Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow

by Warhammer 40K

  “Acknowledged,” he said. “I’ll need some men.”

  “You can have one. Go with your brother.”

  The Blood Angel came about as a throaty roar signalled the arrival of a fast attack bike from across the landing field. The low-slung motorcycle growled to a halt and idled. Arkio beckoned to his elder brother. Rafen gave him a nod and bounded up to the rear spoiler, gripping the back of the seat with one hand. Arkio gunned the engine, and the bike threw itself into the wavering lines of mist. Behind it, a crimson stream of Space Marines disengaged from the fierce fighting, and with weapons running dry, they reluctantly gave their backs to the enemy.

  Arkio tore across the flat apron, veering the bike around the remains of drop-ships, skirting the places where beam fire had cut the ground. With his bolter clasped in his free hand, Rafen picked targets as they moved and strafed them. Arkio arrowed the vehicle toward a pack of Word Bearers pushing forward from the western side of the port and triggered the twin guns atop the front wheel. Orange tracer lanced through their warp-changed bodies even as the sound of the bike’s approach reached their ears.

  “There!” Arkio shouted over the engine’s roar. “I see the breach!”

  Rafen followed his brother’s outstretched arm. Ahead of them, the Word Bearer line had become strung out where the Traitors had allowed their fire discipline to become lax. To Rafen’s trained eye, the weak point stood out like obsidian against ivory. “Sergeant Koris,” he spoke into his helmet communicator pickup, “rally to us. We’re breaking through.”

  “Firing!” called Arkio, as he unleashed the twin bolters again. Rafen hesitated as something caught his eye back in the smoke haze.

  “What is it?” asked his brother.

  “I thought I saw…” Rafen replied, dispatching a Chaos Marine fumbling with a tube-launcher. “People.”

  Then they were off the level ground of the ferrocrete and into the mud and grass of the graveyards, and all of Rafen’s attention was spent on the enemy troopers, who popped up from behind the headstones like targets in some carnival shooting gallery.

  While Sachiel led Koris and the troops from the barricade in an orderly retreat, there were other Blood Angels’ units following the same orders. From the hangars came the few walking wounded that had not been killed when the makeshift hospital had been bombed, and with them the support units whose Predators had been razed in a single shot from the Ogre Lord’s cannons. Injured and bleeding, they fought hard all the same, daring the Word Bearers to try and stop them.

  These were the Space Marines who came across the eight skinny men standing in a ragged group in the middle of the landing field. A novice scout found them first, all of them stumbling around in little circles, humming and mumbling to themselves. Their mouths and eyelids were sewn shut, and some sort of blade-edged chain tied them together in a loose knot.

  “What are these?” The scout asked his commander, a craggy-faced sergeant. The humming voices were rising in volume.

  The sergeant glanced over his shoulder at the wave of approaching Blood Angels and the fire they laid down behind them. He had no time to halt the retreat because of some addled civilians. He stepped closer and studied them. When he was at arm’s length, he realised that their skins—which he had thought were dark in tone—were actually covered in tiny writing. The sergeant saw the representations of a many-angled star drawn there in millions of configurations, and he spat in disgust.

  “Heretics,” he growled, and every gun around him came up to firing position. “Execution detail! Kill—”

  His Marines didn’t hear the command. The humming chants of the eight men was so loud now, it blotted out his voice.

  The scout, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the figures since he first saw them, watched it happen: a sparkle of unleashed psychic energy licking between the men, fanning out into a coruscating globe of sickening light. Linked together since birth and imprinted by Iskavan’s psyche-mages, the eight channelled all their mental energy into the one unstoppable release that was the sole purpose of their lives. They were a psionic munition with a war-shot of pure, violent intensity. Their power arced through every one of the injured Marines, and then they died, turning to ash; but none of this mattered to the men their discharge had touched.

  The minds of the surrounding Blood Angels—more than three-quarters of the survivors of the two Word Bearer attacks—were shredded instantly; their higher reasoning and intelligence wiped clean. All that remained was naked, primal aggression, and the very darkest core of unchained bloodlust. Brothers who had known each other for centuries, allies and comrades, fell upon one another with monstrous abandon. Sachiel and Koris watched helplessly from outside the radius of the psi-weapon, as Blood Angel killed Blood Angel amid the lusty cheers of their enemies.

  Out in the Word Bearer lines, Iskavan the Hated bellowed with laughter and shouted his delight to the sky. “Forward!” He called to his host. “Take the port!”

  “There are more out there, my lord. You’re letting them go?” said Tancred, realising too late that his words might be interpreted as disrespectful.

  “I intend no such thing.” The Dark Apostle gestured with his crozius. “No victory is so complete as the one that comes over an enemy that is broken. We winnow these wretches until only the very strongest of them remain.” In anticipation, Iskavan’s tongues emerged from the forest of teeth behind his lips. “And they will be the ones we will leave begging for the beautiful tortures that please the gods.”

  Tancred pushed all thoughts of his dark prediction away and presented his master with an agreeable aspect. “By your command.”

  The Traitors moved forward over the bodies of the dead.

  By nightfall, the last of the Marines that had escaped the psi-blast had stumbled back to the rally point. Rafen’s heart turned cold and heavy in his chest as the weak warmth of the day faded. As light drew out of the landscape around him, so hope seemed to follow it. In the dank shadows cast by the reservoir’s dome, injured men and battle-weary survivors sat in sombre silence. Rafen walked among them, sparing a nod or a gesture of solidarity to those he knew personally. Outwardly his manner was neutral, but within it was burdened with grim malaise. There were hardly a handful of them now, not a single man above sergeant’s rank or armed with more than a bolter. He passed Koris as the veteran spoke in low, angry tones to Sachiel; his first order had been to tally up the ammunition and weapons held by the survivors and Rafen could tell just by his expression that the numbers were poor.

  Rafen sat by Turcio as he worked to patch his armour with. glutinous sealant. Nearby, a watchful Arkio cleaned his bolter. Rafen’s brother had returned from a patrol with Alactus to report the terrible sights of the Traitors’ victory revels only an hour earlier. The wind brought the sounds of distant shrieks for all of them to hear. Some of them belonged to voices that Rafen recognised.

  “Once again we wait for death.” Turcio’s voice was a hollow echo.

  “Not for the first time,” Rafen agreed, forcing the doubts from his words, “but we will prevail. We are Blood Angels.”

  Perhaps on another occasion, the sentiment might have been enough, but here and now Turcio met Rafen’s gaze and he saw the spectre of dread there. “I pray that is enough, brother, or else we will join the men on whose graves we trampled today.”

  “We will not die here,” Rafen said without heat.

  Turcio saw the lie and looked away. “You know that we will. And it shames us all that these animals will dance upon the bones blessed by the Throne.”

  Arkio came to his feet in a rush, startling Rafen. “No,” he said, exasperated. His voice carried iron with it. “What shames us is that any Blood Angel would countenance defeat at the hands of the corrupted!” He advanced on Turcio and pressed a fist into the other Marine’s chest. “The blood of Sanguinius courses through us all. It is the very stuff of defiance and honour, but you speak as if your heart pumps water in its place!”

&nb
sp; The low murmur of speech in the camp was suddenly gone; every man was listening to Arkio’s words. They were caught by the abrupt passion that surged from them.

  “I face my fate with clear eyes.” Turcio managed. “That makes me no less a battle-brother!”

  Arkio’s expression was a mix of concern and sadness. “My poor friend, you have lost your faith and yet you do not see it. Here,” he handed Turcio his knife. “If you are so sure of death, take this now and slit your throat.”

  “Arkio—” Rafen began, but his sibling held him at bay with a hand. Something in the younger Marine’s manner made him stop and fall silent.

  “Take it,” he repeated.

  “You mock me!” Turcio snapped, his colour rising. Without warning, the Marine’s dispirited mien broke and in its place was a hot rage. “I will take a thousand Word Bearers with me before I go to the Emperor’s side! I will not end my own life like some mewling, broken imbecile!” The words flowed out of him in an angry rush.

  “There!” Arkio’s face split in a savage grin. Inexplicably Turcio did the same, baring his fangs. “You see, my brother? There is the fire of our Lord Primogenitor! Look within, see it! It still burns in your breast! I merely had to remind you of it…” The younger Marine turned to face the rest of them, the knife glistening in his hand. “Look at us, brothers! Have we escaped the enemy only to let them win without a shot? Did our comrades die today just so we might wallow in despair?”

  “No!” A dozen men shouted out in answer, and Rafen was one of them, speaking without thinking. Something bright and powerful flashed in his brother’s eyes, and he was roused by it. Arkio’s every word was crystal clear, each sentence resonating with righteous energy.

  “The Traitors think we are broken, beaten, defeated!” he growled. “By Lemartes, I say this is not so! I say we will yet bleed them white and send them running!”

  Rafen’s gaze locked with his younger brother’s for a second. Arkio looked about him, taking in the faces of all the assembled Blood Angels. In the dimness, the Marine’s sharp-angled face and his cut of golden hair made him seem like one of the renditions of the honoured warriors of antiquity, in portraits at the fortress-monastery. In a moment of strange disconnection, Rafen saw Arkio as if he were a Blood Angel from the time of the Heresy, an ancient face of the Chapter’s most glorious past; then the image passed, and Arkio was speaking again. “The Traitors do not have the honour to meet us in open battle. They nip and strike at our numbers, wear us down. The Word Bearers do not just wish us dead… They desire the destruction of our souls as much as our flesh! But to the last man we can defy them!”

  A chorus of assent greeted his words; but then one voice sounded above them all. “Your ardour does you credit, lad,” said Koris carefully. “But rhetoric is never a substitute for gun and blade.”

  Sachiel’s face set in pious indignation, but before he could censure Koris for his interruption, Arkio nodded respectfully to the veteran. “The honoured brother-sergeant is right, of course—but I have more than just words to offer.”

  “Explain yourself.” Rafen demanded. He fixed his eyes on his sibling, part of him marvelling at a facet of his brother he had never seen before.

  The young Marine stooped and pulled at something concealed in the long grass. With a grinding of hinges, a hidden maintenance hatch came open in his hands. “If it pleases my brothers to hear it, I dare to have a strategy. A way we can take the fight to the foe, even with numbers as small as this, and still cut their hearts from them.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alactus shook his head and smiled coldly. “Have you been so long from true battle that your brain has softened, whelp?” He stood up and approached Arkio, the rhythm of his gait suggesting he might strike the Marine. “While you were playing games with greenskins, the rest of us have been fighting the real foes of the Imperium! You presume much to speak so boldly of an untried plan in such a facile tone!”

  Arkio stood his ground and let the insult roll off him. “I would respectfully hear your thoughts, brother.” Alactus was barely a few decades older than Arkio and he had little cause to cast the other Marine as his junior. Arkio ignored this fact and let him speak.

  “You spout a few words of holy writ and think that you can turn the tide of battle? You have much to learn.” Now the tension in the camp came to a knife-edge, every strain and unease among the survivors rushing to the surface.

  “Then teach me, Alactus,” Arkio said mildly. “You say you doubt my prowess and that of my comrades from the Bellus, but I know you do not. I see a different reason behind your outburst. You are afraid, and you turn it on me instead of the enemy.”

  The other Marine’s face flushed crimson with barely restrained anger. “You ask me if I know fear? You dare?” he roared. Alactus stabbed a finger in the direction of the star-port. “You were not there to see the weapon those unholy fiends unleashed upon our brethren! I was in the last of the ranks to retreat, I stood with Koris and watched the witch-fire engulf every Blood Angel who followed behind us!”

  “I, too,” said Corvus, from the shadows. “I saw it. Men with their dignity stripped away by the touch of Chaos, rendered into blood-hungry beasts. They conjured the red thirst from every one of them.”

  The phantom of their Chapter’s gene-curse forced a sullen silence over the assembled men. The anger fell from Alactus’ face and he became ashen. “I am afraid, Arkio. Though we face the darkness without until we die, there is no Blood Angel who does not fear the beast within. Any man who says he does not lies to himself. It is what makes us sons of Sanguinius. Our strength… Our bane.” He shook his head. “That these Traitors might seek to use it against us chills me to my marrow.”

  Corvus nodded his agreement. “By the Emperor’s grace, we few have survived this day, but to have seen such a sight and still live…” He shuddered.

  Sachiel’s voice was a low growl. “This morbid prattle spreads like a virus! Your brothers died for the Throne! You should be honoured to join them!”

  “No, priest.” Arkio broke in, his subdued words reinforced with quiet humility. He hung his head. There was pain in his eyes. “Forgive my disagreement, but there is no shame in what has been said here. What kind of men would we be if we could watch our kinsmen die and feel nothing? Are we more than mindless killing machines in the garb of flesh?” He looked up again, and Rafen felt a physical shock as their eyes locked. Tears coursed down Arkio’s face. “I weep for my brothers.”

  Arkio took Alactus’ hand and grasped it firmly. “I weep for them and I know your fear, brother—but if this is true, you too must know my fury as well, my wish to punish those who transgress against us!”

  A change passed over the face of Alactus. “I do,” he agreed. “I know it in my heart and my blood.”

  Arkio looked to the Sanguinary Priest, and to Rafen’s surprise Sachiel too nodded his agreement. “We are Blood Angels,” said Arkio, his voice thick with emotion, “and we carry the flaw, but as Argastes said in the litany vermilion, we are not weak because of it!”

  “The black rage makes us strong,” said Sachiel, quoting the passage from memory, “because we must resist its temptations every day of our lives—”

  “Or be forever lost.” Koris finished. “Arkio is right. We have no choice but to fight.”

  Rafen felt the words resonate in his chest. A renewed sense of purpose bloomed among the men, and suddenly the wounds and privations of the battle seemed cursory things. The will had been in them all along, he realised, and it merely took the spark of his brother’s words to rekindle it. Rafen spoke quietly to his brother. “You are full of surprises, kindred.”

  Arkio gave him a brittle smile. “No, Rafen. I am as you are, a Space Marine and servant of the Emperor and Lord Sanguinius. No more.”

  “And how will we serve them now? You spoke of a strategy—”

  The young Blood Angel stooped. “Look here, brothers.” He gestured towards the hatch he had op
ened in the ground. “During the battle I became separated by the shelling. A mortar round took me from my feet and I found myself thrown against a grille on the surface of the landing field…”

  “A drainage channel,” said Turcio. “There are many of them throughout the starport.”

  “Indeed. The rainy season on Cybele is fierce, is it not? And the waters are diverted here, to the catchment reservoirs.”

  Koris gave a quiet grunt of laughter. “By the oath, this bold young pup has found us a route back to the port. The flood channels can take us right under the Word Bearers.”

  Sachiel studied the open hatchway. “A clever tactic, Arkio. But what are we to do with this course? If we emerge in the midst of the Traitor scum, we will be no better off than if we had stayed at the barricade.” He gave Koris a hard stare. “And as I was told, that would be certain death.”

  “It would.” Arkio noted, “which is why we would send only a few men. Brother-Sergeant Koris will correct me if I err, but I believe that only one is required to operate the port’s defence batteries, yes?”

  “The anti-ship guns?” Koris nodded, and looked to a surviving Techmarine from his company. “If you took Lucion here, it could be accomplished.”

  The Techmarine tapped the cog-and-skull symbol on his chest-plate in a gesture of agreement. “I can turn my hand to that. It would be simple.”

  “But once you have the guns, what then?” asked Sachiel. “They cannot depress low enough to strike at the Word Bearers.”

  Rafen felt a rush of excitement as he saw the plan unfold in his mind. “We will not use the guns on the ground troops. We target the Ogre Lord overhead.”

  “The command ship?” said Lucion. “It orbits directly above us… If it fell from the skies, it would be like a storm of meteors…”

  “Aye, this borders on madness,” said Koris. “But for Sanguinius, it will be done!”