Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow

by Warhammer 40K

  Caecus reached the ruby dais and drew the sampler vial from a pocket in the cuff of his robes. He took a wary step up on to the flat stage and found himself staring into the Red Grail, into the crimson fluid there trembling in rippling rings. This close to the ancient artefact, the dampening effect of the null-field was negligible. The radiant power of the chalice crept over Caecus and made his muscles tighten. In combat, when the Red Grail was brought in Corbulo’s hands to the warriors upon the battlefield, the mere presence of the cup caused men to redouble their efforts. The sheer force of history within this great object touched the threads of the primarch’s legacy in every Blood Angel who gazed upon it. It strengthened them, reminded them of who and what they were.

  This enrapture came upon Caecus now, as he gingerly reached out with the vial and siphoned a tiny measure from the contents of the cup. His hands were shaking so much he feared he might drop the glass capsule; but at the same moment he was seized by a powerful will to finish the deed. In a rush, the certainty he had felt at the beginning of his odyssey returned to him, banishing his black and damning mood. I am doing the right thing, he told himself, his teeth baring. Dante will see that. I will show him, I will show them all.

  He rocked back and stepped down, basking in the glow of the Red Grail, letting it wash over him. Caecus gripped the vial in his hands, his doubts and fears held at bay. He felt as if he could fight a thousand foes, defeat any challenge—

  “Majoris!”

  The voice was strident and harsh. Caecus blinked in the lamplight and saw a figure in half-crimson, half-ebon power armour. Rydae.

  The Angel Sanguine took a step from the entrance alcove, drawing the attention of the guardians. “I followed you,” he explained. “Your attempt to slip away unseen failed, Caecus.” Rydae shook his head. “Your behaviour is inexcusable. Lord Dante will hear of this.”

  Caecus advanced toward the other Space Marine, driven by a sudden anger. “You dare to judge me, whelp? You know nothing of my struggles or the calling the primarch granted me!”

  “Nevertheless, you have your orders…” Rydae broke off, noticing the vial for the first time. “What is that?” Shock entered his voice. “In the Angel’s name! What have you taken?” The Sanguine came forward and grabbed at Caecus’ arm. “You cannot—”

  The anger churning inside him found sudden release and Caecus backhanded Rydae, slamming his fist into the Space Marine’s helmet. Caught off-guard, the Astartes shifted with the blow toward the ruby dais. “You have no right to judge me!” Caecus bellowed. “None of you have the right!” He struck out again and again, scarring his knuckles on the other warrior’s armour, his blows ringing against the ceramite. Each impact felt stronger, better, more satisfying than the last.

  “Majoris, do not force me to injure you!” The Angel Sanguine weathered the impacts without fighting back. “Stop this at once.”

  “Stop? Stop?” Caecus’ voice climbed in pitch. He drew strength from the presence of the grail and spat out a laugh. “I have come too far to stop now, don’t you understand? I am beyond the point of no return! Nothing must halt me!”

  Rydae made an inelegant motion, a broad blow that would have knocked the Apothecary to the floor, but Caecus pivoted and gave the Space Marine a vicious shove, taking the other man’s balance. The captain’s boot scraped backward across the line of glass tiles, bringing the watchful machine-helots to face him. Before he could cry out, the guardians performed their programmed duty. As one, they opened their hands and struck down Rydae with a ripping cascade of bolt fire.

  Caecus stumbled away from the discharge, reeling with the stink of new, hot blood amid the chamber’s air of ancient vitae.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The tolling of the warning bell drew Rafen to the valetudinarium on the atrium tier. He was close, intent on returning to the barracks for the day’s late meal when the sound reached him. It was no battle drill, no surprise practice. No one would dare to do such a thing while the conclave was in residence at the fortress.

  He entered and found Brother Corbulo, his white duty robes flecked with a different kind of red than the crimson bands about his shoulders. The fresh stink of Astartes blood set off a tumble of sense-memory, of battles and brethren lost. Rafen dismissed the thoughts and strode forward. “Are you injured, lord?”

  Corbulo turned his severe countenance toward him. “Not this day, Rafen.” He gave a nod toward a windowed medicae cell. Inside, Apothecaries and serfs worked carefully to remove planes of red and black armour from a torso that lay twisted upon a support frame.

  Rafen recognised the armour and the combat honours affixed to it from the first assemblage of the gathering. “Rydae?” The Astartes had been mortally wounded; the cratered impact locations of multiple point-blank bolt shots marred every surface of the wargear. Corbulo gave a grave nod.

  The question of how and why was caught in his throat for long seconds, before the tramp of boots announced the arrival of more men drawn by the lowing bell. At their head, the hooded Lord Sentikan came silently into the room and halted with a jerk. Rafen could not see his face, but he heard the thin intake of breath through the Chapter Master’s lips.

  “Explain this to me,” said the Angel Sanguine. The cold control of his utterance gave Rafen pause.

  Corbulo exhaled. “An alarm from the Chapel of the Red Grail drew me to investigate, lord. When I arrived, I found Brother-Captain Rydae upon the floor. He had apparently crossed the line of censure and walked directly into the weapons of the gun-servitors protecting the sacred relic.”

  “He would do no such thing,” Sentikan replied icily. “We respect the prohibitions of the Blood Angels! He would not enter the chapel without permission!”

  “To do such a thing without the company of a sanctioned priest is death,” said Rafen. “He would have known that.”

  Sentikan shot a look at one of his escorts as the other Space Marine approached. “Master, Lord Dante and his Librarian are here. Others are on their way.” He gestured at the ceiling and the vox-relays in the walls. “The bell, sir. They have all heard the bell.”

  Belatedly, Corbulo spoke a command phrase into a vox device about his wrist and the tolling ceased. Sentikan pushed past him to glare through the windowed wall of the medicae cell. “What are they doing?” he demanded. For the first time, Rafen heard open anger from the Sanguine Lord. “Sentikan,” Dante entered, his face set in a scowl. “I—” The Angel Sanguine turned about and glared at his fellow master. “You will have your Apothecaries cease their work immediately, cousin, or I will tear them limb from limb!”

  Dante did not hesitate, and nodded to Corbulo. “Do as he says.”

  “Aye, lord.” The Blood Angel slipped through the iris door and into the chamber.

  “He might still be alive, perhaps in a healing trance,” began Rafen. “They could save his life.”

  “No,” Mephiston shook his head, his gaze distant. “Brother Rydae is gone. His spirit has left his body to join the Great Angel.”

  Sentikan took a warning step toward the psyker. “If I suspect you are using your witchsight to peer into the flesh of my kinsman, your eyes will be cut from your head, Librarian!”

  The snarling rebuke gave Mephiston a moment’s pause. “I thought only to see the mirror of his final thoughts. Perhaps, to learn what befell him.”

  Dante shook his head and placed a hand on his comrade’s arm. “It is not our place to disturb the Sanguine’s dead.”

  “No one touches the flesh of our fallen,” growled Sentikan. “Unless he wishes to join them.”

  Rafen glanced back at the body. The hooded faces, the helmets they never removed. For a brief moment, he wondered again what it was that the Angels Sanguine did not want the rest of the galaxy to see of them.

  Sentikan spoke once more. “I will retire to the battle cruiser Unseen with Rydae’s body. When I return tomorrow, you will have an explanation for my loss, Dante.”

  The Mast
er of the Blood Angels nodded. “Of course. Cousin, know that I am as shocked by this incident as you are.”

  The Angel Sanguine watched him for a moment. “But now you will ask me not to speak of this, yes? For fear that it will widen the cracks of dissent among the successors?”

  “Too late for that.” Dante’s answer never came; another voice offered a scowl in reply instead, as more Astartes forced their way into the atrium tier. The Flesh Tearers had arrived, and any chance of silence on this matter fled before them.

  Caecus sensed it the moment the drop-ramp opened, the very instant the frosted air drifted into the cabin of the flyer. The keening engines echoed inside the bartizan, but there was no other sound. No voices, no footsteps.

  No Fenn, waiting as he always did, at the foot of the landing pad. Caecus drew his robes in tightly around him and ventured out into the hangar, one hand a tight fist around the precious, precious vial. The Apothecae sniffed at the cold, his breath steaming into a haze of vapour. He paused, rocking on his heels. A mixture of scents sent warning signals through his brain; Caecus detected faint traces of chemical preservatives, of fractionating fluid and battery acids. There were other smells as well. Perhaps cordite. Spent cordite and fresh blood. It was difficult to sift though the jumble of them all.

  He walked on, into the corridors of the Vitalis Citadel, wary of every shadowed corner, of the silence that fell each time he stopped and held his breath. The complex had a beat of life to it, the motion and sound of the works taking place within its walls familiar—and in its own way, oddly comforting. There was none of that now, though. The strange, ominous quiet was invasive. Caecus listened to his own shallow breathing to be sure that he hadn’t simply been struck deaf.

  At a lectern in the main atrium he tried the machine-call vox, paging Fenn, then the laboratorium, then the general control chambers on the levels above. He waited a quarter hour there, but no one answered him.

  A hundred different scenarios for what could have happened reeled through his thoughts. Had Dante activated some sort of failsafe plan after the business in the fighting pit, eradicating everything inside the building in a fit of fury? Was there a containment breach in one of the other laboratoria, something that had caused an immediate lockdown?

  The flyer was still out on the pad; he had the opportunity, if he wished to take it. He could leave, return to the fortress-monastery. Admit to what had happened. Take responsibility for it. Caecus glanced at the vial in his hand. “But that would be to accept failure.” He thought of the woman Nyniq. She had said those words to him, and he had reacted with ferocity. Where was that zeal now? He could feel the twin draws upon his will, one toward the dark and melancholy path, the other toward shrill and angry certainty. He knew without doubt that to turn back now would mean death. He had not lied to Rydae when he told him he had gone beyond the point of no return. Caecus held up the capsule and the light of the biolumes shimmered through the fluid within. There. There is my zeal, made manifest.

  He threw a last glance over his shoulder. Dante would send men after him, if he had not already. His only hope of redemption lay below his feet, in the heart of the replicae laboratorium.

  The bank of brass elevators in the atrium ignored his summons. With care, Caecus took to the spiralling double staircase that ran down the length of the tower, twisting over itself in mimicry of a human genetic helix.

  He had only descended a dozen tiers when he heard the noise filter up from below; the clatter of a bolter on full automatic fire, suddenly cut short by a piercing scream.

  Lord Seth barged past Mephiston, but the psyker blocked the passage of Brother-Captain Gorn. The lord of the Flesh Tearers walked to the medicae cell and gave it a long look.

  Rafen saw Puluo at the entrance and moved to his side. “You were supposed to keep him in his quarters.”

  The Space Marine hung his head. “He is a Chapter Master, lord. Short of putting a gun to him, how could I stop him from exercising his will?”

  The sergeant gave a weary nod; Puluo was not to blame, but Seth’s intervention here and now would only make this situation worse.

  “You would have kept this from us?” Seth demanded of Dante. “A Space Marine murdered in this very fortress?”

  “No one has spoken of murder,” retorted Mephiston. “This may be a tragic accident, and no more.”

  Seth ignored the interruption and concentrated on the Chapter Master. “You would have concealed it, just as you tried to hide the replicae?” He shook his head. “I am disappointed in you more and more, Blood Angel.”

  “I hide nothing,” Dante retorted. “I only seek calm in the face of this terrible incident, so that we can learn the full scope of it.” He glared at Seth. “There are others who will try to turn it to their own ends.”

  “You accuse me?” said the Flesh Tearer. “I see no need to cast blame about! This atrocity took place on your world, Dante. You hold responsibility for it!”

  “You tell me nothing I do not already know,” came the reply. “This will be resolved, have no doubt of it.” The Chapter Master’s eyes narrowed. “But I say that any who seize upon this misfortune to aggrandize themselves cheapen the honour of every Astartes here!” Sentikan said nothing, watching the two men face off against one another.

  Rafen felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to face Mephiston. The psyker spoke in low tones. “The magos woman, Nyniq. She killed herself on the hangar deck. The serfs there report that Caecus and Rydae both disappeared in the confusion.”

  He frowned. “Then Caecus never left for the citadel?”

  Mephiston shook his head. “A flyer departed the tertiary hanger port in eastern shield wall. Caecus’ signet was given as authority for the launch.”

  He killed Rydae and fled? The conclusion leapt to the front of his mind, hard and damning. But to do such a thing would be madness!

  The psyker nodded, and Rafen wondered if he was tracing the pattern of his surface thoughts. “It is imperative the Apothecae Majoris follows the orders of Commander Dante to the letter, brother-sergeant, and imperative we learn if he had a part in this… Take your squad and go to the Vitalis Citadel. See to it.”

  “As you command.”

  “Wait,” snapped Seth, stepping closer, catching the end of their conversation. “Don’t think you can cloud this, Mephiston! If there is investigation to be done, then it must be known to all of us! It must be transparent.”

  “This is our world, as you pointed out, lord,” Mephiston noted. “As such, it is the responsibility of the Blood Angels to keep watch over it.”

  “That will not be enough,” Seth insisted, glancing at Sentikan. “Don’t you agree?” The Angel Sanguine did not speak, only nodded once.

  “My men will deal with this,” insisted Dante.

  “Of course,” Seth snapped, “but they will do it alongside mine.” He smiled coldly, and threw a gesture toward Captain Gorn. “Consider it an offer to share the load.”

  He had no weapon but himself. He was a scientist, a combatant in battles of different scope than the brutal cut and thrust of fighting; but Caecus had once been a battle-brother as well. He had fought and shed blood in the name of Sanguinius and the Emperor, on warzone worlds in ork space and a dozen Chaos-blighted hells all across the Ultima Segmentum. He could summon the will to do killing, if it was required of him, but in truth he had not walked a battlefield in many decades.

  Still; he was Adeptus Astartes. It was in his meat and marrow to be a warrior, no matter how dulled by inaction the blade of his skills might be.

  The sounds drew him in, curiosity taking the lead. Caecus had yet to see a single other inhabitant of the citadel. He had come across strange debris on the stairs and the landings of some of the tiers. A scattering of pict slates, fallen as if dropped in haste; torn pieces of a Chapter serf’s robes; and here, on this level, strewn casings from bolter rounds, the tarnished electrum glittering dully.

  He bent and chose
one of them at random, sniffing at it. The cordite stink was still strong. This shot had been discharged recently. He rolled it between his fingers. It was a pistol-gauge round, not the kind of shell a gun-servitor would have carried in its ammunition hoppers. Caecus searched a while for bullet impacts or marks from ricochets upon the stone walls, but found none.

  He moved gingerly into the tier, edging around the first open door he found. The room was a minor research chamber, dedicated to the classification and fractionation of blood samples. It was one of many set to such a task in the citadel, one more small cog in the turning labour of the Chapter’s study of the gene-flaw. Shattered cubes of armourglass, tiny as pebbles, were gathered at the feet of broken centrifuges. Storage jars and spinner tubes lay open and empty, some with streaks of red within, but most of them drained of their contents.

  The blood; all the blood was gone.

  Caecus then saw a shape in an untidy heap before a smashed cogitator console. A body. The first sign of life—of death—he had encountered since he returned. Stepping over the tiled flooring, taking care not to place his footing in among the broken glass fragments, the Apothecary sank low, to his haunches. Closer now, and he could see that the corpse was in the robes of a mid-ranking Chapter serf.

  Old proficiency came back to him with automatic action. He studied the body, checking for anything that could be a booby trap, perhaps an explosive device with a contact trigger beneath the corpse, or a tripwire. In the course of this he got a good look at the dead man. The epidermis of his face was gone, ripped clean away, and the flesh beneath was pallid like meat boiled too long in the pot. More details became clear. There were what had to be claw marks upon the arms and torso, rents in the cloth of the robes that could only have come from slashing wounds.