by Gav Thorpe
‘It’s, uh, Lieutenant… Lieutenant Neraellin, my liege,’ he said, obviously regretting the need to correct his primarch.
‘You are mistaken, captain,’ the Lion said. A massive hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his waist. ‘I would not give the honour of leading the first drop assault to a lieutenant.’
To his credit, Neraellin quickly caught up with the primarch. There was no smile, no look of triumph, just a respectful nod of acceptance.
‘I will do honour to your decision, my liege,’ the newly promoted captain replied solemnly.
‘You will,’ said the primarch. He marched from the tower and headed back towards his Stormbird, the others following with hurried strides. ‘Your first duty will be to provide me with all of the strategic data you have gathered so far. Stenius, assemble the fleet for surface assault. Farith, gather the senior commanders. I will brief in one standard hour. Retribution is at hand.’
The Lion was true to his word. A stiff wind plucked at his cloak as his gaze followed Captain Neraellin’s gunships from the open assault ramp of a Stormbird.
Most of the traitor stronghold was already rubble and molten slag, the defences levelled in the same manner that had systematically destroyed the cities of Zephath. The last of the plasma warheads rained down, blossoming in miniature suns across the flattened remnant of the fortress. Despite the damage on the surface, it was likely that the bulk of the enemy were sheltered underground. The bombardment had taken out anti-aircraft emplacements and gun towers but as always it remained the task of the legionaries to assault the remains.
For all that he had honoured Neraellin with the vanguard attack, the primarch was not willing to take any other risks with the execution of the traitors. As the captain’s Thunderhawk touched down ahead, the primarch leapt from his gunship, dropping the last fifty metres. The glass-like remains of a bunker cracked under his landing while the jets of the landing Stormbird scattered the fog of ash, coating the Lion’s face and hair with light grey.
The smell was oddly welcoming, reminding the primarch of the fire-warmed great halls of Aldurukh in winter, save for the slight undercurrent of charred flesh. A breeze came down the mountain valley bringing a crisp coldness of icy water, coniferous forest and fresh snow.
The Lion looked up and smiled. The cloud layer had been burned away by the vehemence of the lances and plasma fire from orbit, leaving a sun-filled sky. Against the indigo he could see the shapes of gunships and drop pods. More importantly, so could the survivors of Zephath. They would tell generations to come of the day the Dark Angels arrived as their saviours.
The air was thick with the descending machines of war, pinpricks of plasma trails and arrestor jets almost lost against the midday sun. The Lion had chosen noon as the moment vengeance would be exacted. No dusk or dawn assault, but a falling blade lit bright by the light of day.
‘Ingress, sublevels to the left!’ barked Neraellin, gesturing to his squads. ‘Melta-teams!’
The emplacements beneath the citadel had been well built and had resisted the worst of the orbital assault. As with their initial attack, the traitors had followed the principles of the Legiones Astartes, a strange adjunct to their barbaric genocide. However, a few metres of surface earth had been scoured clear in places, revealing curved ferrocrete tunnels and skeletal ferrite supports. Neraellin and three legionaries converged over one of these exposed sections.
The legionaries carried multi-meltas, bulky weapons with short range but devastating potential. At their captain’s command they fired at the revealed tunnelwork, the combined blast of high-powered radiation turning the ferrocrete to vapour, leaving a roughly circular hole three metres across.
The Lion arrived just as Neraellin was about to jump into the passageway.
‘Captain!’ Neraellin turned as the Lion arrived at his side and drew his sword.
‘My liege?’ There was the slightest tremor in his voice. It was likely excitement, but perhaps concern that the primarch had changed his mind.
The Lion waved the captain to proceed.
‘Leave none alive.’
Bolts whipped past Farith Redloss as he strode across the broken and melted stones of an internal wall. The heavier scream of reaper autocannon rounds punctuated the din. The fire came from the slit of a bunker a hundred metres ahead, which by some quirk of physics had survived the plasma shells and torpedo attack. It was just one of several defensive emplacements that protected a secondary citadel, itself constructed over one of the mine workings delved into the lower slope of the mountains.
The Lion was still clearing the undertunnels of the main fortress, leaving others of the command council to sweep clear the remaining surface structures. So far it had been light work, but Redloss looked up at eight ranks of reinforced walls and buttressed towers carved from the flank of the mountain.
Larger guns added their fire to the defence as the Chapters of the 20th, 30th and 31st Orders advanced into range. The thunder of artillery pieces echoed for a few seconds before the shells detonated on the cracked valley floor.
Redloss joined Paladin Xavis of the 20th Order, who observed the stronghold from the corner of a Land Raider’s track housing. The black paint of the heavy transport’s frontal armour was scratched and pitted from direct hits and scattered shrapnel impacts, the ground around churned with mortar craters. Evidently Xavis had been stuck there for several minutes.
‘Tricky,’ said Redloss, using the lascannon sponson mounting to clamber up onto the top of the Land Raider. The Space Marine manning the heavy bolter at the top hatch turned in surprise. ‘Eye and weapon to the enemy, legionary!’
While Redloss watched, a squadron of Dark Angels tanks opened fire on the closest line of rampart. A half-formed wall of blue light met the attack. Las-beams and shells sparked harmlessly against the energy shield a few metres from the fortification.
‘Any idea how many of them are in there?’ he asked Xavis.
‘A few dozen, as best we can tell from scan data.’ The Paladin shook his head. ‘Enough to man the stronghold. We could have another ten thousand warriors, it makes no difference if we cannot bring the numbers to bear on the target. It could take days, weeks to dig them out. Voted lieutenant, I am requesting your brotherhood’s intervention and relinquish authority to your command for the duration of the impending action.’
The Dreadwing, like the other ‘Wings’ of the Dark Angels, owed its existence both to the old formations of Terra and that ‘brotherhood’ of the Order from Caliban. It existed beneath the structure of the Principia Belicosa that shaped the Legiones Astartes, a substrate of organisation and tradition that predated the adoption of the Order of Caliban and even the amalgamation of the Six Hosts of Angels – the Hexagrammaton – but was also a result of both.
‘Are you sure, brother?’ Redloss looked down at Xavis. ‘I will not be gentle with your warriors. Do you wish to consult with our liege?’
‘A swift action will be less costly, I believe. The Lion granted me full tactical command and I am exercising my right to invoke a Dreadwing assault.’
‘Fine, I just wanted you to be sure.’
With a thumb, Redloss signalled for the cupola gunner to clamber out of his position, allowing the voted lieutenant to lower himself down into the Land Raider. He made his way directly to the vox-station and attuned the transmitter to his personal channel – the Dreadwing command frequency.
‘The glass turns, the grains fall,’ he broadcast, signalling to the other members of his brotherhood that the Dreadwing was to assemble. ‘Are you reading me, Intolerant?’
‘This is Tarazant, Dreadbringer. Intolerant is at tation forty-alpha. Two minutes for orbital adjustment to your position.’
‘I need corridor fire, one kilometre breadth, two long. Initiate on my command.’
‘Main weapon system will engage on your command.’
Acknowledging this, Redloss turned his attention to the other movements of his warriors. From different parts of th
e battle line, a selection of tanks and squads broke formation and headed towards the Land Raider. Those fighting below the surface with the primarch knew better than to disengage – the transmission was a call to arms for those that could respond, not an overriding command.
He marched down the compartment and activated the assault ramp. As it lowered, revealing the walls of the enemy fortress blossoming with the muzzle flare of large cannons, he received the affirmation from Tarazant that the Intolerant was in position over the battlezone.
Xavis saluted as they passed on the ramp.
‘Don’t get carried away,’ said the commander of the 20th Order. ‘We might want that fortress ourselves.’
‘Too late for caveats, Brother-Paladin,’ Redloss replied.
He stepped out onto ground thawed by the engines of the tanks and the detonations of shells. The enemy bombardment was directed a few hundred metres off to his left, where an aegis-line of fortifications had been dropped from orbit. Fire between the companies sheltering in the bastion and the outer defences of the stronghold flickered in the still moments between earth-ripping detonations.
Redloss himself did not fully understand the origins of the formation for which he was the elected leader, being a son of Caliban. There had been secrets and mysteries revealed to him by his predecessor, a Terran of Albia called Constantine, but little substantive history. Other details he had gleaned through conversations with his fellow voted lieutenants in the other Wings, but even now, less than two centuries after its inception, the Dreadwing’s past was surprisingly opaque and veiled with metaphor.
As the voted lieutenant understood, during the War of Unification the Six Hosts had each been created by the Emperor for a specific task, or from a particular type of warrior. Their names, if they had any, were unknown to Farith – the Wings were an adoption of Order terminology. These Hosts did not fight alone, being too specialised for general warfare on Terra and during the initial stages of the Great Crusade. Instead, elements of each Host were combined into battle groups of different sizes and designations. As and when required, the Hosts provided their troops to these armies depending upon the military need.
Now the brotherhoods could be called upon to provide their expertise to a field commander, as Xavis had invoked.
The ground trembled and a shadow fell across the Land Raider as a Spartan assault carrier arrived beside Redloss. Its black livery was marked with the icon of the Dark Angels and in the pommel of the sword of the Legion symbol sat a skull-in-hourglass device that matched the iconography of the voted lieutenant. The same would be found somewhere in the heraldry of all that belonged to the Dreadwing.
The Spartan was a larger cousin of the Land Raider, a massive assault transport capable of carrying twenty-five Space Marines. Its tracks were thick with grit and mud torn up from the frozen ground, its exhaust vents steaming like a dragon’s maw. Sponson-mounted quad lascannons sent a ripple of fire into a nearby bunker, slashing through the ferrocrete with ruby beams.
A hatch in the slab flank opened to reveal Danaes of the Third Order. The lieutenant-ascendant of the Dreadwing wore Terminator armour that almost filled the accessway with its bulk.
‘Hail the Dreadbringer,’ Danaes said formally, taking a step back so that Redloss could pull himself aboard his command vehicle.
‘Let the lesson continue,’ said Redloss, ascending into the massive transport. The troop compartment was only half full, carrying the five warriors of Redloss’ pantheon and five more Terminators led by Halswain. Each armour-clad warrior sported a heavy weapon of some kind, their livery marked with the icons of half a dozen different squads from two different Orders.
He sat down, long axe across his lap, and gestured for his second-in-command to stand beside him. ‘What do you recall of our last conversation, Danaes? Tell me of the Hexagrammaton.’
‘We spoke of the early years, on Terra,’ said Danaes. ‘You told me that the warriors of each Host could be called upon when a particular threat or situation presented itself. Like now. The leader of a Host, chosen by his sect-brothers rather than appointed by the Emperor in those times, would assume temporary command of a battle or campaign so that their expertise could be deployed fully. But I do not understand what happened to the Hexagrammaton in the other Legions. Why did it persist only within the First?’
‘That is a mystery I cannot solve,’ replied Redloss. ‘For reasons only he knows, the Emperor chose not to continue with the Six Hosts and instead created the Principia Belicosa to structure the Legiones Astartes. The old ties of the brotherhoods continued in the First Legion, though, and so the Six Hosts persisted in name and function. Being created from scratch, the later Legions were never built upon this foundation.’
Redloss was entrusted with strategies and technologies that were for him alone to unleash. Not only did he possess the temporal command, he had been given the spiritual authority to do so. He had learned their ways and means from the hand and lips of Paladin Constantine and passed on the same to his peer-nominated successor, Danaes.
Redloss’ shadow when the Dreadwing was assembled, it was Danaes’ duty to accompany the voted lieutenant and take command the moment Redloss was unable to lead. This ‘last breath’ protocol ensured no interruptions to the chain of command – Danaes had his own student, Halswain, who would take his place if the lieutenant-ascendant died before Farith, and so forth, with each warrior of the inner echelon accompanied by and tutoring his replacement.
‘Ready to kill some traitors?’ Redloss asked his warriors, rewarded with growled affirmatives and nods. He activated the comm-net. ‘You know me, I know you, brothers of the Dreadwing. We see our target before us. You don’t need me to tell you what must be done. We will paint our glory in the blood of the foe. Until the last traitor in that stronghold is dead, this field belongs to the Dreadwing. Tarazant?’
‘On station, Dreadbringer.’
‘Darkness falls.’
FOUR
We are death
Ultramar
Nearly fifteen hundred warriors of the Dreadwing had answered Redloss’ call to arms. Many rode in Rhinos, Land Raiders, Spartans and other transports, but several hundred formed up on foot behind the armoured machines of their brothers.
Engines died and fifteen hundred warriors stilled themselves, each reaching into his thoughts, remembering the teachings of the Dreadwing.
From external vocalisers and the address systems of the vehicles a low chant began.
It was almost nothing at first, a sigh that became a whisper. The cold wind flicked hourglass-shaped pennants and brought a flurry of snow across the black of war-plate. The whisper became a murmur, the words still indistinct. Aboard the Spartan, Redloss cross-broadcast the transmissions from the Dreadwing network to all non-Dark Angel frequencies, blanketing the airwaves with the sound of his warriors.
In low orbit, the Intolerant turned its prow surfacewards, a spear of black and gold. Vanes like the vertebrae of a kilometre-long saurian extruded from its flanks.
The chant resolved itself into words, still quiet but firm, the first rumble of thunder from a storm in the distance. The Dreadwing did not come in secret, they hid nothing of their purpose. Their strength did not come from righteous ire. They needed no justification. They needed no aggrandising.
The Dreadwing simply were.
We have come, they proclaimed. We are death.
Energy flared along the length of the Intolerant, arcs of purple and blue that leapt from one vane to the next, moving from stern to bow in succession. A few seconds later another surge of lightning rippled down the starship. With each few passing seconds the pause between flashes shortened.
The voices of the Dreadwing became regular speech, the words slow and insistent, uttered between teeth gritted in wolfish grins.
We have come. We are death.
We have come. We are death.
Farith added his voice to the chant, his immense war-axe in one hand, the other forming a fist that gent
ly struck the beat on the console of the comm-unit.
‘We have come. We are death.’
The other Dark Angels fell back, guided by the command of their Paladins. Where gaps in the line appeared, the Dreadwing re-formed, transports moving forward, squads repositioning, the wall of black consolidating even as rockets and shells crashed down around them. And there they stayed, motionless, the chant as unbroken as the line.
We have come. We are death.
The mantra was insistent, loud, growing quicker and quicker.
The pulses of cerulean fire that enveloped the Intolerant were almost constant. Above the battlefield, through the break in the clouds, it seemed as though a violet star sprang into life.
We have come. We are death.
A shout. A promise, not a threat. Redloss’ fist was beating hard, denting the metal of the console. Along the line, gauntlets beat in unison on chest plastrons and against the hulls of the tanks. Every half a second, with metronomic precision, a crash of metallic thunder rolled across the battlefield, swamping the sound of lasblasts and autocannon shells.
We have come. We are death.
As one, the Dreadwing took five paces in time to the chant while the tanks snarled forward alongside.
We have come. We are death.
The Intolerant was awash with swirling energy, the void around it buckling and twisting like a warped mirror. The flare of power cast impossible shadows against the vacuum of space.
We have come. We are death.
The Dreadwing advanced again, walking forward at a quick march, every warrior in step, their vehicles taking the brunt of fire from the redirected weapons of the traitors’ bunkers.
Redloss pulled himself up the ladder to the command hatch atop the Spartan and ascended to the roof of the vehicle. It ground forward in time with the advance, engines like the rumble of a dormant giant. He lifted up the great hourglass-headed axe in both hands, pumping his arm along with the chant.
‘We have come!’ roared Farith. ‘We are death!’