Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  ‘Understood,’ Astelan replied gravely. ‘We will stand ready, my lord.’

  ‘Let’s at least send some scout teams into the arcology as well,’ Zahariel said. ‘The sorcerers are most likely practicing their rituals close to the thermal core. If we could locate them quickly, we could—’

  Luther held up a restraining hand. ‘Not yet. If we start suddenly committing our warriors now, during a relative lull in civil unrest, it will almost certainly lead to renewed scrutiny from the Administratum. That’s something we can ill afford at this point.’

  ‘Magos Bosk will have to be informed of the destruction of Sigma Five-One-Seven,’ Israfael pointed out.

  ‘If there are any reports to be made, I will make them,’ Luther said sternly. ‘None of you are to speak of what happened at the site, as a matter of operational security. Understood?’

  The four Astartes nodded.

  ‘Then you are dismissed,’ Luther said. ‘Except for you, Lord Cypher. I have some questions to ask you.’

  Israfael turned on his heel and left the room without a word. Astelan was close behind, his expression eager. Zahariel hesitated for a moment, torn by feelings of doubt. Only he saw Lord Cypher glide quietly from the shadows to stand beside the Grand Master’s throne-like chair.

  He wasn’t certain what disturbed him more: the sight of Luther staring down at his own hands, his expression anguished – or the enigmatic smile that passed like a shadow across Lord Cypher’s face.

  LIGHTNING FLASHED ANGRILY overhead, banishing the darkness for the space of a heartbeat and dazzling Zahariel’s sensitive eyes. Thunder crashed, vibrating along his bones, and raindrops spattered heavily against his cheeks. He paused, struggling to calm his thoughts and banish the spots of colour from his vision. When his vision cleared, he set his feet upon the spiral path once more.

  It had been more than a week since the encounter at Sigma Five-One-Seven. Orders had gone out immediately from the Rock; the Scout chapter on Caliban had gone into action within hours, commencing a building-by-building search of every industrial site within the Northwilds sector. At the same time, a records search provided the identities of the Terran engineering team that had been assigned to Sigma Five-One-Seven. The information had been passed on to the Jaeger regiments deployed to the Northwilds arcology, but it was learned that the arcology’s so-called Terran Quarter had been looted and burned during the first cycle of riots, and the inhabitants had been relocated for their own safety. The problem was that details of the relocation had been lost amid the chaos, and now no one knew for sure where many of the Terrans had wound up. The Jaegers were trying to locate them, but the local regiments had few troops to spare because of the continued threat of rebel attack. Though Luther seemed willing to let the arcology burn in order to track down the sorcerers, there was no practical way to issue such an order without raising a chorus of questions all along the chain of command. Zahariel had heard, indirectly, of the confrontation between Luther and Magos Bosk over the destruction of Sigma Five-One-Seven, and by all accounts it had been epic. Bosk had been livid over the loss of so much industrial capacity, and it had taken every bit of Luther’s charisma and authority to prevent her once more from breaching protocol and reporting the situation to the Adeptus Terra.

  They were running out of time. Every passing hour was a boon to the fugitive sorcerers, who were no doubt working to further their plan somewhere in the labyrinthine depths of the arcology. Though the Jaegers were making a concerted effort to locate them, the fact was that there were large parts of the arcology that they couldn’t penetrate due to the possibility of rebel attack. These no-go zones provided countless safe havens for the sorcerers to continue their work without fear of interruption.

  The only answer was to send in the Legion, Zahariel knew. A level-by-level sweep, conducted by their Scout chapter and supported by one or more assault chapters could brush aside any rebel resistance and isolate the real threat within hours. Such an operation, if conducted with proper ruthlessness, might even convince the rebel leaders that further resistance was pointless, and put an end to both threats at the same time.

  The problem was that only Luther had the authority to put such a plan into action, and he had gone into seclusion within hours of receiving the report on Sigma Five-One-Seven. No one could even say for certain where the Master of Caliban had gone, save for the enigmatic Lord Cypher, and he was sworn to silence. Zahariel had prevailed upon Cypher to carry close to a dozen messages to Luther urgently requesting permission to send the Legion into the arcology, but not a single one had been answered.

  The fact was, he was sorely tempted to defy Luther and order the Astartes into action. Technically, it was within his authority as Luther’s second-in-command; with the Master of Caliban in seclusion, the decision was his to make, but doing so would betray his oaths of obedience to the Emperor and to the Legion. And yet, what if Luther was right, and the real danger to Caliban was from the Imperium itself? If that were true, then his oath to the Emperor was based on a lie, and counted for nothing. He didn’t know what to believe at this point. The things he’d witnessed at Sigma Five-One-Seven had shaken his faith to the core.

  In all his life, Zahariel had never lacked for certainty. His faith in himself and his cause had been unwavering. Now it seemed like the very foundations of the world were quaking beneath his feet. If he wasn’t careful, his next step could well be his last.

  Overhead the storm raged, mirroring the turmoil in Zahariel’s mind. He drew in a deep breath and channelled his frustrations into a mental summons.

  ‘Show yourselves, you Watchers in the Dark!’ he shouted into the raging wind. ‘Long ago, I pledged my sword to you, to stand against the same evils that you did. Now I see the truth; this whole world is corrupted, and now my people are in dire peril.’

  Another searing flash of lightning answered his mental summons, banishing all but the deepest shadows and etching the courtyard in sharp relief. But this time the brilliant light did not fade; it deepened slightly in colour, from a harsh blue-white to a more silvery hue, like moonlight. Zahariel no longer felt the touch of rain on his cheeks, and the howling wind seemed strangely muted, almost plaintive in its howls. Then he saw the three hooded figures standing at the centre of the spiral. They were garbed like supplicants, wearing a surplice whose colour seemed to constantly shift from black to brown to grey and back again. Their heads were covered by voluminous hoods, their faces hidden by darkness. Their hands were tucked inside the sleeves of their surplice, so that not one centimetre of flesh could be seen.

  The Watchers in the Dark weren’t human. Of that, Zahariel was certain. This was the form they chose to show him, because he was quite certain that the sight of their true nature would very likely drive him mad.

  One of the three spoke – Zahariel could not be certain which one. Their voices were like a complex skein of whispered sounds, woven together into the semblance of human words.

  You know nothing of truth, Zahariel, the watcher said. If truth and falsehood were so simple, our ancient enemy could never find its way into a human soul.

  ‘I know what is right and what is wrong!’ Zahariel shot back. ‘I know the difference between honour and dishonour, loyalty and treason! What more does a man – or an Astartes – need to know?’

  He is blind, said one of the watchers. He has always been thus. Kill him, before he does more harm than he knows.

  Though the watchers were diminutive creatures by Astartes standards – each one barely more than a metre in height – Zahariel could sense the mantle of psychic energy that surrounded each of them, and knew that they could snuff out his life as easily as a candle flame. But he was in no mood to be cowed by these beings, not when the future of Caliban was at stake.

  ‘Perhaps that was true once, but I have learned a great deal since the first time we met,’ Zahariel countered. ‘You’re not ghosts or malevolent spirits, as the forest folk once believed. You’re a xenos species that has been gua
rding something here on Caliban for a very long time. What is it?’

  Something mankind was not meant to trifle with, one of the watchers hissed. It has ever been thus. Your kind is too curious, too grasping and ignorant. It will be your undoing.

  ‘If we are ignorant, it’s because beings like you withhold the truth from us,’ Zahariel shouted. ‘Knowledge is power.’

  And mankind misuses its power at every turn. One day humanity will kindle a fire they cannot control, and the entire universe will burn. ‘Then teach us!’ Zahariel said. ‘Show us a better way, instead of sitting back and waiting for disaster to fall. If you don’t, then you’re just as much to blame for what happens as we are.’

  The three beings stirred, and a wave of psychic power rolled away from them like a cold wave, engulfing Zahariel and freezing him to the core. The shock of it would have stopped an ordinary man’s heart; as it was, the Librarian’s circulatory and nervous systems struggled to keep him conscious. Yet he refused to be cowed by their expression of pique.

  ‘You said to me, long ago, that this evil could be fought,’ he said. ‘Here I stand, ready to fight it. Just tell me what I must do.’

  The watchers did not answer at first. They stirred again, and the ether was charged with pulses and ripples of invisible power. He sensed that they were conversing somehow, on a level too rarefied for him to perceive.

  After what felt like an eternity, the ether stilled once more, and one of the watchers spoke. Ask your questions, human. We will answer what we can.

  The admission surprised Zahariel, until he remembered that the watchers had once admitted that they were a part of a larger cabal, dedicated to battling the most ancient of evils. For the first time, he perceived that there were limits to what these potent beings were capable of doing.

  ‘All right,’ Zahariel began. ‘How long has Caliban been tainted by this evil?’

  Always, was the watcher’s wintry reply.

  ‘Then why have no Calibanites succumbed to its touch before now?’

  Because of our efforts, you foolish human, another watcher said. Zahariel was coming to recognise tonal differences between the beings now, though he still had no clear idea which voice belonged to which body.

  And, ironically, by the great beasts themselves, another watcher said. They were born of the taint, and lingered near the places where its corruption rose close to the surface. They killed nearly all of the humans who strayed too close, and those few who did survive were ultimately slain as warlocks by your own people before they could grow too strong.

  A sudden chill raised gooseflesh on Zahariel’s skin as a memory returned to him from long ago. He remembered standing in the great library of the Knights of Lupus, listening to the bleak words of their doomed master, Lord Sartana… The worst… of all this, is the Lion’s quest to kill off the great beasts. That’s the real danger. That’s the part we’ll all end up regretting.

  And now the Terrans had come, cutting away the forests and forcing their way into the most inhospitable parts of Caliban in search of resources to feed the Imperial war machine. ‘The thermal cores,’ he mused. ‘They sank the thermal cores deep into the earth and released the taint in the Northwilds.’

  And now others feed it with fire and slaughter, a watcher added.

  Zahariel nodded, thinking of the pile of corpses at Sigma Five-One-Seven. Many of them had doubtless been provided for the worm queen to lay her eggs, but others – likely the entirety of the Calibanite labour force – had been offered up as a sacrifice, to add power to the ritual and focus the energies that the sorcerers unleashed. If they managed to tap into the horror and bloodshed being unleashed by the rebels, what terrible things might they accomplish?

  In their own way, the rebels were more dangerous than the sorcerers themselves, Zahariel realised bleakly. And tragically, their cause wasn’t entirely unjust. The Imperium did, in fact, pose a grave danger to Caliban – just not in the way that many of them suspected. Except for the old knight, Sar Daviel. He knew. Zahariel remembered his last words to Luther.

  The forests are gone, but the monsters still remain.

  Zahariel suddenly understood what had to be done. He turned to the watchers and bowed his head respectfully. ‘Thank you for your counsel,’ he said gravely. ‘You have my word that the wisdom you’ve shared will be put to good use. I will save Caliban from destruction. This I swear.’

  The watchers studied him for a long moment, while the ghostly winds of the immaterium howled above their heads. Then, slowly, the watcher in the centre shook his cowled head.

  In that you are wrong, Zahariel of the Dark Angels, the watcher replied. Its unearthly voice was low, and almost sad. Caliban is doomed, and nothing you do can prevent it.

  Zahariel blinked in surprise, stunned by the watcher’s words. When he opened his eyelids again, the afterimage of the lightning bolt was fading from his vision. Rain smote his face, and the Watchers in the Dark were gone.

  ZAHARIEL BURST INTO the Grand Master’s sanctum unannounced, the thick, oaken door rebounding with a boom from the old stone walls. Lord Cypher looked up from behind the Grand Master’s desk, his hooded form bent over neatly-stacked data slates and copies of readiness reports.

  The enigmatic Astartes’ square-jawed face betrayed no emotion at the Librarian’s sudden arrival. ‘Master Luther remains in seclusion, meditating on the crisis,’ he said coolly. ‘Have you another message for me to deliver?’

  ‘I’m not looking for Master Luther,’ Zahariel said, stalking purposefully across the room. ‘You’re the one I wish to speak to, my lord.’ ‘Indeed?’ Cypher straightened, hooking his thumbs casually in his tooled leather gun belt. ‘And how may I be of service, Brother-Librarian Zahariel?’

  ‘I want another parley with the rebel leaders,’ Zahariel said. ‘Specifically Sar Daviel. And it needs to be within the next twenty-four hours.’ The request seemed to genuinely amuse Cypher. ‘Shall I pull the moon out of the sky while I’m at it?’ he asked with a faint grin.

  ‘You got word to them once before,’ Zahariel continued stubbornly. ‘I have no doubt those channels are still open to you, if you choose to employ them.’

  The traditions of parley went back for hundreds of years on Caliban, when open warfare between knightly orders was more common. Even the bitterest foes maintained channels of communication to facilitate negotiations or declarations of surrender. It was a means of avoiding unnecessary casualties and bringing a swift end to open combat before both sides were too badly mauled to perform their sworn duty to the people of Caliban.

  The grin faded from Lord Cypher’s face. His lips pressed into a narrow line. ‘Only the Grand Master can initiate a parley,’ he said. ‘Not so,’ Zahariel countered. ‘Astelan and I are his designated representatives, and so long as he remains incommunicado, we have the authority to prosecute the war as we see fit. And I wish to parley with the rebels at once.’

  Lord Cypher hesitated for a moment, but then ultimately gave a nod of assent. ‘The rebels won’t agree to a meeting at Aldurukh this time,’ he warned.

  ‘I’ve no interest in speaking to them here,’ Zahariel said. ‘Tell Sar Daviel that I will meet them at a place of their choosing,’ he said, ‘inside the Northwilds arcology. No other location is acceptable.’

  Cypher studied Zahariel closely. ‘An unusual request,’ he said. ‘They will want to know why.’

  ‘Because the fate of our world is going to be decided there,’ Zahariel replied. ‘Whether any of us like it or not.’

  FIFTEEN

  ENGINES OF WAR

  Diamat

  In the 200th year of the Emperor’s Great Crusade

  THE FORGE’S MASSIVE Titan foundry was actually a collection of cyclopean structures that filled an area of five square kilometres, not far from the complex’s southern gate. It was a self-contained manufactory, with facilities for creating everything from adamantine skeletal segments to tempered plasteel armour plate, and everything in between. Broad trackwa
ys, made to accommodate heavy load-haulers, connected to the towering structure at the centre of the foundry: the giant assembly building, where up to four of the gargantuan war machines could be built at the same time. When a Titan was completed it would then be handed over to the adepts of the Legio Gladius with solemn ceremony, and the engine would take its first steps to join its brethren at the legion’s fortress, some ten kilometres to the north.

  Nemiel and his squad encountered the first of the skitarii patrols at the edge of the foundry sector; these were well-equipped troops in static positions, manning lascannons or heavy stubbers and sweeping the perimeter every few seconds with advanced auspex arrays.

  He halted the squad in the shadow of an idle manufactory and waved Brother Askelon over. ‘It looks like the assembly building is the only part of the foundry in operation,’ he said, nodding towards the towering well-lit structure. ‘Magos Archoi isn’t taking any chances. He’s extended his security perimeter to the very edge of the sector. Can you think of a way we can get past those auspex units? It’s imperative we find out what Archoi is doing.’

  The Techmarine considered the problem for a moment, and nodded. ‘All of the facilities here are powered by the thermal reactors inside the volcano,’ he said. ‘The power feeds are run through utility tunnels that connect all the buildings. They’ll likely be covered by automated security systems, but I believe I can bypass them.’

  Nemiel nodded. ‘Let’s go. We don’t have much time until dawn.’

  Askelon led the squad back the way they’d come, to an access door at the far side of the manufactory. While Nemiel and the rest of the Dark Angels stood watch for more Mechanicum patrols, the Techmarine bypassed the door’s security system and slipped inside. Fifteen seconds later he returned, beckoning for Nemiel. ‘There are several small, cybernetic sentries prowling the building,’ Askelon whispered. ‘They follow predictable routes and use their surveyors to scan for signs of heat or motion, but they’re very short-ranged. Stay close, and move only when I say.’