by Gav Thorpe
‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ he said to Ophrael, pushing back the blanket to sit up. ‘I have to go back to the fighting, don’t I?’
‘One day,’ replied the Space Marine, pulling the blanket back into place. ‘Orks are notorious for being difficult to eradicate. The defence force will have more to do than ceremonial parades for years to come, I am sure. That is not why I am here.’
‘Oh?’
The Space Marine looked a little awkward as he reached out and opened his fist. In his palm lay a small chunk of something; it was a few centimetres across, of a light grey material, blackened on one side.
‘This is for you,’ said Ophrael. He passed the object to Tauno, who took it gingerly.
‘What is it?’ asked the trooper.
‘I told Master Belial of what happened during the second defence of Koth Ridge. He was moved by your actions and felt it was important that the Dark Angels recognise your bravery and your dedication. We have no military title or medal suitable for non-Astartes, but there is a term we have for men who have served the Chapter well. You may call yourself a Son of Caliban.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tauno, taken aback but still confused. ‘And this is?’
Ophrael smiled, but it was a sad smile.
‘A Son of Caliban gets no physical reward, but I thought that you might like this.’ The Astartes closed Tauno’s hand around the object, the action surprisingly delicate for his massive fingers. ‘It is a piece of Sergeant Naaman’s armour. I see that in you, his example to us all lived on. Mount it in gold, put it on a shelf, lock it in a vault; it is yours to do with as you wish. Simply remember what it is and the cost it carries.’
Tauno had to blink back tears and his voice was almost a sob as he thought of the Space Marine who had spoken to him once to ask his name; and, amongst many others, given his life for every person on Piscina.
‘Do your duty and fight as if the Emperor Himself watches you…’
THE TALE OF BELIAL
Aftermath
Storm clouds swathed the heights of Kadillus, fierce rain lashing down upon the rocks, a gale bending the stunted trees. Rivulets of water gushed between the rocks of Barrak Gorge, sending broken branches and small rocks tumbling down the defile. The downpour was a steady drum on the hull of the Rhino as it slewed to a stop in the mud.
Belial took his storm bolter from the weapons rack as the ramp lowered. He followed his command squad out into the gorge, booted feet sinking into the mire, his robe spattered with splashing mud as the other Dark Angels squads formed up around their commander.
‘Enemy signals confined to the power station, brother-captain,’ Hephaestus reported from the gunship overhead. A flash of lightning broke the gloom, followed quickly by a crack of thunder. ‘Unable to determine number, interference from the geothermal station blocking surveyor sweeps. Impossible to engage at the current time. Atmospheric conditions worsening.’
‘Confirm, brother,’ replied Belial. ‘Return to Northport. There is no advantage in risking our last Thunderhawk here.’
‘Acknowledge. Returning to Northport.’
The Space Marine squads fanned out across the gorge, taking up positions amongst the rocks and ruins, weapons trained on the power station ahead. A Predator trundled between the boulders, turret playing left and right as the gunner searched for the enemy. Belial magnified his autosenses and scanned the mine head and station, looking for the orks. Here and there a thermal signature registered, but there were no clear targets.
‘Bellum vigilus et decorus operandi.’ Belial advanced slowly, waving the three Tactical squads forwards, covered by the guns of the Devastators and Predator.
The water sluicing down the gulley had piled bodies against the rocks: human and alien, heaped together without distinction. Belial spared the mangled corpses the slightest glance as he strode carefully amongst the debris of battle.
The Dark Angels had advanced to within two hundred metres of the geothermal station when the orks opened fire.
Energy blasts from looted lascannons speared down the gorge while a hail of bullets rattled from stone and plascrete. One lascannon shot scored a welt across the hull of the Predator, which returned fire immediately, lancing the station with its own lascannons, its heavy bolters erupting with a furious salvo. The Devastators added their own fusillade to the fire, bolts and plasma blasts streaking through the rain.
‘Secure the perimeter, full charge!’ roared Belial, breaking into a run.
The commander and his squad pounded up the slope, sparing no time to fire. He hurdled the remnants of a barricade that had been built by the Free Militia, crushing a body as he landed. Cowed by the ferocious supporting fire, the orks were driven into cover, rattling off sporadic and ineffectual bursts as the Dark Angels swiftly closed across the open ground.
Slowing as he neared the sprawling mass of generators and transformers, Belial spied a group of orks on a gantry above him. He stopped and brought up his storm bolter, its targeter linking to his autosenses as he placed his finger on the trigger. Seven target reticules sprang into view a moment before he opened fire. The bolts ripped through the thin wall of corrugated metal protecting the greenskins, as fire from the rest of his squad rattled between the steel beams and punched through rockcrete bricks.
Ruined ork bodies toppled from the walkway onto the ferrocrete apron. To the left and right, the sound of more bolter fire echoed from the blocky substations. The comm crackled with reports from the squad leaders.
An explosion just ahead drew Belial’s attention. By its pitch, he identified it as the detonation of an ork grenade. He broke into a loping run, drawing his power sword.
‘Be alert for mines and traps, brothers,’ came a warning from Sergeant Lemael. ‘Danger minimal.’
Belial ran straight into a mob of orks attempting to outflank the squads to his left by cutting between two arcing generator coils. He fell upon them with a roar, storm bolter spewing rounds. Startled, the orks turned to face the company commander, their weapons spraying bullets wildly around him. A plasma blast incinerated one of the greenskins in a flash of pale blue energy a moment before Belial was amongst them, power sword hacking and slashing. He dashed in the skull of a greenskin with the butt of his storm bolter and chopped the leg from another with his glowing blade. Something crashed against his backpack and he turned to confront an ork raising a double-handed cleaver for another blow. Charon’s force staff smashed into the greenskin’s chest with an eruption of psychic energy. The ork flew backwards into an energy relay, sparks exploding from its juddering body.
With the perimeter breached, the Dark Angels pressed on to the central buildings, but met little resistance. The few orks they encountered were poorly armed and easily overcome. Within five minutes of the assault beginning, the Barrak Gorge geothermal station was in the hands of the Dark Angels.
While the other squads conducted a secondary sweep to ensure all enemies had been located, Belial led his command squad out of the power plant. With the fighting over, he had time to analyse what had happened here. Amongst the many dead Free Militia he saw knots of dark green armour.
‘Check on our fallen brothers, Nestor,’ he said. ‘It has been three days, but there may still be survivors.’
The Apothecary headed off as Belial continued to appraise the bloody evidence of the first battle.
‘A token garrison, nothing more,’ said Charon. He pointed to a group of ork bodies, far more heavily armoured than the others. ‘These have the look of a warlord’s bodyguard. No such corpses were found at Koth Ridge.’
‘The second warlord has escaped,’ said Belial. ‘For the moment. The teleporter site is still watched by our forces. Even if one has escaped, the Beast is still trapped in Kadillus Harbour.’
Charon seemed distracted. He gazed along the line of defences, eyes narrow, a glow emanating from the cables of his psychic hood. Without word, he set off at a run, heading to the western side of the gorge. Belial headed after him.
‘What is it, brother?’ Belial asked as the Librarian came to a stop amongst a pile of dead Free Militia.
‘Here,’ he said, pointing at a black-armoured corpse.
It was Boreas.
‘He shall be remembered,’ said Belial, kneeling beside the Chaplain.
‘You misunderstand me, brother,’ said Charon. ‘Brother Nestor! We have a survivor!’
Belial looked more closely. Boreas’s skin was deathly white, a ragged gash across the side of his head, his armour torn and crumpled in many places. Switching on his thermal sight, the commander saw the tiniest vestiges of warmth moving along the Space Marine’s blood vessels.
He stood up as Nestor approached.
‘He is in the grip of his sus-an membrane, brother,’ said Nestor, crouching over the fallen Chaplain. ‘Life signs are minimal but steady. Cryptobiosis must have happened automatically in response to his injuries. The Orks probably thought he was dead, and thank the Emperor that they did not deal any further damage.’
The Apothecary spent some time examining Boreas before straightening.
‘It is best that we leave Brother Boreas in his suspended metabolic state while we return him to the Unrelenting Fury, where we can better resuscitate him. He has extensive external and internal injuries, brother-captain, but some augmetics and surgery should suffice to return him to full duty in the fullness of time.’
‘Praise the Emperor,’ said Charon. ‘We have lost many battle-brothers and it is a blessing to have even one of them returned to us.’
‘Praise the Emperor indeed, brothers,’ said Nestor, humour in his tone. ‘The bodies He created for us are proof almost against death itself.’
Leaving Nestor to detail a squad to remove Boreas, Belial walked back to his Rhino. His own injuries ached, perhaps a psychosomatic response to Nestor’s words. Alone for the first time in many days, Belial sat in his command chair and removed his helmet. He whispered the verses of a dedication to the Master of Mankind, and a few words of thanks to the primarch of the Dark Angels. It would be three more days before the rest of the Chapter returned; three days to keep Ghazghkull contained in the harbour and a tight watch on the ork teleporter.
They would perhaps be the hardest three days of the whole campaign for Belial. Militarily, they would be straightforward, but with the orks all but defeated, there would soon come the time when his conduct would be examined by Grand Master Azrael.
Charon had spoken words of encouragement, but Belial knew that he had made some bad decisions. The best he hoped for was an acknowledgement of the unique difficulties the Dark Angels had faced on Kadillus. He should have listened to Sergeant Naaman’s concerns earlier. Had the teleporter been located before the first attack on Koth Ridge, the orks would not have posed such a threat. Belial did not naturally indulge in hindsight or second-guessing, but he was keenly aware that he had allowed confidence to become arrogance; he had underestimated the ork threat and, in refusing to acknowledge the potential dangers, he had cost the lives of Astartes and thousands of Piscinans. It was likely that he would lose command of the 3rd Company and return to being a brother of the Deathwing.
Belial pushed aside these morose thoughts. The judgement of Azrael would wait. For the moment, there were still orks on Piscina and the campaign was not yet done.
He activated the comm.
‘Master Belial to all units. Free Militia forces are en route to secure the geothermal station. Embark on transports for immediate return to Kadillus Harbour. Diem victorum non. The battle continues, brothers.’
A strong sea breeze wafted smoke over the city, bringing with it the crack of artillery, the snap of las-fire and the rattle of bolters. The blackened ruin of the basilica stood proud, its spire hidden by the smog. Much of the city was nothing more than rubble, dust-coated corpses of men and orks buried beneath piles of bricks and shattered girders. The rumble of tank engines reverberated along the streets as a column of Free Militia edged their way through the destruction, flamers scouring the ruins, shells pounding possible enemy hiding places.
As Belial had expected, the orks were not content to sit and wait for the inevitable. Fighting had been fierce, but the combined might of the 3rd Company and Free Militia was keeping the greenskins penned in the area around the docks.
And now the time was fast approaching to crush them.
From the lip of the main apron at Northport, he looked up at the vapour trails of Thunderhawks cutting through the cloudy skies. Far above, the Tower of Angels floated in orbit, the whole Dark Angels fleet in attendance. Transporters and gunships were landing around the city, while others headed to Koth Ridge to reinforce the Free Militia. In the evening twilight, what looked to be shooting stars glittered over the East Barrens: the drop-pods of the 6th Company descending on the East Barrens.
A Thunderhawk bearing the livery of Grand Master Azrael dropped through the cloud, diving sharply for the starport. Belial felt some trepidation as it landed on pillars of plasma fire. The wheeze of servos sounded in his autosenses as Revered Venerari stepped up next to him.
‘Your judgement on yourself will be harsher than that of others,’ said the Dreadnought.
Belial said nothing as the Thunderhawk touched down. His armour picked up the wash of heat from the gunship’s engines and he could hear creaks of cooling metal. With a hiss of hydraulics, the ramp lowered. Beyond the gunship transporters were dropping down onto the other parts of the docks, carrying Land Raider heavy tanks, Vindicator assault guns and other treasures of the Dark Angels arsenal. The full force of the Chapter was being brought to bear.
Grand Master Azrael, Keeper of the Truth, was the first to disembark. The supreme commander of the Dark Angels wore ornate armour, the insignia of the Chapter and his personal heraldry inlaid with precious gems and rare metals. A small entourage accompanied him down the ramp: Brother Bethor carrying the sacred Standard of Retribution; Space Marines in the livery of Librarians and Interrogator-Chaplains and Techmarines; half-machine servitors; and numerous other functionaries garbed in the robes of Chapter serfs. A cowled figure no more than a metre tall followed close on Azrael’s heels, carrying the ornately winged Lion Helm of the Grand Master; a Watcher in the Dark, one of the strange creatures that shared the Tower of Angels with the Chapter.
Azrael’s expression was stern, his dark hair close-cropped, deep-set eyes shadowed in the evening sun. Belial detected the buzz of the interpersonal comm and a moment later Charon strode out across the plascrete to welcome the Grand Master.
Belial watched patiently as the two held a long conversation. He noticed Azrael’s eyes flicking in his direction on occasion, but could tell nothing of the Grand Master’s thoughts. Eventually the two of them parted and Azrael headed in Belial’s direction. The company master stepped forwards to meet his superior.
‘The blessing of the Lion upon you, Grand Master,’ said Belial, sinking to one knee before Azrael. ‘I am grateful for your presence.’
‘Non desperat countenanti, exemplar est bellis fortis extremis, mon frater’ replied Azrael, gesturing for Belial to stand. ‘I know that you have misgivings about calling to me for aid, brother. Put them from your mind, for there is no shame in what you have done. It takes strength to stand alone against the dark forces of the galaxy; it takes greater strength to admit the need for help.’
Azrael laid a hand upon Belial’s shoulder and smiled, a simple gesture that did more to alleviate Belial’s concerns than any amount of spoken praise.
‘You have done your duty,’ Azrael continued. ‘To me, to your Chapter, to the Lion and to the Emperor. By your actions, Piscina IV remains safe from the orks, and through that action the world of Piscina V stays free of taint. Future generations of Dark Angels will give thanks to you and your warriors for what their sacrifice has preserved here.’
‘I am grateful for your words, Grand Master,’ said Belial. ‘There are many that deserve praise more than I, none more so than Sergeant Naaman of the Tenth Company.’
Azrael nodded.
‘Many will be the names recorded in honour for this campaign,’ said the supreme commander. He looked towards the war-torn city. ‘Others may be added to that list before we are finished. You have brought the Beast of Armageddon to battle, now we must finish the task.’
‘Yes, it is time to unleash a storm of vengeance against these foul aliens,’ said Belial. His fist crashed against his chest in salute. ‘What are your orders, Grand Master?’
EPILOGUE
The sound of shells was growing louder and louder. An explosion ripped the roof from a storage shed at the end of the street, burying a mob of orks under a heap of tiles and bricks.
Ghazghkull shook his head in disappointment; he guessed the humies had retaken the big laser cannon by now. It would only be a matter of time before their ships started blowing up his army from space. After that, they’d start looking for Nazdreg’s hulk. Humies would figure that out quick enough, he was sure of it.
‘Oi, Makari, grab me banna!’ The gretchin appeared as if by magic and plucked the huge flag free from the mound of rubble it had been driven into. ‘We’s goin’ fer a bit of a walk.’
Ghazghkull headed back into the shell of an empty warehouse, the clanking of his armour echoing from the walls. Makari scurried behind, hauling the giant banner with him.
‘We’s gonna give the humies some more boot levver, boss?’ asked the gretchin.
Ghazghkull nodded.
‘We’ll give the humies plenty of boot levver, but dere’s no need ta rush fings.’
The warlord unhooked an unlikely-looking device from his armour. The core of it seemed to be a battered wheel hub, coiled about with lots of coloured wires, with a red button in the middle.
‘What’cha got dere, boss?’ asked Makari.
‘Grab ’old,’ said Ghazghkull, holding out the device. ‘It’s a tellyporta fingy. When I push dis button, we’s gonna go back to Nazdreg’s ’ulk.’
‘What about da rest of da boyz? We ain’t runnin’ away, is we?’