dark grey, with flecks of gold that moved slowly across its surface. Ten point six seven metres in diameter – how he recalled the exact dimensions the Lord of the Rock did not know – it was made of some exotic material beyond comprehension.
Two protuberances extended from the sphere, one at each pole, each only a few centimetres long. The rounded nodules touched against circuit-covered plates stationed above and below the device, which in turn were linked by a dizzying web of wires and cables to the surrounding machines.
Azrael could feel the thing regarding him with some alien sense. He was not sure how he could tell, nor how the warp device could sense him in return. He looked at it and felt another flash of memory. Savage humans clad in red rags, wailing and screaming praises to the sphere. He brought death to them, slaying dozens.
‘Careful, brother!’
Ezekiel’s sharp words cut across Azrael’s daydream, bringing him back to focus on the reality of where he was.
‘How did you come to this place?’ he asked the Librarian.
‘By the same manner as you,’ Ezekiel replied. He glanced back at the crowd of twinkling eyes in the darkness outside the doors. ‘I was summoned. It seems I arrived just at the appointed hour. You are correct, this thing perceives us. It is psychic, connected to the warp, but in no way I have ever encountered before. I sensed its energies leaking into your mind, but I cannot penetrate its depths.’