The Devastation of Baal

by Guy Haley

  A mournful cry from the Tower of Amareo seemed in agreement with his opinion.

  The empty sockets of the skulls watched him without sight. The eyes of passing servitors were just as blind in their own way, and the cyborgs went by without acknow­ledgement. Their reworked minds were too focused to fear him. Seth welcomed the opportunity to think, unbothered by the reactions of others to his presence. His own reputation had grown, but his Chapter was still mistrusted by the other Chapters of the Blood. Too many of them thought themselves above his brethren, and those that knew they were not were mired in their own misery. Only a handful of the Sanguinary Brotherhood were regarded with more caution than the Flesh Tearers. Seth was ­untroubled. Their suspicion was justified, at least in part, for his Chapter was savage. Service was its own comfort. He rebuffed sympathy as strongly as he did challenges to his authority. There was no salvation for his kind, there was only war, and wrath was a useful tool in its prosecution.

  Seth rounded the flank of the Sanguis Corpusculum into weakening sunlight. The ivory sides of the Sanguinary Tower shone pink as newly exposed bone. Another day was ending. Half of Balor was lost behind the horizon. The silhouette of Baal Primus had taken a large bite of the part that remained. The last warriors of Seth’s Chapter were on the moon. He was annoyed at being called away from them at this delicate time of preparation. His place was at their side. After the betrayal on Nekkaris, and the attempt on his life from within the Flesh Tearers’ own ranks, some of his warriors still needed watching.

  Dante had requested his presence at the second landing column of the Sanguis Corpusculum. The site came into view, haloed by the sun, but the column and its landing pad were out of sight, retracted to the lowest position a hundred feet below.

  When the pad was at its medium elevation it was possible to walk from the Bone Walk onto the platform. When at the bottom of its range there was a sheer, unguarded drop. Where the Bone Walk bent around the pad, turning into a concavity in the side of the tower, stood a sole Sanguinary Guard. Seth approached him. The warrior watched. They were so poised, the first born of Sanguinius. His own honour guard would have leapt forward like chained dogs in challenge.

  Seth weighed the prowess of the guard; there was much he could tell in how a warrior stood. He could have killed him, of course. The vision of himself doing just that flickered through his mind. A blow to the chest to disrupt power flow to the guard’s jump pack, a follow up to the throat. It would not be enough, but it would be the start of a worthy challenge. His muscles tensed in anticipation of violence. Upon his stony face there was no change.

  ‘Greetings, Master Seth,’ said the Sanguinary Guard. ‘Our lord Dante speaks with Sanguinary Priest Albinus. He sends his apologies, and bids you wait here with me.’ The guard’s hand shifted on the hilt of his encarmine sword. Seth’s lip curled dismissively. He wondered if the guard was one of those Blood Angels that hated his Chapter. Dante tried to hide it from him, but the hatred many of his warriors held for the Flesh Tearers was obvious and insulting.

  ‘Dante called for me,’ said Seth. ‘Be civil.’ His words were measured, imbued with a calm that he had spent a century perfecting. It was a crust upon seething lava. Always he was ready to unleash his fury. He took in all detail around him, noted every threat. At the far end of the walk was a second Sanguinary Guard. Another watched on from an aperture in the tower’s side above. Something important was happening there.

  ‘I mean no offence, my lord,’ said the guard, and Seth thought perhaps he did not. ‘My brothers and I have been asked to detain you only until the commander is finished.’

  ‘Then I will wait,’ said Seth. He spoke neutrally. He kept his pronouncements to the point in case they turned to unintended threat.

  The golden-armoured guard inclined his head. ‘I thank you on behalf of Lord Dante for your understanding. Once again, I apologise for the delay.’

  Seth glared a moment at the guard. The guard returned his stare and Seth half smiled in acknowledgement of his bravery.

  Grunting dismissively, the Flesh Tearer went to the edge of the Bone Walk to look down at the lowered pad. Light spilled from the open hangar of the Sanguinary Tower, the main part of the Sanguis Corpusculum, cross-hatching the long shadows teased out by the setting sun. Soft yellow light lay over pink. From his position he could not see inside the complex.

  Ten scouts formed a cordon around a Thunderhawk gunship. The neophytes of the Blood Angels were force grown to maturity in the space of a single year, and the young warriors had their full size and suite of gifts. Their black carapaces should not have been implanted, as it was the Blood Angels’ custom to gift the carapace only at the close of training. In this single regard they conformed with other Chapters. Seth’s enhanced sight saw scabbing on the scouts’ fatigues, the marks of recent wounds which corresponded to the positions of neural interface ports, and rising from them he scented surgical gels and blood heavy with Larraman cells.

  He watched them like a lion waits outside the cave of primitive men. They were toys at his feet. He calculated the best way to jump down, the most efficient way of killing them. Sanguinius’ wrath stirred in his breast, urging him to do it. As it tormented him, he taunted it in reply by his inaction.

  A trio of Sanguinary priests and white-robed thralls stood to the side of the Thunderhawk’s open prow ramp, a demi-squad of battle-brothers at their backs. Commander Dante was speaking with them, although Seth could not hear what they said.

  A line of tracked servitors trundled up to the base of the Thunderhawk’s rear ramp, as well ordered as ants. They lowered grey pallets to the ground at the foot of the ramp, turned one hundred and eighty degrees and went away. Containers covered in methalon frost were removed from the pallets by blood thralls wearing insulated suits. From there they carried the cargo on small grav-sleds into the Thunderhawk’s hold. The men went in and came out again, the servitors arrived and deposited their loads, two loops meeting but never touching. He saw the relationship between his Chapter and the Blood Angels described in their toil. Entities worlds apart yet derived from the same source, their endless labours to a common end.

  He snorted in harsh laughter at himself. Dante was getting to him.

  A Techmarine dodged his way past the loaders and into the craft. Soon afterwards the Thunderhawk’s jet covers petalled open and began preflight testing, cycling up and down with whining roars. Heat haze shimmered around the exhaust.

  The servitors brought out the last of the containers. They drove away into the hangar and did not return. The last pallet was unloaded. Most of the thralls left and returned inside also.

  Dante reached out a hand and placed it on the lead priest’s pauldron. Seth assumed this was Albinus.

  Seth could not see what Dante said to Albinus, but the Sanguinary priest fell to his knees, clasped Dante’s golden-clad hand and pressed it to his lips with his head bowed. His men saluted and boarded the craft. Albinus got up, embraced his lord, took his helmet from a thrall and followed his warriors into the hold of the Thunderhawk.

  A klaxon honked, drowning out the ambient noise of the host’s preparations for war in the desert. Giant engines engaged under the landing pad. Ground crew unhooked fuel lines and ran into the hangar. Dante was left alone. He glanced upward and nodded at Seth.

  Like a giant piston, the landing pad rose. The klaxon blared all the way. When it drew level with the Bone Walk, Dante stepped off and came to stand by the Master of the Flesh Tearers. The pad continued to grind upwards, rising over them until it was as high over Seth as it had been below him.

  Seth broke their mutual silence.

  ‘You send away your gene-seed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dante.

  ‘You do not think you can win,’ said Seth bluntly.

  Dante looked at him. Or rather, Sanguinius did, his golden face frozen forever in an outraged shout.

  ‘I have seen Le
viathan descend,’ said Seth. ‘That was no victory. You said so yourself. We nearly lost our lives at Cryptus. We will lose everything here.’

  Dante looked away, back to the landing pad. ‘There is hope. The Sanguinor himself told me. I was like you, Seth. I despaired.’

  ‘Beyond wrath, there is only despair,’ said Seth. ‘Better to be wrathful.’

  ‘I choose to be hopeful. The Sanguinor has never spoken. Not once in ten thousand years. At Cryptus he did.’

  ‘Sending your gene-seed away is not the act of a hopeful man.’

  ‘I am a pragmatist, Gabriel. Albinus is a loyal warrior. He will keep our future safe, even if our home is lost.’

  ‘The scouts were newly implanted with the carapace.’

  ‘Prematurely elevated, in case of need. They must prove themselves still, but when the time comes they will be ready for their armour,’ said Dante.

  ‘For what? We cannot win,’ said Seth, ‘and ten scouts cannot rebuild the Blood Angels.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ conceded Dante. ‘But this Chapter has been reduced to a handful of warriors more than once. If we fail here, the Blood Angels will rise again on some other world.’

  The Thunderhawk’s engines built to a blast furnace roar. Spikes of white hot flame stabbed out over the lip of the raised landing pad.

  ‘What of it then?’ said Seth, suddenly angry. His jaw clenched so hard he spoke through his teeth. ‘I bleed willingly for you, Dante, for one reason. Of all the puling men who claim descent from the Great Angel, you are the only honourable one. You understand what it is to feel the pull of the Black Rage. The others pretend. None but the Flesh Tearers know the depths of fury. Wrath is what we are, it is what we all are. You have lived long enough to face it yourself. So.’ He shrugged. His fists closed involuntarily. ‘If you choose to send your gene-seed away, it is no business of mine.’

  ‘You would not do the same?’

  ‘I never claimed to be able to save my Chapter. It dwindles before my eyes, until a bare few hundred remain. All I ever wished was for a glorious end in honour of the Emperor and the memory of Sanguinius. If we must be damned, then we will fall in the service of the Imperium, by blood and fury, so it shall be. Best to end it here, if it must end.’

  ‘You would not unleash your legacy on this galaxy without your guidance? You would rather your Chapter died?’

  ‘If that is what you think, Dante, then believe it. What do you want, commander?’ growled Seth. ‘The last time I was on Baal, I was brought as a prisoner to your Forum Judicium. I recall you saw no need to ask my permission. I am insulted that you ask the approval of these weaklings to command them.’

  ‘Seth, you seek outrage for the sake of it,’ said Dante. Some of his poise deserted him. He sounded tired. ‘You know it is different this time. You have proved yourself a thousand times the loyal servant of the Imperium. You know it had to be done.’

  Seth made a humourless noise. ‘Tell that to the innocents fallen before our wrath. Tell that to my men who dared to oppose me.’

  ‘Your savagery is your strength as much as your curse.’

  ‘Savage? Here I am, obedient.’

  ‘If it rankles, why?’ said Dante.

  Seth looked up at the darkening sky and the moving constellations of ship lights. ‘Because I owe you a debt of honour that cannot be repaid. I have placed my men under your command many times. I have watched them die in pursuit of your goals. Remember this, Commander Dante,’ said Seth, and the furious expression on his face grew deeper. ‘I am not your thrall. Do not take my obedience for granted. You sent me to the moon of Baal Primus, and you called me back. I am here. What more do you want?’

  Dante sighed disappointedly. ‘Seth, Seth, Seth,’ he shook his head. ‘Gabriel, I mean you no dishonour. Quite the opposite in fact,’ said Dante. ‘I did not call you here to witness the removal of our gene-seed. Do you think I am making some sort of point to you?’

  Seth shrugged. He honestly didn’t care.

  The Thunderhawk lifted off. Landing gear clunked away, and it appeared over the pad edge, turning in the sky, nosing heavenward. Engines roaring, it pushed upward slowly, so blocky and huge it looked as if it could never break free of Baal’s gravity, but as it rose it accelerated, and tore away from the Arx Angelicum leaving black contrails in its wake.

  ‘There. It has gone. One small mercy,’ said Dante.

  ‘You save your Chapter and sacrifice mine,’ said Seth.

  ‘Do you think I would do that to you, Gabriel?’ said Dante.

  The boom of the gunship breaking the sound barrier rumbled over the desert. The muted industry of the host took its place.

  The sun was sinking away. Bright lights snapped on in the sands. The work proceeded around the clock.

  Deliberations in the council had lasted most of the previous night. Dante had spoken at length, assigning duties to the Chapters of the Blood. There was little dissent, but there were many generals almost as gifted as Dante, and some had expertise even the ancient Chapter Master lacked. His plans were refined by his peers. Out in the desert Techmarines from all across the Imperium laboured side by side to raise new fortifications, armies of servitors at their beck and call.

  Dante sighed and reached up for his helmet. Sorrow troubled Seth’s boundless, caged fury. He disliked Dante hiding behind the face of their primarch, but once his helmet was free, he liked what he saw even less.

  Dante was old. That was what nobody ever expected to see behind that ageless, golden face. They thought him in the prime of his power, such was Dante’s reputation. But men were not meant to live so long, and Dante, though exceptional, was no primarch.

  Shadows pooled in his sunken eyes, a morbid foretaste of his appearance in death.

  ‘I did not bring you here to insult you. I have something for you, Gabriel,’ said Dante. ‘Please, come with me.’

  Dante set out. Seth hesitated before following.

  They walked around the Bone Walk to where it joined a larger terrace lined with light artillery. All were covered over with tarpaulins, the stations empty of men or half-men. They followed the gallery to the main peak of the Arx, and there went into a small sally port unobserved. A dimly lit tunnel greeted them, so narrow Seth had to stoop. The shoulder pads of his brutal armour scraped on the stone. He growled. His pulse sang in his ears. He wanted to fight, not creep around in the dark.

  ‘We are nearly there,’ said Dante, sensing his rising ire.

  A second small door opened into a room lit by a shaft of dark orange light shining through a single hole high up in the wall. As the sun sank it crawled up the stone, and would soon be extinguished. A solitary Blood Angel, his helm a veteran’s gold, stood guard by a simple plinth. The plinth and the tall object on it were covered in black silken cloth, with a weave so close it was smooth as water. A tight grin pulled at Seth’s mouth. This was made by an Adept Astartes. Where did the Blood Angels find the time to make such things?

  ‘Leave us,’ said Dante.

  The veteran departed with a wary glance at the Flesh Tearer.

  As soon as the door was shut, Dante pulled the cloth away. It whispered off a long, beautifully crafted cylinder a yard in length made of gold that glowed softly in the darkening room.

  ‘Do you know what this is, Gabriel?’

  ‘The Reliquary of Amit,’ Seth said. ‘Inside there is the last of Sanguinius’ feathers. Any of the Blood would recognise it.’ Even Seth’s dour heart was stirred by the sight.

  ‘Aye, and his blood,’ said Dante. He lifted his terminatus honour from around his neck and pressed it into a concealed cavity in the cylinder. The reliquary hinged in half. Inside, a feather as long as Seth’s arm hung suspended within the soft glow of a stasis field.

  Seth’s breath caught in his throat. The feather was pure white. In the glow of the field he could see every barbule. Around t
he base the barbs were soft down of unimaginable delicacy, below them the shaft graduated from white to a delicate grey at the blunt tip. Its purity was marred around the top by crimson splatters – blood that gleamed, eternally wet.

  ‘This feather has never touched the ground. It was caught as it fell from our lord’s wing on the wall of the Imperial Palace as he fought there, and placed in this stasis field. Shortly after, he met his death at the hands of Horus. In all that time, the field has never been deactivated. Within the field, the time of Sanguinius’ death has yet to occur.’

  ‘Beauty birthed our wrath,’ said Seth quietly. He could not reconcile the two.

  ‘Beauty makes its home in you, Gabriel Seth. If you could wipe it free of blood you would see the glory in you. Sanguinius writes of your founder Amit’s savagery, but also that he was a great craftsman.’ Dante pointed at the casket. ‘He made this container in penance for Sanguinius’ death. True art speaks to the soul, but the greatest speaks from the soul. So much art is subjective, dependent on the observer and not the artist. The greatest art transcends this. It takes on a universal meaning. Its intent cannot be mistaken or interpreted. This is one of those rare pieces. One looks at Amit’s Reliquary, and we can feel his sorrow at the death of our lord. It is an exquisite piece of work.’

  Dante removed his terminatus honour from the socket. The reliquary slid shut. Dante took it up.

  The shaft of sunlight had gone. The chamber had faded to a pinkish grey. Dante’s bloodstone glowed in the gloom.

  Dante held the relic out to Seth.

  ‘It belongs to you.’