by Gav Thorpe
His gaze moved to the banner again, of the Dark Angels.
Why dark, Luther wondered? When they had been renamed, why had the Emperor seen fit to call them His Dark Angels? Was it intended to intimidate His enemies? Had it been a joke, perhaps, on some cosmic scale that only the Master of Mankind understood?
He could believe the latter. A double-edged name, admitting their heavenly origins whilst condemning them to a future of darkness. The Lion adored the Emperor, more than any son loved a father, and in that had been his greatest weakness.
The day Luther met the Lion was not the day the Grand Master rued. It was the day the Emperor’s warriors found them that was to be the start of all that had gone wrong.
As though the universe also enjoyed a sense of comic timing, the hall resounded with the thud of a gauntleted fist on heavy wood. The door wardens opened the great portal to admit Belath, who stopped and looked around at the banners and trophies, this time more aware of them than during his previous visit.
Luther was still standing in front of his chair, also contemplating the standards on display.
‘Welcome, Chapter Master Belath,’ Luther declared, hurrying down the hall to meet the Chapter Master partway. He offered a hand, which Belath shook without thought. ‘I wanted to apologise and make amends for my misstep during our first meeting.’
‘Misstep, Master Luther?’
‘My overenthusiastic greeting in this very hall. I should have attended to your request for discretion more diligently. As it is, Caliban is astir with stories about your return.’
‘I would have you think nothing more on it, Master Luther. My pressing concern is for…’
Belath tailed away and turned as the doors opened with a babble of voices. A dozen serfs entered, dressed in hose and tunics and heavy aprons, dragging with them blocks of polish and buckets of water.
‘How unfortunate,’ declared Luther, though prearrangement rather than fortune had ensured the menials had entered only moments after Belath. ‘Another embarrassment! The hall needs to be prepared for the banquet. I should have remembered and arranged our meeting in a more apt location.’
‘What banquet, Master Luther?’
‘Your feast of honour, Chapter Master. Your triumph, of course.’
‘I don’t want a feast. I want to take the recruits, and get back to Corswain with thirty thousand fresh warriors.’
‘Of course you do, Belath.’ Though he was shorter than the Space Marine by ten centimetres, Luther was able to angle himself in such a way as to shepherd him towards one of the side doors. Arm outstretched, he guided the Chapter Master from the hall.
‘I do not understand the delays,’ Belath continued as they walked down a long gallery heading towards the western wall of the citadel. ‘It has been eleven days since I made my needs known. Surely you have been prepared for this moment. A suspicious man might think you were delaying our departure on purpose.’
‘Prepared, yes. Ready? That is not quite the same thing,’ Luther admitted with a rueful look. ‘One does not simply sweep up thirty thousand Space Marines and fling them into orbit, as you know, Chapter Master.’
‘The victualling has proceeded without hindrance. I don’t see why we have yet to see a single warrior in orbit.’
‘They have been training for their whole lives, Belath. This is a grand moment for them. But you must remember that they are untested in true battle. They have been a garrison, not a force of assault and offence. We must ensure that they are as battle-ready as possible the moment they set foot on your ships.’
While they spoke they traversed several more corridors and smaller halls, until Luther had led them to a small cloister that ran alongside the Angelicasta’s innermost wall. A set of stone steps led to the rampart, flanked by an iron rail forged in the likeness of two intertwined serpents. The design was almost invisible from centuries of hands clasping the ancient metal.
‘I must also insist about the feast, brother,’ Luther continued as he took the steps two at a stride. Belath followed closely. ‘It is only fitting that we honour the departure of Caliban’s sons with a suitable occasion.’
From the rampart they looked down into the eastern proving grounds of Aldurukh. Here there was a virtually empty stretch of ground for five kilometres, until the Gate of Aster in the curtain wall. Normally the two-kilometre-wide area was used to mock up battlefields or create firing ranges for heavy-weapons practice and close armoured manoeuvres. Makeshift trenches had been filled in and bunkers dismantled.
The proving ground was filled with warriors armoured in black plate. Banners of green and red, the colours of Caliban, and blazoned with symbols from the same tradition fluttered above their command squads. Rhino transports in shining ebon livery stood beside each unit.
‘Ten thousand strong,’ announced Luther with a broad grin. He held up a hand, and at his signal the assembled warriors raised weapons in a perfectly unified salute. ‘A host fit for Corswain, and but a third of the complement you will be taking to him, Chapter Master.’
‘It is remarkable,’ said Belath, but his expression was guarded. ‘Such spectacle as might have once stirred me is now commonplace in my memories. I have seen a Legion at war, Master Luther, and there is nothing like it. Ten thousand warriors at parade is impressive, but I witnessed a night drop of forty thousand Dark Angels at the pacification of Aurentius Two…’ He sighed. ‘But thank you for demonstrating that the troops are ready to embark today.’
Luther fought to control his temper. No small effort had gone into preparing this display and Belath’s crass dismissal served only to remind the Grand Master of the glories and renown he should have earned at the side of the Lion.
He could also not ignore the possibility that Belath was being purposefully indifferent to assert his own authority. Such a thought brought Luther back to his original intent.
‘As I said before, I must insist that you attend the triumphal feast, Master Belath.’
‘Your insistence is wasted, Master Luther.’ Belath looked down at the Grand Master and there was regret in his eyes. ‘When I was an infant you were my hero, even more than the Lion. I could never become a primarch, but you were the example to which I aspired. A man of Caliban, risen to the greatest heights of power and glory. It turns my heart that you have been stranded here, and if it were in my power to say otherwise, I would gladly hand these warriors to you and take up the burden of Caliban’s protection.’
His expression grew sterner.
‘But it is not to be. Your feasts can’t soften me, your kind words and…’ he waved a hand at the Space Marines still stood at the salute, ‘…your demonstrations can’t flatter or sway me. By the Lion’s command you were placed upon this world and no other word can lift you from it. It was a punishment masquerading as an honour, many of us could see that from the outset. It might even be unjust, but that is not for us to decide, is it, Master Luther?’
‘Even if you were to offer me command of this expedition, I would not take it,’ Luther replied, speaking the truth – though his meaning was not as Belath would interpret it. He let some hardness enter his voice. ‘Also, you must realise that these are not your warriors. Not yet. They are mine. They belong to Caliban.’
Luther raised a hand to stall any protest.
‘In their hearts,’ the Grand Master added. ‘The Legion and the primarch are distant figures. Many of them have lived their entire lives never knowing anything but this isolation. The feast is my endorsement. My authority will pass to you and your men. If you do not attend, I cannot in all conscience pass these warriors to you, for they will not accept you as their leader.’
‘That would be insubordination,’ growled Belath.
‘I hoped that you would not take offence.’ Luther had expected as much from the close-minded Chapter Master. ‘This is not an insult or a threat, but a solution. You stand now receiving their salute next to me. In the morning when you return to your ships you shall receive it alone. The mantle will
be passed.’
The Space Marine’s eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
‘I am giving you thirty thousand warriors, Chapter Master. Thirty thousand Space Marines. In these turbulent times, such a thing could make or break a war. I am trusting you with this weapon, in the belief that it will fall upon the proper foe.’ Luther looked at the host of warriors, feigning a melancholic turn. ‘More than any previous generation, these are my little brothers. I willingly release them to you, but let us not do so as a furtive exchange of goods. Let us mark this occasion, knowing that history will remember this day as keenly as many others in Caliban’s noble past and glorious future. A feast, brother with brother, to mark all that we share still, to celebrate your past victories and to speed you to fresh ones.’
Luther’s sudden smile was like the full heat of the sun, all-encompassing and overpowering, and Belath cracked after just a few seconds. When he grinned, the scarred warrior had a boyish look even now, and he bowed his head unconsciously in deference to the Grand Master.
‘We shall laud all of you, of course,’ Luther concluded. ‘Gunships will be sent to bring your veterans down to Caliban for their triumph. A wing of the Angelicasta has been assigned to allow them to prepare for the banquet tonight.’
Without waiting for a reply, Luther motioned to a figure standing to one side of the arrayed Space Marines below. It was Astelan, standing beneath two banners – one his personal standard from the Legion, the other the honorary banner of his Chapter that had been brought forth from the vaults that morning. Astelan made no direct response, but an instant later the Space Marines lowered their weapons at his unheard command, did an about-turn and set off at a slow march towards the distant gate.
At the same moment, the roar of gunships sounded overhead and a flotilla of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds started a spiralling descent to the transport terminal a kilometre outside the city.
Turning his back on the display, its majesty sullied by his companion’s state of indifference, Luther guided Belath to the quarters that had been set aside. There he left the Chapter Master to the diligent attendance of Aldurukh’s army of squires and serfs.
A few strides from leaving Belath’s company, Luther heard other footsteps fall in just behind him.
‘Do you think he will come around to our point of view?’ asked Lord Cypher.
‘That will be your goal this afternoon,’ Luther replied without looking around. ‘Astelan will have the first cadre brought down within ninety minutes. Until then, spend your time with Belath. He is the keystone, of course.’
‘And the others?’
‘You have seven hours to speak to as many of them as you can. You are the Lord Cypher. You are the Order. They will all be Calibanites, remind them that the Order is Caliban.’
‘I am aware of the duty before me, Sar Luther.’
Luther stopped abruptly. He met Lord Cypher’s cowled gaze.
‘You disapprove of making overtures to Belath and his men?’
‘It seems an unnecessary complication. When we have them on Caliban, we no longer require their cooperation.’
‘Require? Require?’ Luther bared his teeth. ‘If we did only that which is required, we would meekly serve out our time until the Emperor, Horus or the Lion returned to place us in bondage once again. We do what is right, Lord Cypher. We bring honour to the Order, to Caliban. If not for these values, why persist? It is our way of life, our traditions, our worth that we strive to protect.’
‘And if Belath’s company of warriors no longer share those traditions and values?’
‘Astelan has already called my dedication into question, albeit obliquely. I do not need the same from my closest advisor.’
‘It is rare that I and the Terran are in accord. Perhaps that is worth noting. And we have not yet been answered, Sar Luther.’
‘Nor will words suffice,’ snapped Luther. ‘Only in the moment, when pressed to make the decision, to act or not act, can any of us be sure of our thoughts and deeds. What assurance would I give that could not be undermined by doubt?’
‘Simply tell me the truth, brother,’ said Lord Cypher, his tone conciliatory. ‘If Belath will not be turned to our cause, will you give the command to silence his dissent permanently?’
‘Truth? There is no wisdom save in truth. Truth is everlasting, but our ideas about truth are changeable. Only a little of the first fruits of wisdom, only a few fragments of the boundless heights, breadths and depths of truth, have I been able to gather. I have not forgotten that there are questions still unanswered about what happened in the Northwilds. Serve me better today than you did then and perhaps my queries will pass from thought.’
Lord Cypher regarded his commander for a moment, perhaps trying to gauge the depth of his intent. His enquiry was met with a flinty stare.
‘Be about your duties,’ Luther told him. ‘If you are diligent, the time of testing might yet be postponed and we shall all fare better for it. If I am forced onto the horns of such a dilemma, regard it as your failing that I have been placed there.’
Luther spun and strode away, feeling Lord Cypher’s gaze on his back. The truth, the Grand Master told himself, was that even he did not know if he could order the death of Belath and his company.
It was a bridge he would have to cross – or burn – only when he arrived upon it.
TWENTY
Griffayn of the Firewing
Caliban
The antechamber to the Hall of Decemial was itself larger than many audience chambers within Aldurukh, and the complement of Dark Angels gathering within it did little to fill the space. Their mission was still active and so despite being on home soil, surrounded by the fortifications of Aldurukh, by decree every warrior remained armoured and armed. Luther had expected as much – was counting upon it, he had confided to Zahariel when he had impressed upon the Master of the Mystai the importance of his psykers’ role in the unfolding drama.
The Dark Angels came together in a knot just a few metres from the great doors, clustered together despite the space into which they could have drifted. They unconsciously divided into smaller groups that were subtle but perfectly visible from the balcony above, where Zahariel watched with his Mystai beside him. They too were clad in battleplate, pistols and blades worn on their belts.
The officers, four of them in addition to Belath, stood the closest to the doors, expecting to be admitted first. They said little to each other and watched their subordinates closely. Occasionally one or other would glance up towards the balcony, but they paid little attention to their observers. The Librarian, Asmodeus, stood a little way from the other ranking Space Marines, face set with concentration.
+That is why we cannot scan them from here,+ Zahariel said to his companions, using thoughts rather than words. +Do not stray from the plan and they will never know that we have been probing them.+
The others, thirty-one of them, were grouped into three clutches of varying size. Most of them, twenty or so, stood apart from the officers and talked quietly, gesturing to their grand surroundings. Zahariel could feel relief and a sense of homecoming from them and knew that they had been the individuals assigned to command of the transports; weeks in the warp, alone in the raging storms and not knowing if they would ever see Caliban or their brothers again. They would be from all across Corswain’s command, from different Orders and Chapters. Volunteers, most likely.
+A strange cabal of warriors.+ Vassago’s thoughts came to Zahariel directly, but he felt the touch of the others’ minds too. +To forego the ongoing battle against Typhon and his Death Guard to captain a virtually unarmed troop transport through the tempests that befoul the warp.+
+Ambitious, perhaps?+ suggested Cartheus.
Zahariel shook his head. +Unlikely. Lone Space Marines commanding crews of menials. Little chance of citation and promotion, even if it does demonstrate a peculiar type of courage.+
+Discontents more likely, happy to be away from the all-seeing gaze of
the Legion,+ said Vassago, his thoughts tinted by a wash of hope that such would be the case.
+That does not automatically make them allies,+ countered Asradael. +Or useful ones, at any rate.+
The more Zahariel considered this, the less he was convinced.
+The opposite of troublemakers,+ he told the Mystai. +They had to be utterly dedicated, totally loyal to Corswain and the Legion. Trusted enough to get to Caliban and then to set out in search of the Dark Angels fleet somewhere in the vastness of the galaxy with a force that could topple a world.+
+But to send away his best cadre?+ asked Cartheus.
+He needs thirty thousand warriors more than he needed a few dozen of his best.+
+Wait, another comes!+ Vassago’s blunt thought broke through any further contemplation of the remaining Dark Angels. +As the forests are green, I don’t believe it! Nobody said that the Spear-Cast had returned.+
The legionary who had entered was uniformed as the rest, but for a thick black sash that was draped over his left shoulder, obscuring the markings beneath. From the remaining livery it was possible to tell that he held the rank of sergeant-at-arms, but from the way the conversations stopped and all eyes turned to him it was clear that he carried more authority than simple rank.
Zahariel knew him immediately, in person and by repute. He spoke aloud.
‘Griffayn.’
The other groups immediately reorganised themselves, eight of the Space Marines breaking away to meet the new arrival. They held close conference for a few seconds and then Griffayn moved away to stand with the officers beside Belath.
‘Why would Corswain send away the voted lieutenant of the Firewing?’ Vassago asked.
‘He wears a half-shroud,’ pointed out Cartheus, referring to the obscured heraldry. ‘His position is in abeyance.’
‘Not to his Firewing brethren,’ Zahariel replied, drawing their attention to the Space Marines that had spoken to Griffayn. They talked quickly with the other groups, passing on some message or other. Some of the other Dark Angels nodded, while some looked stony-faced and turned away.