THE INTERIOR OF the stairwell was dark, only a fitful light from Nemiel’s lantern illuminating their descent into the depths. Nemiel led the way and Zahariel followed, his trepidation growing with every downward step.
‘Tell me where we are going,’ he said.
‘You’ll soon see,’ replied Nemiel without turning. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Be patient, cousin,’ said Nemiel, and Zahariel cursed his cousin’s obtuse answers.
Knowing he would get nothing more from Nemiel, he kept his counsel as they continued, and he counted over a thousand steps before they finally reached the bottom.
The stairway opened up into a brick-walled chamber with a low, vaulted roof, which was bare of all ornamentation. Like the chamber above, it was circular, the stairway piercing the centre of its roof. A number of oil lamps hung from the ceiling at each of the compass points, and beneath each lamp stood a hooded figure in a white surplice.
The figures stood motionless, their features hidden in the shadows of their hoods, and their arms folded across their chests. Zahariel could not help but notice that each one carried a ceremonial dagger, identical to the kind used in the Order’s initiation ceremonies.
The surplices the figures wore were bereft of insignia, and Zahariel looked to his cousin for some indication of what was going on.
‘This is your cousin?’ asked one of the figures.
‘It is,’ confirmed Nemiel. ‘I’ve spoken to him and I believe he shares our… concerns.’
‘Good,’ said a second figure. ‘There will be consequences if he does not.’
Zahariel felt his anger rise and said, ‘I didn’t come here to be threatened.’
‘I was not talking about consequences for you, boy,’ said the second figure.
Zahariel shrugged and said, ‘Why am I here? What is this?’
‘This,’ said the first man, ‘is a gathering of the Inner Circle. We are here to talk about the future of our world. Nemiel tells us that you enjoy the special favour of the Lion, and if that is so, you might be an important ally to us.’
‘Special favour?’ said Zahariel. ‘We have spoken a few times, but we have no great closeness, not like the Lion and Luther.’
‘Yet you both rode with him when the angels came,’ said the third figure, ‘and you will march alongside him as part of his honour guard when the Emperor arrives.’
‘What?’ gasped Zahariel. That was news to him.
‘It will be announced tomorrow,’ said the first figure. ‘You see now why we had your cousin bring you here?’
‘Not really,’ confessed Zahariel, ‘but say what you have to say and I will listen.’
‘It is not enough that you listen. Before we go any further, we should be sure we are all agreed on our course of action. Once we are committed, there is no going back.’
‘Going back from what?’ asked Zahariel.
‘From stopping the Imperium taking Caliban from us!’ snapped the third man, and Zahariel saw hints of a hawkish face and prominent chin beneath the man’s hood.
‘Taking Caliban from us?’ said Zahariel. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘We have to stop them,’ said the second figure. ‘If we do not, they will destroy us. All our dreams, our traditions, our culture will be torn down and replaced with lies.’
‘We are not the only ones who see these things,’ said the third man. ‘Do you know, I reprimanded a wall sentry today for being lax in his duties, and he talked back to me? I have never known the like of it. He said we didn’t need to guard the walls anymore, because the Imperium was coming to protect us.’
‘It was the same in my order before we were disbanded,’ growled the second man, and Zahariel realised that these were men of different knightly brotherhoods, not just from the Order. ‘The supplicants would not listen to their masters, too eager to submit to the Astartes trials. It is as if the entire world has gone mad and forgotten our past.’
‘But they are showing us the future,’ protested Zahariel.
‘Which only goes to prove the cleverness of our enemies,’ said the first man. ‘Imagine if they had been more honest about their intentions and made clear from the first that they intended to invade us. All Caliban would have risen up in arms, but instead, they were more subtle, claiming that they came to help us. They say they are our lost brothers, and we welcome them with open arms. It is a cunning stratagem. By the time the majority of our people realise what has really been going on, it will be too late to change things. The oppressor’s boot will already be at our throat and we will have helped put it there.’
‘True, but remember it also demonstrates their weakness,’ said the third man. ‘Keep that fact in mind. If they were confident they could conquer us easily, there would be no need for this subterfuge. No, our enemy is not as all-powerful as they would have us believe. To hell with their flying machines and their First Legion, we are the knights of Caliban. We destroyed the great beasts. We can drive these damn interlopers away.’
Zahariel could not believe what he was hearing. Hadn’t these knights heard of the Emperor’s Great Crusade? Knowing of the glory and honour that could be won, why wouldn’t anyone want to join it?
‘This is madness!’ said Zahariel. ‘How can you even think of making war against the Imperium? Their weapons are far superior and the walls of the fortress monasteries will be smashed down in a day.’
‘Then we will retreat to the forests,’ roared the third man. ‘From there we can launch lightning attacks and disappear back into the woods before the enemy can counter-attack successfully. Remember the words of the Verbatim. “The warrior should choose the ground on which he will fight with an eye to strengthening his own efforts and unbalancing the best efforts of his enemy”.’
‘We all know the Verbatim,’ replied the first man. ‘The point I was trying to make is that we cannot win this battle on our own. We need to rally the whole of Caliban against the invader. Only then can we hope to win this war.’
‘We need to create an event that will let the people see the true face of our enemy,’ said the second man. ‘We need to get them to look past all the surface smiles and mealy-mouthed words, to the evil hidden within.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ the first agreed, ‘and we must do it quickly, before our enemy can strengthen their hold on our world any further. I am sure, given long enough, the enemy will inevitably show its true colours to the people of Caliban. But time is not on our side. We may need to speed events along.’
‘What in the name of the Lion are you suggesting?’ demanded Zahariel.
‘I am saying it would help our cause if the enemy committed an act of terror so vile it would immediately turn every right-thinking soul on Caliban against them.’
‘Then you will be waiting a long time,’ snapped Zahariel. ‘The Imperium would never do something like that. You are wasting your breath and my time with this talk.’
‘You misunderstand me, boy,’ said the man. ‘I am saying that we should stage the act on their behalf and make sure they are blamed for it.’
There was silence as the others digested his words.
‘You want to create an atrocity and blame it on the Imperium?’ said Zahariel. ‘Nemiel? You can’t possibly agree with this!’
‘What choice do we have, cousin?’ responded Nemiel, though Zahariel could see that he was unconvinced by the words spoken in this secret conclave, and was as shocked as he was.
‘The Imperium is not to be trusted,’ said the first man. ‘We know they are plotting to enslave us and take our world for themselves. They are not men of honour. Therefore, I say we can only fight them by using their sly, underhand methods against them. We must fight fire with fire. It is the only way we will defeat them.’
‘You are talking about killing our own people,’ said Zahariel.
‘No, I am talking about saving them. Do you think it is better we do nothing? Especially when, by our inaction, we ma
y be condemning future generations of Caliban’s children to slavery. Granted, the course I propose will result in a few hundred, perhaps even a few thousand deaths, but in the long term we will be saving many more millions of lives. More importantly, we would be preserving our planet, our traditions, and the way of life gifted to us by of our forefathers. I ask you, is that not worth a few deaths?’
‘Those who die will be seen as martyrs,’ said the third man. ‘By the sacrifice of their lives we would be ensuring our planet’s freedom.’
‘Yes, that is a good way to put it,’ agreed the first, ‘martyrs. They die so that Caliban can be free. I know our views are not popular, Zahariel, but this will make them more palatable, so that when the time comes our people will fall into step behind us. This act will show our enemy in the worst possible light and incite hatred against them.’
Zahariel looked at the four men in disbelief, amazed they thought he might join with them in this madness. Of the four hooded men surrounding him, one had not yet voiced any opinion, and Zahariel turned to this figure.
‘What of you, brother?’ he asked the fourth man. ‘You have listened to this insanity and you have chosen to remain silent. It is not acceptable for you to stay quiet at such times. I must ask your opinion, brother. In fact, I demand it.’
‘I understand,’ said the fourth man after a short pause. ‘Very well, if you want my opinions, here they are. I agree with almost everything that has been said. I agree we must take action against our enemy. Also, given the strength of the forces arrayed against us, we must suspend the rules of honour. This is a war we cannot afford to lose, therefore we must dispense with scruples and commit acts we would normally find dishonourable.’
‘Well spoken, brother,’ nodded the first man, ‘but there is something else? You indicated you agreed with almost everything we said. With what do you disagree?’
‘Merely on a matter of tactics,’ said the fourth man. ‘You talked of staging an act of atrocity, creating an incident so terrible it will turn our people against the Imperium, but I would argue for a more straightforward attack.’
The atmosphere in the chamber seemed to Zahariel to become thicker and darker, as though the light fled from what was being discussed.
‘With a single act, we can deal a crippling blow to enemy morale,’ said the fourth man. ‘Perhaps, if we are truly fortunate, we might even win our war in one fell swoop.’
‘This act you speak of?’ the first man asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It is obvious, really,’ the fourth man said. ‘It is one of the first tactical lessons in the Verbatim. “To kill a serpent, you cut off its head”,’
Zahariel realised the truth a moment before the others. ‘You can’t mean…?’
‘Precisely,’ answered the fourth man. ‘We must kill the Emperor.’
THE WORDS ECHOED in Zahariel’s skull, but he could not quite believe that he had heard them. Yet, as he looked from one hooded figure to the next, he could find nothing to indicate that these men were anything but serious. He felt his gorge rise at such base treachery and wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this place as possible.
He turned from the gathered figures without a word and began to climb the stairs back through the darkness to the Circle Chamber above. From below, he heard raised voices and urgent imprecations, but he ignored them and carried on upwards.
Zahariel’s anger burned like a hot coal in his breast. How could these men have thought he would join them in their mad scheme? And Nemiel… had his cousin lost his reason?
He heard hurried footsteps on the stairs behind him, and turned to face the climber below him, sliding his hand towards the hilt of the knife at his belt. If these conspirators meant to do him harm, they would find him waiting with his blade bared.
A light built from below and shadows climbed ahead of his pursuer.
Zahariel drew his knife and braced himself to fight.
The light drew closer and he let out a breath as he saw that Nemiel climbed from below, the hooded lantern held before him.
‘Whoa, cousin!’ said Nemiel, seeing the knife blade gleaming in the darkness.
‘Nemiel,’ said Zahariel, lowering the knife.
‘Well that was… intense,’ said Nemiel. ‘Don’t you think that was intense?’
‘That’s one word for it,’ said Zahariel, resuming his climb as he sheathed his blade. ‘Treachery is another.’
‘Treachery?’ said Nemiel. ‘I think you’re making too much of this. It’s just some diehards venting some steam. They’re not really going to do anything.’
‘Then why did they get you to bring me here?’
‘To gauge your response I suppose,’ said Nemiel. ‘Listen, you must have heard the talk that’s doing the rounds now that the knightly orders have been disbanded. Folk aren’t happy with it, and they need to grumble. Any time there’s change, people like to grouse about it and fantasise about what they’d do.’
‘They were talking about killing the Emperor!’
‘Oh come on,’ laughed Nemiel, ‘how many times when we were in training did we say that we hated Master Ramiel and hoped that a beast would eat him?’
‘That’s different.’ ‘How so?’
‘We were children, Nemiel. They are grown warriors. It’s not the same thing at all.’
‘Maybe it is different, but they’re not really going to try to kill the Emperor, it would be suicide. You’ve seen how tough the Astartes are, so imagine how much tougher the Emperor is. If the Emperor is as magnificent as the Astartes say, then he’s got nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s not the point, Nemiel, and you know it,’ said Zahariel as he continued to climb.
‘Then what is the point, cousin?’
‘If this is just talk, fine, I will forget you brought me here and that I heard treason plotted within the walls of our fortress, but if it’s not, I will make sure the Lion knows of it.’
‘You would renounce me to the Lion?’ asked Nemiel, hurt.
‘Unless you can convince the men below to cease this talk,’ said Zahariel. ‘It’s dangerous and could get people killed.’
‘It’s just talk,’ promised Nemiel.
‘Then it stops now,’ said Zahariel, turning to face his cousin. ‘You understand me?’
‘Yes, Zahariel, I understand,’ said Nemiel, his head cast down. ‘I’ll speak to them.’
‘Then we’ll say no more of this.’
‘Right,’ agreed Nemiel. ‘We’ll say no more of it. I promise.’
SIXTEEN
IT BEGAN WITH a day like no other.
In all the history of Caliban, in the annals of the knightly orders, in the folktales of the common people, there would never be another day like it.
There would be other momentous days, it was true. There would be darker days ahead as part of an era of death and destruction, but this day was different. This was a day of joy. It was a day of happiness and excitement, a day of hope.
It was the day the Emperor descended from the heavens.
It would become known as the beginning of the time of angels.
At this moment, though, that name was unknown.
Giants, Astartes, First Legion, all these names would be used to refer to the newcomers, but as the day of the Emperor’s descent dawned, the people of Caliban resorted to a name with mythic resonance.
They called them Terrans once more.
It was a good name, for it spoke of humanity’s lost birthright and the origin of the first settlers who had come to Caliban. For two hundred generations, ever since the fall of Old Night, stories of ancient Terra had been told around the hearth-fires of Caliban. Now, those stories were real. They had been given visceral form in the armoured shapes of giants.
The moment of discovery, the moment when the Astartes made first contact with the people of Caliban, was already being mythologised. A vast tree of myth would sprout from the tiny seed of real experience. There would be different stories and competi
ng legends. All too soon, the truth of how it actually happened would be forgotten.
But Zahariel knew he would never forget the truth of that day, for he had been in the deep forest with Lion El’Jonson and Luther when it had occurred.
That Luther had been the first to call them angels was true, for the Astartes had descended on pinions of fiery wings. It was a phrase uttered in the heat of the moment, provoked by wonder and amazement, but Jonson had remembered his words and kept them close to his heart.
Zahariel and the others in the riding party were already being pushed to obscurity, the story needing grander players than them to tell such lofty histories. In time, his name and deeds would be lost, and though his part in the story would soon be pushed aside in the countless retellings, he was not saddened, for he knew that the story was what mattered, not the players who stalked in its background.
In any event, the truth of the tale hardly mattered.
The people of Caliban wanted stories. They needed them. So much was changing in so short a period that they felt the need to be anchored back to reality. Zahariel knew that stories helped them to make sense of their lives.
Of course, there would be dozens of different stories all claiming to be the truth, but in some ways that made his exclusion easier. With so many versions of what had happened that day, each person could pick the one that suited them best. Some would be ribald, others reverential, some full of adventure and others more prosaic.
All would agree on one matter, however.
The name of this tale would remain the same. From the far northern mountains to the great oceans of the south, no matter the variation within the narrative, it would always be known by the same title.
It would be known as the Descent of Angels.
Following the arrival of the angels, wonders and miracles had been shared by those who had come from the stars. But greater even than those was news that the creator of the angels, the Emperor, would descend in all his glory.
In the wake of his arrival, nothing on Caliban would ever be the same.
ZAHARIEL WATCHED THE tens of thousands of people as they filled the mighty arena, cleared before the walls of the Order’s fortress monastery. He had never seen such an assemblage of people in one place, and the presence of so many gathered in joy was like a roaring pressure in his head. Come to think of it, he had never seen such a vast open space before, the vistas of Caliban being primarily unbroken swathes of forest, but the machines of the Mechanicum had been thorough in their destructive creativity.
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