‘Our part in this particular war is over, Azrael. It falls to another to seal the Damnation Cache.’
Both Space Marines looked down at Tzula. Her shredded bodyglove had been abandoned altogether and she was back wearing Catachan fatigues and a grubby vest which was tied off above her torso, allowing air to her freshly sealed wounds. She waved the medic away and sprang to her feet.
‘What are we waiting for?’ she said, pulling the athame from her waistband and cockily throwing it in the air, end over end. She caught it by the handle as it fell. ‘Lead on.’
Postlude
227961.M41 / The Rock. In orbit around Pythos, Pandorax System
An army of Chapter serfs stood waiting at the foot of the embarkation ramp as the rear hatch of Roar of Vengeance ground open with a hiss of escaping pressure. Its massive engines spooled down from a growl to a whine, and the clang of Terminator armour rang out over the noise of activity on the hangar deck.
As Balthasar set foot on the Dark Angels spacebound fortress-monastery for the first time in months, five of the serfs approached him in obeisance. He removed his storm bolter and handed it to two of them, before unsheathing his sword and giving it to another pair. To the final serf, a bulky man with the Dark Angels winged sword icon tattooed below one eye, he passed his helm. Each of them bowed before carrying the items back to his chambers. All across the deck, other serfs were doing the same with their particular master’s artefacts and equipment.
In honour of their valour and victory on Pythos, Lord Azrael had granted all of the surviving Dark Angels the honour of travelling back to the Rock on board his own personal transport. The ancient Thunderhawk had made fewer journeys than any of the Sons of the Lion would have liked, but Balthasar and his squad were the penultimate group – only Lord Azrael himself along with an honour guard of Deathwing Knights still remained planetside.
Balthasar looked down at his suit of relic armour, worn into battle by two dozen former warriors of the Dark Angels First Company, and felt both pride and dismay at its sorry condition. Pride that he had lived up to the legacy of its former owners by helping win yet another campaign for his Chapter, dismay that he had allowed it to sustain so much damage in the process. With the vast majority of the Dark Angels already back onboard the Rock, the Techmarines and artificers were likely already inundated with orders for repair and replacement, but his place among the Chapter’s elite would grant him preferential treatment. Instead of joining his battle-brothers and returning to quarters, Balthasar set off in the opposite direction towards the forge.
He had barely taken ten paces when two figures stepped out to bar his passage, one in black armour, the other ivory.
‘And where do you think you are going, Brother Balthasar?’ Gabriel said, the condition of his armour the mirror of the younger Space Marine’s.
‘I was on my way to visit Master Serpicus in the forge to petition him to repair my armour and wargear.’ There was an uncertainty to Balthasar’s voice, he was unsure of the two high-ranking Dark Angels’ reasons for stopping him.
‘There will be plenty of time for your plate to receive the attention it requires,’ Asmodai said, his voice a gravelly whisper. ‘Right now, there are things you must know. Secrets we must share with you.’ The Interrogator-Chaplain nodded to the Master of the Deathwing and ran a finger across the cheek of his skull mask, just beneath his right eye.
Shepherded from the hangar deck by both Gabriel and Asmodai, Balthasar took another step closer to the centre of the circle.
227961.M41 / The Governor’s Quarters. Atika, Pythos
The stark rays of Pythos’s midday sun filtered in through the gaps in the shutters of the makeshift governor’s quarters and reflected from every inch of Kaldor Draigo’s silver armour. The suit had been cleaned and polished in the weeks since the victory on Pythos, but it still bore the dents and cracks of combat and would require many hours of work once the Grey Knights returned to Titan.
‘And neither the Grey Knights nor the Dark Angels can spare even a single squad to garrison Pythos?’ The new governor’s tone was insistent rather than pleading. ‘We have both witnessed the lengths the Archenemy will go to take this world and fill it with horrors. This time we were fortunate that Strike and his men were here and prepared for the assault and could hold out for reinforcements. Abaddon escaped. If he comes back again and with greater numbers, I fear the outcome will be very different. Not to mention the Chaos forces left behind who are already hampering our rebuilding efforts.’
Draigo grinned, impressed at how quickly and firmly the new governor had grasped the nettle of politics. ‘Governor Digriiz, the Adeptus Astartes are not the personal armies of planetary rulers. Colonel Strike and the 183rd will remain here in defence of Pythos and another three Catachan regiments are being sent here to bolster his forces. Two Navy fighter wings will stay behind to patrol the skies and elements of Battlefleet Demeter are to be placed on permanent patrol in the Pandorax System. You know as well as I how dark it has got in the galaxy of late, how stretched our forces are. You should thank the Emperor for what you have.’
Tzula returned his smile. ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’
Strike had immediately ruled himself out of consideration for the role of governor the instant offensive operations had halted. When Tzula had pointed out – without going into too much detail – that she had prior experience of ruling over a world, Azrael immediately granted her the role with Draigo’s full endorsement.
Though it was not unprecedented for a member of the Ordos to be granted governorship of an Imperial world, it was rare for a junior interrogator to be elevated to such a high post. She had already used her Inquisitorial sway to good effect and the first Departmento Munitorum vessels were even now en route to Pythos to begin the rebuilding process. Within months, new miners would arrive from Gaea and other outlying worlds and she was determined to have the planet back up to full operational capacity before the year was out.
‘Perhaps at least one Grey Knight will remain behind regardless,’ Tzula said, adjusting the lapel of her unfamiliar ceremonial gown with her augmented hand. Gone was the crude bionic fitted by the Catachan medical corps, in its place a sleek, silent limb crafted by one of Azrael’s Techmarines and fitted by a Dark Angels Apothecary.
Draigo’s aspect darkened. ‘Epimetheus is no longer on Pythos. I know that he would rebuff any attempt for me to hail him telepathically, but since our communion I have no longer been able to detect his psychic spoor.’
‘Do you think he has gone into the Maelstrom, as he told Shira?’
‘It is possible, but I sense the hand of another in this. It is not my warp gifts telling me that but rather a feeling I have inside my gut.’
They remained in silence for a moment, Shira stood behind a jury-rigged desk made from an old ammunition crate, Draigo stooping in the enclosed confines of the temporary structure.
‘My Grey Knights and I take our leave of Pythos tonight but before we return to Titan there are still a few loose ends I have to tie up,’ Draigo said eventually.
Tzula knew exactly what one of those loose ends was and, though it made her feel uneasy, as a loyal servant of the Golden Throne she knew it had to be done. What Draigo said next caught her completely off-guard. ‘You have something that is the property of the Ordo Malleus. I will see that it is returned to them in good order.’
‘K’Cee? I thought–’
‘I am not referring to the xenos, Governor Digriiz. I meant the knife.’
‘Oh,’ Tzula said, slightly embarrassed. She had almost forgotten about the knife, having barely given it a thought since… since… since she did something with it. She remembered using it to help kill the daemon in the Emerald Cave but what did she do with it after that? The Damnation Cache – how had she closed it? Draigo spoke again and the thought eluded her like smoke in the breeze.
‘May I have it?’ he held out a gauntleted palm.
Tzula pulled back the folds in her ro
be and slid the athame out from beneath. Gripping the point between the tips of her fingers she placed it in Draigo’s hand. Somehow, impossibly, when she took her own hand away, the blade had grown, appearing to be a perfectly reasonable size in the Space Marine’s enormous fist.
‘And K’Cee? The jokaero?’ she said with trepidation.
‘What jokaero?’ Draigo said, the corners of his mouth upturning slightly. Tzula mimicked his expression. ‘And now to my last few bits of business on Pythos. May the Emperor watch over you and keep this world safe, Governor Digriiz.’ Still dipping his head to prevent it from scraping on the low ceiling, he turned to exit the prefabricated structure.
‘Lord Draigo?’ Tzula said, causing the Grey Knight to stop and rotate to face her. ‘There is just one more thing you could do for me. One last favour.’
‘I have already turned a blind eye to the fact that you are harbouring a xenos – a xenos that should by rights be back under the custody of the Ordos. Please do not push your luck.’
‘Perhaps I misspoke. This favour is not for me, it’s for Colonel Strike and the Catachans.’ She looked him dead in the eyes as she spoke. ‘What they’ve endured, all they’ve been through. They deserve time to grieve properly, to honour their dead in the proper way. Is there any way you could delay mind-wiping the 183rd? They’ve earned that much at least.’
Draigo considered this for a moment. ‘Very well, Governor Digriiz. I’ll have Castellan Crowe commence with the other regiments. The Catachans’ minds won’t be wiped until sundown,’ he said before stepping out into the noon heat of Pythos.
The ten-man squad of Deathwing Knights flanked the approach to the Roar of Vengeance, maces held high to form a processional archway under which their lord and master could board the Thunderhawk.
As he neared the waiting craft, Azrael noticed the heads of some of his honour guard twitch, turning slightly to look back behind him. Usually, this sort of infraction would result in a stern rebuke at the very least, a writ of penitence at worst, but Azrael would have expected only a single battle-brother to show such indiscipline. This was a whole squad, of Deathwing Knights no less. Curious as to what had distracted such immaculately disciplined and well-drilled Space Marines, Azrael turned around to look.
Just in time to catch a silvered fist in his face.
The blow was controlled, not hard enough to render him unconscious or break any bones, but with enough force to knock him brusquely to his backside. In a blur his assailant was on top of him, gripping the collar of his cloak and snarling.
‘What did you do with him, you bastard?’ Draigo yelled, spittle trailing from his lips and teeth. ‘Is he up there in those dungeons of yours, along with all those others you’ve collected down the centuries? What do you want with them? What is it that you do to them?’
The Deathwing honour guard surrounded the pair of Supreme Grand Masters, their weapons primed and aimed at Draigo’s head. Azrael gestured for them to lower their arms.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Azrael said, trying to remove the Grey Knight’s hands from upon him.
Draigo slammed the Dark Angel against the ground again. ‘Liar! You’ve taken him. I know you have. Were you in league with Abaddon all along? Did he deliver him up to you in exchange for his escape?’
The Deathwing’s guns rose again. This time Azrael did not order them dropped. ‘Are you accusing me of heresy, Grey Knight?’ It was as much a warning as an accusation.
Draigo paused, fully aware of the implications of responding in the affirmative. He released his grip on Azrael and stood up. ‘You figured out who he was, and what he was, and you had to have him to yourself. Pray that I never obtain the proof as the fury of the entire Grey Knights Chapter will make what you faced here on Pythos look like a training exercise.’
‘As I said, Draigo,’ Azrael said, hauling himself upright, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
As his Grey Knights counterpart marched off into the distance, Lord Azrael of the Dark Angels would have given anything in the universe for the opposite to be true.
Colonel Strike shielded his eyes from the sun and looked skywards as the Roar of Vengeance raced towards the heavens. As he watched the vapour trail lengthen and fade, he could not help but feel a pang of jealousy, that the Space Marines got to return home while he and his troops would live out their days light years from Catachan defending a world they should never have been on in the first place. The feeling soon passed when he realised that both the Dark Angels and the Grey Knights would live out their extended lifespans defending countless worlds that were not their own, destined to die at the point of an enemy’s blade, at range by the gun of some unseen killer or in a heroic act of self-sacrifice. That thought also gave rise to envy.
With the Dark Angels gone and the Grey Knights due to leave Pythos come nightfall, the colonel was now back in overall command of the planet’s defence. Most of the Chaos forces had fled the planet but pockets of invaders remained behind harrying the Imperial forces in a guerrilla campaign. Plague Marines still prowled the tunnels beneath Atika, a handful of Black Legionnaires had made a killing ground of a thousand square kilometres of jungle in the southern hemisphere and packs of cultists laid claim to abandoned delver-strongholds and were using them as bases of operation. There were corroborated rumours that a winged daemon engine had taken up home in the Olympax Mountains and was preying on both foot and air patrols.
Strike walked briskly through the city of tents and huts that the Imperial Guard regiments had erected on the Plain of Glass after the war had ended, the heavy kit bag over his shoulder clanking with the sound of metal on metal with each step he took. Soon the temporary shelters would be replaced with more permanent structures and a new hive city built to replace the one that had been destroyed in retaking the planet. In the meantime, tens of thousands of soldiers from dozens of different regiments were living on top of one another, and without a clear and present enemy to fight had begun to turn on each other. In the past week Strike had spent as much time dealing with indiscipline as he had organising troop movements and rotations.
Accepting salutes as he went, the colonel came to the end of the neat rows of tents and canvas gave way to open ground. Soon reaching his destination, Strike dropped his bag to the ground and opened it, revealing the cache of Catachan blades within.
The orbital bombardment of Atika had been brutal and absolute but one tract had avoided destruction in the firestorm. Whether by some error on the part of a Calculus Logi who determined the targeting pattern, a missile malfunctioning and detonating astray or the whim of the God-Emperor himself, the area used by the Catachans as a memorial prior to the invasion, and the land around it, had remained intact. In the weeks since the war ended, new markers had been added and the red of Catachan bandanas had been joined by Mordian blue, Cadian grey and many other colours as fellow Imperial Guard regiments tied the tunics of the fallen to bayonets and combat blades by way of remembrance.
Strike had just taken the first armful of knives from the bag when the sound of heavy boots crunching over the vitrified approach drew his attention. His vest and bandana drenched with sweat, Brigstone was following the route his commanding officer had taken.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Brigstone said drawing alongside Strike. ‘We’ve received word from Lord Draigo and the Grey Knights. There’s to be some kind of ceremony tonight before they leave the planet. Attendance is mandatory, all personnel. Do you think they’re going to honour us in some way?’
Until a few months ago, Strike – like many Imperial Guard commanders – had never even heard of the Grey Knights, yet now they were the subject of hearsay and speculation among the various regiments stationed on Pythos. Some of those whispers and half-truths had a dark edge to them: the Grey Knights killed anybody who laid eyes on them – even Space Marines from other Chapters – to keep their existence secret; anybody fighting alongside them was turned into a servitor after the battle; an
y world on which they set foot was destroyed to cover their tracks. Strike had heard them all but believed none – if the Grey Knights were going to execute them it would have happened by now. But the fact remained that the Grey Knights obviously went to great lengths to keep their existence clandestine. He had harboured suspicions for a while as to how they maintained their secrecy and had a feeling these would be confirmed before the next morning.
‘I think in their own way they are,’ Strike said regretfully. He handed Brigstone the knives he was carrying and retrieved more from the bag. ‘But for now, let us remember our dead while we still can.’
Strike started off across the memorial field, a sea of glinting blades and fluttering scraps of uniform as far as the eye could see.
Overhead, a wing of Imperial Navy Thunderbolts flew in tight formation, nine craft forming a perfect V shape. As they reached the Imperial Guard memorial, eight of them peeled off leaving just the flight leader to continue flying true and straight. Traditionally only one of the craft would have broken ranks, but the losses incurred on Pythos were such that eight seemed a more appropriate salute.
Besides, the new wing commander of the Pythos Third Fighter Wing was anything but a traditionalist.
Epaulets gleaming under the high sun, Shira Hagen sat in the cockpit of her Thunderbolt gripping the controls to maintain her course. Her new ride was unfamiliar to her, but it had enough in common with the Kestrel that she had been cleared to fly one as soon as her ankle had healed. Rumour had it that the ejector mechanism actually worked on this pattern of Thunderbolt, which given the fates of the previous two craft she had flown, might be useful at some point.
Her new rank and fighter were not the only things that had changed. The instant she had left the medicae on a pair of proper crutches, she had started to ask questions around the Imperial Guard camp about obtaining certain items. The brushes had been the easiest to get hold of, the treadheads in the armoured battalions always keen on marking their kill tallies along their hulls. The paint was a little trickier to come by but after convincing a Cadian quartermaster to join her at the dice table she had walked away with the exact colours she had required.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 350