by Gav Thorpe
A distant shout drew his attention away from the window. It came closer, repeated by successive sentry posts – it was impossible to use any form of transmitted communication with the Legiones Astartes filling the airwaves with their jamming signals.
‘Gunship incoming!’ came the cry.
The men and women around the fire surged to their feet. Swaddled in poorly fitting clothes and tattered cloaks they made an unseemly group, but there were none that Tobias would rather have had at his back.
He led them into the adjoining storeroom where they snatched up lasguns and autorifles from the stacks against the wall. Brizantus and Nadora took up the launcher and the three precious rockets that had been passed to them by soldiers of the Illyrat Batha. Tobias led them up the stairs to the rooftop watch-point – an old maintenance hut that had been reinforced with bags and ration crates filled with stones.
The gunship could be clearly seen coming from the east, black against the clouds.
‘Angels of the Lion,’ muttered Jerostius.
Tobias said nothing as the Thunderhawk slowed to a hover above the Square of Tertius. He heard metal scrape on metal and glanced back to see Nadora loading Brizantus’ rocket launcher.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘That’ll barely scratch a gunship.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Bazerian, clutching his lasgun tightly across his chest. He looked at the gunship as though it were the apparition of death itself.
‘Nothing,’ Tobias told them. ‘It’s the first we’ve seen of these dogs in days. Lie low, give them no reason to stay.’
The gunship descended, turning snow to steam with its jets. Tobias could see down the Via Occidentis, all the way to the shattered remains of what had been the textile market. Galderick and his squad would be there, and Salumon’s guerrillas beneath the arches of the main viaduct. The gunship seemed to be settling perfectly between the three waiting rebel groups.
Surrounded by swirling vapour, the Thunderhawk landed. The ramp opened and a lone figure stepped out, clad in ebon power armour. Gold decoration glittered in the light from inside the gunship.
He carried a broad axe in one hand, its head shaped like an hourglass.
‘Just one?’ Brizantus laughed, hefting the launcher to his shoulder. Tobias held up his hand.
‘Wait…’
A distant series of dull thuds echoed along the valley. Tobias moved to the bunker’s horizontal slit and saw clouds of smoke issuing from positions across the mouth of the valley. Two seconds later, the scream of descending projectiles sent him sprinting for the stairwell.
Some of the others made it off the roof, throwing themselves down the steps behind Tobias as the first rocket struck. The whole scriptorium lurched, hurling him down the metal stairs, Castorius and Bazerian landing on top of him.
The roof disappeared in a sheet of white flame and debris rained down the steps after the rebels. Winded, Tobias could barely move, pushing at Bazerian to get up.
The flames did not dissipate, but turned a pale blue, licking at the edge of the roof entrance. Mesmerised, Tobias watched as a drip of burning liquid fell onto the first step. Against all expectation, rivulets started to form, moving quite deliberately over the metal, vapour burning with cerulean flame. Step by step they descended towards the Illyrians.
‘Phosphex!’ snarled Tobias, rolling to his feet.
The building shuddered again as another rocket slammed into the eastern wall below them, punching through the brick to spray more of the deadly fire across the interior. The flame coming down the stairs flowed faster, the heat prickling at Tobias’ neck as he and the others tried to make the next landing.
Phosphex boiled up from below, impossibly leaping from step to step as the flame ascended, as if guided by a sentient homicidal intent. Castorius screamed when his woollen jerkin caught fire, flailing as blue flames seared his face.
There was no smoke but the phosphex was eating the air, choking Tobias. He fell to his knees, tripping Castorius as he stumbled down the steps. In moments he was engulfed by fire, clothes consumed, skin and flesh stripped to blackening bones while Tobias watched in horror. Behind him, Bazerian shrieked and then fell silent.
It was impossible to breathe, and Tobias’ last scream was sucked from his lungs. As he tried to take a final breath the phosphex leapt into his open mouth and incinerated him from the inside.
Farith Redloss turned and called back to Danaes. His second-in-command was coordinating the phosphex strike at the main communications panel.
‘Signal the Lord Protector. We have commenced pacification.’
The voted successor of the Dreadwing nodded solemnly.
‘We have come,’ the warrior intoned slowly. ‘We are death.’
Stepping back up the ramp, Redloss smiled while Thiaphonis was engulfed by flame.
TWENTY-TWO
A testing time
Caliban
For several hours Luther had laboured over the specific arrangement and choreography of the triumphal feast. It was an endeavour requiring attention to detail only previously encountered during the planning of his wedding to Fyona.
He didn’t want to think about his wife, not now. She had died during the birth of their first child, along with their daughter, just two years after their nuptials. Half a year later, Luther had stumbled upon a feral boy in the forest. What might have happened, had the Lion been raised with a mother and sister?
Possibilities. They had plagued his thoughts of late.
Standing upon the path to a new future, an abyss of destruction on either side, had turned his mind to the past more frequently than in the previous fifty years.
What if he had allowed the Saroshi to kill the Lion?
What if he had not relinquished the Grand Mastery of the Order?
What if he had not saved that boy in the woods?
Regrets? No. The only true regrets were for actions not taken. He had no plans to regret the next few hours and days. The universe, and Corswain’s naïvety, had delivered an opportunity to Luther, one that he had to seize.
He kept these turbulent thoughts deep, always ready with a smile or quip for those around him.
‘I am sure that the small comforts of Caliban have been sorely absent these past years,’ he said to his neighbours at the head table – Belath on his right, Griffayn on the left. Belath picked at his plate, eating little. Griffayn appeared relaxed, in occasional conversation with those around him, quick to smile.
Beyond the – supposedly former – voted lieutenant of the Firewing sat Lord Cypher. On the other side of the Chapter Master the chair was occupied by Saulus Maegon, Mistress of the Angelicasta. Like Luther she was augmented to be more powerful and longer-lived than any normal human, and her appetite matched her enlarged physique. There were two other officers from the transport fleet, lieutenants both, who ate heartily from the platters before them. Asmodeus sat to the far right, stroking his chin thoughtfully, physically present but mentally absent.
The rest of Belath’s command sat at the trenchers along two tables perpendicular to the Grand Master’s. It was a ludicrously small gathering for the massive space of the Hall of Decemial, but Luther wanted his guests to feel as comfortable as possible with their surroundings.
‘Grand Master, might I ask a question?’ Griffayn asked suddenly.
‘By all means, feel free to ask whatever you wish,’ Luther replied.
‘While it is an honour to be feasted in this fashion, I have noticed the absence of several of your senior officers. Astelan, for instance. And your Librarian, Brother Zahariel. I do not see them.’
‘Master Astelan attends to the marshalling of the troops for your relief force, Sergeant Griffayn.’
‘A ponderous task for one of his rank and experience,’ said the voted lieutenant.
‘Yet one from which he could not be prised, like a limpet on a rock,’ Luther continued smoothly. ‘Astelan has several faults, but laziness is not one of them. Overly prideful, perhaps, which ex
plains why he insists on leading the recruits into orbit.’
The lie came so easily. Unrehearsed, natural, becoming truth the moment it fell from his lips. Luther had once worried how easily he spilled the half-truths and deceptions, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he served a higher truth with such manipulation.
‘As for my Librarians, and other officers, you have somewhat pre-empted me with your observational skills, Griffayn.’
Luther stood and held out his arms, attracting the attention of all in the hall. The chatter of conversation and clatter of bowls and plates quietened and then vanished altogether.
There was movement on the galleries overlooking the feast – one hundred Space Marines clad in black assembled on each, their bolters presented to the troops below.
‘Hail our conquering heroes!’ the two hundred Space Marines declared, their external voxes filling the hall with echoes for several seconds. ‘Hail!’
‘Brothers,’ Luther declared, when the noise had quietened, ‘welcome back to Caliban! By ancient tradition, the greatest honour I can bestow upon returning heroes is for the Grand Master and his captains to serve upon those that have been brought home on the tides of war. So it was in the oldest days of Aldurukh, as it will be today. Regardless of rank or deeds, to the warriors of Caliban that have waited for your return, each of you is a hero beyond measure, and this feast is our tribute to you.’
Waiting by the open doors, Zahariel heard these words and acknowledged their signal with a nod to the Grand Master. As Luther picked up a pitcher of wine from the table and turned to Belath, the Master and his Mystai entered, each accompanied by two officers of centurion rank, one of each pair bearing a salver with gold goblets and silver cups upon it, the other holding a huge jug of wine. They wore the surcoats of neophytes over their armour, especially sewn by serfs that afternoon, one of many details insisted upon by Luther.
Zahariel could not match the Grand Master’s sense of theatre, but admitted to himself that the effect was of noble officers humbly presenting themselves to their peers.
‘Drink deep of Caliban’s grape, you shall not know the like again for many years!’ Luther declared, pouring red wine for Belath before turning to Griffayn.
The Mystai split, heading for the two tables, Zahariel leading one group, Vassago the other. They moved to the closest occupants.
‘Wine for the returning hero,’ Zahariel said quietly as he arrived at the first Space Marine’s shoulder.
‘In centuries past,’ said Luther, ‘when knights of the Order rode out into the dark forests to confront the Great Beasts or to wage war on the lesser authorities, it was customary on the eve of their departure to hold a funeral banquet. They were never expected to return, and in hearing their eulogies would not hold back in battle.’
He paused and looked at Belath. Zahariel slipped his mind free from its mortal tethers, riding the pulse of Caliban’s power into the periphery of the closest legionary’s thoughts. As Luther continued, the Master of the Mystai picked up fleeting thoughts, images and impressions, from the mind of the Space Marine.
‘Many decades ago, we all departed this green world to fight in the Crusade of the Emperor, bringing the Imperial Truth to a benighted galaxy. Some of us spent only a little time on that noble endeavour, but you have given your lives to that cause. Just as when the knights set out to confront the Great Beasts not expecting to return, you trod your last steps on beautiful Caliban’s soil without thoughts of coming back.’
Mention of Caliban brought greater responses than those of the Emperor and the Great Crusade. Zahariel detected a surge of memory and loyalty when Luther spoke of leaving Caliban.
He picked up a golden cup from the tray carried by Master Adarthian and placed it in front of the Space Marine from Belath’s flotilla. Captain Vastobal filled the goblet and they moved to the next warrior.
‘This was the place of your birth, but as Dark Angels it was not your home. That lay upon starships and far-flung warzones across the breadth of the known stars and the shadowed abysses between. It is a shame that you departed Aldurukh without that ancient ritual, but perhaps it would have been untimely. We had not yet discovered who we truly were. The stuff of eulogies, the tales of heroism and honour, were to be made out in the stars, not in the forests of Caliban.’
‘Wine for the hero,’ Zahariel murmured, skimming the outermost thoughts of the next warrior.
This one responded more when Luther spoke of the Dark Angels, his thoughts returning again and again to the Legion icon upon the shoulder of the Space Marine sitting opposite. Zahariel plucked a silver goblet from Adarthian’s salver and placed it on the table.
‘I send another thirty thousand sons of Caliban into a war that has no equal. The Space Marine Legions have fallen into conflict with one another. The galaxy is in flames and my brother Corswain calls upon me to lend aid.’
Zahariel had always respected Luther’s power of oratory, but he was impressed even more by his verbal dexterity. As the Mystai moved through the host, the Grand Master spun a speech that encompassed everything from the Emperor to the serfs in the kitchens. Against this, Zahariel was able to measure the reactions of the assembled Dark Angels, gauging which felt more closely attached to Caliban and those that drew their identity from the Lion and the Legion.
To those favourably disposed towards Luther’s speech, a golden cup was given. To those that reacted poorly, a silver goblet.
In this way, the loyalty of the feasters was marked.
When Zahariel and his companions were done – save for those at the head table, too close to Asmodeus for any psychic probing to remain undetected – the Master of the Mystai and other officers withdrew to one side, passing the salvers to serfs of Aldurukh.
Luther continued for another couple of minutes and then drew his speech to a close. He gestured towards the doors and more attendants entered, bearing with them fresh platters of food.
‘Feast, my brothers, and celebrate! We await the dawn and a fresh coming of day. There come upon us great woes, but also great hope. We must face these challenges, each to his honour as he judges it. As the metal of a sword is not tested until it is swung, so the mettle of our loyalty goes unknown until it is strained.’ The Grand Master looked at Griffayn and then back to the assembled Space Marines. ‘Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved, and to be steady on all the battlefield besides, is mere flight and disgrace if he flinches at that point.’
TWENTY-THREE
No relent
Ultramar
Illyrium burned.
The ruin of towns and cities belched forth a pall of smoke and ash, swathing the mountains with permanent gloom. The glow of phosphex pyres added a hellish tinge to the twilight, painting the dark clouds with incandescent fury. As the winter blizzards worsened it snowed black on the lower slopes. In the highlands the Dreadwing razed the trees of the silva altum, unleashing thousands of defoliant shells and missiles to turn hundreds of square kilometres of pristine forest to putrefying swamp.
Over the past few weeks many thousands of Illyrians had been forced out of their homes by the advance of Redloss and his warriors, herded to the massive internment camps growing in the foothills bordering the neighbouring regions. While the Deathwing guarded Macragge Civitas and the Dreadwing brought destruction to Illyrium, the rest of the Lion’s sons patrolled the encampments, quelling all dissent, rooting out the demagogues and terrorists that tried to slip away from the onslaught.
By the direct order of the Lion, summary executions were carried out against any found to possess a weapon. Criminal gangs had already started to infiltrate the camps, those with the means to move and conceal weapons able to threaten those that could not. Though supplies were regularly dispensed by columns from the south, many shipments were smuggled away as soon as they entered the camps, either stolen outright or siphoned back to the remaining resistance army by sympathisers.
After twenty-three days of unrelenting
assault, Redloss had depopulated nearly two-thirds of Illyrium. He was keenly aware that the war against the rebels had barely begun, the mountain strongholds and extensive cave systems of the highlands more than enough to shelter tens of thousands of foes.
On receiving the pessimistic assessments of the Dreadwing’s commander, the Lion left Macragge Civitas to intervene personally in the offensive. It was highly unorthodox for the primarch to interfere once one of the Wings had been deployed, but in practical terms there was nothing Farith Redloss could do but accept the presence of his gene-father with good grace.
The Lion took over Redloss’ command post in the remnants of Andetrium on the lower slopes of the Alma Mons. Also known as the Gatepeak, Alma Mons was the key to taking the highlands. From its upper ridges and slopes, the Dark Angels would be able to advance into the inner valleys beneath a storm of long-range firepower.
Before the shattered walls of Andetrium’s old senate house the Dark Angels erected a marcher keep, a facsimile of Aldurukh ten storeys high, festooned with communications systems, scanning arrays and devastating weaponry. It dominated the ragged skyline of Andetrium, as much a testament to the Dark Angels’ intent as a military necessity.
On the upper level the Lion held his headquarters, recreating his audience chamber from the Invincible Reason, including bringing his ebon throne down from orbit. From this lofty hall he analysed every piece of incoming intelligence and plotted the next stages of the suppression with the precision of a watchmaker. There was not a Land Speeder patrol, nor supply column nor squad advance that was not ordered by the primarch.