Perhaps it was as he had suspected… that it had been his proximity to the dark heart of the wood, or the Watchers that had awakened some latent ability within him that now lay dormant. Or perhaps he had imagined it all and his mind had conjured some elaborate fantasy in the wake of his terrible struggle to explain how he had defeated the great beast.
Whatever the reason, he was glad that what had happened seemed now to be a distant memory, becoming less tangible with every passing day. He vividly remembered the beast’s death, but the specifics of that day, before he had fought it, were becoming hazier in his mind, as though a grey mist had descended upon his memory.
LIFE WENT ON much as before with the knights of the Order, and Zahariel’s unease began to unwind, as Lord Sartana’s dying warning seemed increasingly like the groundless mutterings of a frustrated foe. Hunts were organised, and each day knights would ride into the forests to clear out the last pockets of beasts.
Each day brought fewer and fewer beast trophies, and it seemed as though the completion of the Lion’s grand vision had finally been achieved.
The Lion ventured into the forests only rarely these days, spending most of his time locked in the tallest towers of Aldurukh with the books taken from the fortress of the Knights of Lupus.
Eliath and Attias both fought and defeated their own beasts and ascended to the rank of knight, a day that brought much celebration to the halls of the Order. All four boys fought together in Sar Hadariel’s sword line, venturing out into the forests time and time again to fight the planet’s predators and, hopefully, encounter one of the few remaining beasts.
Ravenwing scouts brought word that each section of the Northwilds had been cleared of beasts, and Zahariel had scoured their missives for word of the dark forests around Endriago for any sign of the malaise that had engulfed him during his hunt for the great lion, but whatever he had encountered in the depths of the forest appeared to have vanished.
Perhaps it had never existed and, try as he might, he could conjure no solid recollection of the words spoken to him in the forest, nor any cogent memory of those who had spoken them.
The world of Caliban still turned, life went on as before, and the knights of the Order moved closer to ultimate domination, until the angels arrived.
LIGHT DAPPLED THE leaves of the high branches and spread a glittering shadowplay on the ground before the horses as the group of riders made their way along the paths of the forest. The air was fragrant, rich with the promise of balmy days and peace.
Zahariel held the reins loosely in his hands, letting the black horse set its own pace, and relaxed back into his saddle. The forests were no longer places of fear and horror to the knights of the Order, they were magical places of light and adventure. Fresh paths were being cut through them, revealing landscapes of unearthly beauty and natural majesty that had previously been denied to the populace of Caliban, thanks to the presence of the beasts.
Now, with the defeat of the lurking monsters in the darkness, their world was theirs for the taking. Beside him, Nemiel removed his helm and ran a hand through his hair, and Zahariel smiled at his cousin, glad to have him with him on this momentous ride.
Sar Luther had sent for them that morning, summoning them to the stablemaster’s to select the finest mounts to ride on this, the last of the beast hunts. The Lion had been animated, eager to be on the last hunt, to see its completion, as though a fierce imperative burned in his breast that even he did not understand.
The opening portions of the ride had been made in relaxed, comfortable silence, each warrior content to enjoy the beauty of their world, now that it was theirs to call their own. The Lion and Luther led them as they had rode unerringly northwards, skirting settlements that were pushing further out from Aldurukh, now that the beasts had been exterminated.
The new Lord Cypher followed a discreet distance behind them, the role filled by a fresh, nameless warrior. Contrary to most people’s expectations, Master Ramiel had not been selected to take the previous Lord Cypher’s position, though who had was, of course, a mystery.
A number of new knights and even a number of supplicants brought up the rear, so that the procession was truly a representative slice of the Order’s members.
‘A strange group to lead into the wilds, don’t you think?’ asked Nemiel.
‘I suppose,’ replied Zahariel. ‘Perhaps the Lion wants this last hunt attended by men from all ranks of the Order, not just the senior members.’
‘You think we’re senior members?’
‘No,’ said Zahariel, ‘I think we’re up and coming youngsters who will soon make our mark on the Order.’
‘You have already done that, young Zahariel,’ said the Lion from the front of the column. ‘Remember, my hearing is very acute. You are here because of the brotherhood we share.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Zahariel, following the Lion as he rode into a wide clearing before a great cliff of glittering white stone that reared up on their left. Tumbling waterfalls plunged from its top in a cascade, to foam in a wide pool of churning water. Vibrant greenery stretched in all directions, and Zahariel felt peace spread through him, unaware of how empty his soul had become until it was filled.
‘Yes, this is the place,’ said the Lion from the front of their procession.
The Lion turned his horse, the mightiest beast ever bred by the horsemasters of Caliban, and addressed his warriors as they rode into the clearing before the waterfall.
‘You are all here because, as Zahariel rightly supposes, I desired all ranks of the Order to celebrate the conclusion of our mighty endeavour.’
Zahariel tried and failed to quell the blush reflex he felt reddening his face at this singling out for praise.
‘Caliban is ours,’ repeated the Lion, and Zahariel joined with the others in cheering the Grand Master of the Order’s pronouncement.
‘We have fought and bled for ten years, brothers, and each of us has seen friends and companions fall along the way,’ continued Jonson, ‘but we stand on the threshold of our greatest triumph. Everything we have fought for is within our grasp. We have made no mistakes and it is ours. This is our triumph.’
The Lion spread his arms and said, ‘A golden age beckons us, my brothers. I have seen it in my dreams, a golden time of new and wondrous things. We stand on the very brink of that age and…’
Zahariel glanced at Nemiel at the uncharacteristic pause in the Lion’s speech. Their leader looked off to their left, towards the forest, and Zahariel was seized by fear that they had been ambushed, though what manner of foe would dare ambush a warrior as fearsome as the Lion?
His first suspicion was that the last beast had somehow managed to sneak up on them, or that some rogue survivors of the Knights of Lupus had survived the destruction of their order to come seeking revenge.
But as his hand leapt to his sword hilt, Zahariel saw no such threat.
Instead, he saw a great bird perched on a stout branch of a tree, its feathers golden and shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.
A Calibanite eagle, its plumage vivid and perfect in this setting, regarded the warriors with regal grace, apparently unafraid of the gathering of humans. Such eagles were rare creatures, not dangerous, but regarded as birds of omen by the superstitious of Caliban.
The warriors of the group looked from the eagle to the Lion, unsure what to make of the bird’s sudden appearance.
Zahariel felt a shiver travel down his spine as the bird continued to watch them with its strange eyes. He glanced over towards the Lion, seeing an expression that spoke of fearful anticipation, a look of foreknowledge and hope that it had not been misinterpreted.
‘I know this,’ said the Lion, his voice barely more than a whisper.
As the Lion spoke, a strange wind blew, a hot and urgent ripple of air with an acrid aftertaste, like the tang that hung in the vicinity of the armourer’s forge.
Zahariel looked up, seeing something huge and dark roar overhead, a massive winged shape with
glowing blue coals at its rear. Another passed overhead, and he cried out as the heat from their passing washed over him.
The knights circled their mounts, and Zahariel drew his sword as the mighty flying beasts roared overhead once more.
‘What are they?’ shouted Zahariel over the din of the roars that filled the clearing.
‘I don’t know,’ cried Nemiel. ‘Great beasts!’
‘How can that be? They are all dead!’
‘Apparently not,’ said Nemiel.
Zahariel glanced over at the Lion once more, seeking some sign that what was happening had been expected, but their leader simply sat in his saddle looking up at the behemoths as they flew over them.
Luther was shouting something at the Lion, but his words were lost in the screaming roar as one of the giant flying beasts blotted out the sun and hovered above them. Its terrible howls filled Zahariel’s senses and the hot, bitter tang of its odour was almost unbearable. A powerful downdraught scattered leaves, and bent the branches of the trees with its force.
The eagle took to the air and soared over the great pool at the base of the waterfall, the misting water catching on its wings as it flew, making them shine like beaten gold.
Zahariel followed the mighty bird’s course and looked up, shielding his eyes from the baleful blue glow on the hovering beast’s belly, as a horrific squealing, like metal on metal, built from above.
‘Put your weapons away!’ shouted Luther as he rode through their number. ‘Sheath your swords by the order of the Lion.’
Zahariel tore his gaze from the shrieking, stinking beast above them, incredulous that they should put themselves at such a monstrous disadvantage.
‘Sar Luther,’ he yelled over the noise and wind. ‘You would leave us unarmed?’
‘Do it!’ shouted Luther. ‘Now!’
Though it violated everything he had been taught, the power of Luther’s voice was enough to make him cease his questions and slide his sword home in its scabbard.
‘Whatever happens,’ shouted Luther, through the whirling hurricane that surrounded them, ‘do nothing until the Lion acts! Understood?’
Zahariel nodded reluctantly as he heard what sounded like distant shouts from above.
Then amid the noise and confusion, he saw shapes resolving from the howling winds and noise.
Dark shapes, armoured and descending on wings of fire.
Beside him, Luther shielded his eyes and said, ‘And the Angels of Darkness descended on pinions of fire and light… the great and terrible dark angels.’
Zahariel recognised the words, having heard the fables of ancient times when the heroic dark angels, mysterious avengers of righteousness had first fought the beasts of Caliban in the earliest ages of the world.
His heart leapt as the first of the fiery angels landed, his armoured bulk enormous, the detail of his form obscured by the smoke of his landing. Others landed beside him, until ten hulking giants stood before the Lion’s group. Zahariel was immediately struck by the similarity between the giants and the armour of the Order.
As the first of the giants took a step forward, he was struck by the similarity in size between him and the Lion. Though the Lion was taller even than this giant, there was a similarity in scale and proportion that was unmistakable.
The fearsome downdraught of air from the great flying beast dissipated the smoke of the giants’ arrival, and with its cargo apparently delivered, it moved off. The clearing was suddenly silent but for the crash of water in the pool behind them.
Though there was a fearsome martial power to each of these giants, Zahariel also saw a real sense of awe, a feeling that they had found something precious, with a value they had not previously dared believe.
The giant reached up to his helmet, and Zahariel saw that he was armed with a sword and pistol similar in appearance to his own, though of an order of magnitude larger than those employed by the Order.
A twist of a catch brought a hiss of escaping air, and the giant lifted clear his helmet to reveal a startling face of human proportions, though his features were more widely spaced and gigantic than most men’s.
The face was handsome, and an uncertain smile began to develop as the giant looked upon Lion El’Jonson. Curiously, Zahariel felt no fear, his apprehensions fleeing his body at the sight of the giant’s face.
‘Who are you?’ asked the Lion.
‘I am Midris,’ said the giant, his voice impossibly deep and resonant. He turned to his fellow giants and said, ‘We are warriors of the First Legion.’
‘The First Legion?’ asked Luther. ‘Whose First Legion?’
Midris turned to Luther and said, ‘The First Legion of the Emperor, Master of Mankind and ruler of Terra.’
FOURTEEN
‘IT’S THE MACHINES,’ Nemiel said from his position on the battlements. ‘That’s what I find most impressive. What did you say they called them again?’
‘Crawlers,’ replied Zahariel.
‘Right, crawlers,’ nodded Nemiel. ‘They cut down the trees, pull out the stumps, and level the land afterwards, and all three tasks are completed by just one machine, controlled by a single rider.’
‘Operators,’ corrected Zahariel. ‘The men who work the machines are called operators or drivers, not riders.’
‘Operators, then,’ shrugged Nemiel. ‘I ask you, have you ever seen anything like it?’
Looking at the scene below them, Zahariel shared Nemiel’s sense of amazement. The two of them stood on the battlements at Aldurukh, gazing down at the forest. Except, there was no longer very much forest left, at least not directly in their line of sight.
As far as the eye could see, across the entire parcel of land below the northern slopes of the mountain, the ancient woodlands were disappearing.
From their vantage point, it was difficult to pick out much detail, but the scale of the operation unfolding below them was awe-inspiring.
‘If you ask me,’ said Nemiel, without waiting for an answer, ‘they look like insects, impossibly large insects, I’ll admit, but inserts, all the same.’
Watching the machines at work, Zahariel agreed that there was something in what his cousin said. The restless activity below the mountain did put him in mind of the regimented movements of an insect colony, an image undiminished by the fact that the fortress battlements were high enough above the scene to make the people below them look like ants.
‘Can you imagine how long it would take to do that much work without the machines?’ asked Nemiel. ‘Or how many men and horses you’d need to clear that much land? I’ll say this about the Imperials, they don’t do things by halves. It’s not just their warriors who are giants, their machines are as well.’
Zahariel nodded his head absently in reply, his attention still riveted on the activities of the crawlers.
The last few weeks had set them all reeling.
By any standard, it had been the most remarkable period in the entire history of Caliban. Nearly six months had passed since Zahariel had become a knight. The campaign against the great beasts was over, the Knights of Lupus were dead and Lion El’Jonson had ascended to the position of Grand Master of the Order, with Luther as his second-in-command.
All these events, however, were as nothing compared to the coming of the Imperium.
The news had spread across Caliban like wildfire, within hours of the first sightings of Imperial flying ships in the sky. Soon, it had become known that a group of giants in black armour had come to Caliban proclaiming themselves as envoys of the Emperor of Terra.
They were called the First Legion, and they had been sent as messengers.
Zahariel well remembered the moment the Imperials had come to Caliban.
‘We are your brothers,’ the warrior who had introduced himself as Midris had said, as he and his fellows bent their knees and bowed their heads in front of the Lion. ‘We are emissaries of the Imperium of Man, come to re-unite all the lost children of humanity, now that Old Night is ended. We have
come to restore your birthright. We have come to bring you the Emperor’s wisdom.’
Not all the Terrans were giants. In the aftermath of their arrival, it had become clear that the giants – or Astartes, as they were called in the Terran language – had come to Caliban as the pathfinders of a larger expedition. Once it was apparent that the people of Caliban were inclined to welcome them with open arms, more normally proportioned human beings had followed in the giants’ wake, like the operators responsible for the crawlers, along with historians, interpreters and those skilled in the arts of diplomacy.
Whether giants or normal men, the Terrans were united in one thing: they all spoke glowingly of their Emperor.
‘I wonder what he’s like?’ said Zahariel, apropos of nothing.
‘Who?’
‘The Emperor,’ said Zahariel, feeling a thrill of anticipation run through him. ‘They say he created the Astartes, and that he can read minds and perform miracles. They say he is the greatest man who ever lived. They say he is thousands of years old. They say he is immortal. What does a man like that look like?’
Earlier that morning, Imperial envoys had announced that their Emperor intended to visit Caliban. He was nearby, they said, no more than three weeks’ travel time away. With the agreement of the Order’s supreme council, it had been decided that a landing site would be cleared for the Emperor’s arrival in the forests below Aldurukh.
The crawlers the Imperials had brought with them had been put to work, and the ever-expanding clearing below was destined to become the place where the Emperor would first set foot on Caliban.
Zahariel was not alone in looking forward to the prospect of seeing the Terran Emperor in the flesh, his imminent arrival sparking most of the discussions that had taken place in knightly circles since the giant warriors had arrived. Few could credit the tales the giants told of their leader. If their stories were to be believed, the Emperor was the absolute embodiment of human perfection.
Descent of Angels Page 19
