Let The Galaxy Burn

by Marc

  They didn’t need the devastators. Soon the last few survivors were dead and the Manskinner’s threat was truly over.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us, sir?’ asked Valerian over the communicator. ‘If you knew this would happen?’

  ‘Because, Valerian, I do not have to explain my actions to you. As your commander my word is law. I have not achieved this rank through chance. I have been judged by my Chapter to be the individual whose leadership is most likely to result in victory. My purpose is to lead you, and your purpose is to follow. If this breaks down, then all is lost. You will do what you are told, Valerian, and you will not argue. We are Marines. We are Black Templars.’

  The assault squad was making a sweep of the bodies, checking for survivors. Athellenas knew even now that they would not find any.

  ‘Some of you.’ he said, ‘will rise to a position where you, too, will command others from this Chapter. And then you will remember the lesson you have learned here. Above everything, above procedure and mercy, and even above the honour that Valerian held so sacred, there is victory. It is only through victory that you can truly honour the Emperor and your fellow man. To fail is the greatest shame. We have retreated in the face of the enemy, but there is no shame in that, for by doing so we have defeated them. The shame belongs to the Manskinner, for throwing away his chance of victory by fighting alongside animals, not soldiers.’

  The sky above was dark, the sun of Empyrion IX dipping below the horizon. ‘Kytellias, what is the ETA of our support craft?’

  ‘Nineteen days, sir. Two of our strike cruisers. They’ll destroy the heretics’ ship before they know they’re there.’

  Nineteen days, thought Athellenas. If they had failed, no Imperial forces would have been close enough to intercept the heathen ship. How deep a wound, in lives lost and damage to the spirit of the Imperium, had they prevented from being struck here? Deep indeed.

  ‘Then let us bury our dead.’ he said, ‘and prepare their wargear and gene-seed for transport back to Terra. Valerian, you and your squad will set up a trophy here to mark our victory, so that none who set foot on this world will go ignorant of what happened here. You have your orders. Fall out.’

  Athellenas’s auto-senses switched automatically to night vision as the sun finally set on Empyrion IX.

  THE BLACK PEARL

  Chris Pramas

  THE ENGINES OF the gunship roared as the Thunderhawk tore through the atmosphere. Inside, Interrogator-Chaplain Uzziel of the Dark Angels led four squads of Space Marines in the Litany of Battle. As he chanted the sacred words to prepare them for the imminent combat, Uzziel ran his fingers over his rosarius but today he did not pray in the prescribed Imperial manner. Today his fingers kept returning to the single black pearl on his string, the only pearl that really mattered. He had earned it by coaxing one of the Fallen Angels to repent and receive the Emperor’s mercy.

  That wretch was much on his mind as he finished the prayer, the enthusiastic voices of his twenty Marines joining him to boom the final refrain. As their voices faded, Uzziel pushed back his cowl. Filled with his faith in the Emperor, he launched into his sermon.

  ‘Brethren.’ he began, ‘it has been a long journey and now, at last, battle is upon us. Before we engage the enemy, I want to tell you all something. This is no ordinary mission.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘My brothers, this is a quest, a most holy quest to bring back to the Rock… a sacred artefact, long-missed.’ Uzziel stared intently at the Marines. He saw men of varied origins, but they were all united in their blazing faith in the Emperor, in their oath as Dark Angels and in the Sacrifice of the Lion. He wished they could understand the full meaning of their mission but knew such a revelation could shake their faith. Today, he needed that faith.

  ‘Should we succeed.’ he continued, ‘your names and deeds will long be praised in the halls of the Rock. We will sit in the company of the Chapter’s greatest heroes. So fill your heart with the grace of the Emperor, remember the sacrifice of our blessed primarch, Lion El’Jonson, and gird yourself with the righteousness of faith!’ Uzziel leapt up, possessed by holy fury, and slammed his fist to his chest. ‘For Jonson and the Emperor! Victory or death!’

  ‘Victory or death!’ the Dark Angels returned his salute with barely suppressed savagery.

  Uzziel smiled. With such men at this back, how could he fail?

  IT WAS NOT SO long ago that Uzziel, newly-promoted to the position of interrogator-chaplain after his inspirational leadership on the Bylini campaign, had walked the halls of the Rock, the giant space fortress that was home to the Dark Angels. He remembered the looks of envy on the faces of his comrades when he brought back his first Fallen Angel for interrogation. They couldn’t believe that one so young had succeeded where they had failed. Many had dismissed it as pure luck but Uzziel knew better. To prove it, he swore to extract the confession due from the renegade himself.

  It was not the first oath Uzziel had ever sworn, but it proved the most difficult to fulfil. The traitor had roundly mocked Uzziel, the Dark Angels and the Emperor. He told gleeful stories of his hundreds of campaigns as a mercenary, an endless catalogue of rape, murder and torture. Uzziel was not a man who shrank from violence, but he believed that it needed to serve a greater, righteous purpose. The wanton slaughter of the Fallen Angel’s tales had sickened him, and he had to suppress a powerful urge to rip the wretch before him limb from limb, to pay him back in kind for each of his deeds.

  Uzziel had fought off his immediate desire for vengeance. First, the confession. The Fallen Angel had seen the hatred in Uzziel’s eyes and laughed. ‘What’s the matter, whelp, do my stories frighten you? Can’t you stand to hear how a real Marine goes to war? You can keep your cowls and your prayer beads, monk. A true warrior goes into battle with lust in his heart, lust to spill the red blood of victory and taste the glory of war. That’s what you lack and that’s why you’ll always lose!’

  Those haunting words were with Uzziel even now, echoing sickeningly inside his mind as the Thunderhawk screamed through the atmosphere. Despite the passing of time, the revulsion the chaplain felt recalling that moment was immediate and real. He relived his rage at the renegade’s insolence and his desire to make him pay for that insolence.

  Back there, in the interrogation cell, he had let his emotions overwhelm him for just a moment. Uzziel had backhanded the traitor, then grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head hard against the stone wall. ‘You seem to have forgotten which one of us lies in chains, filth!’ he had shouted. ‘I’ve already won. We need only determine if the Emperor will have mercy on your soul!’

  ‘You understand nothing!’ the Fallen Angel spat back. ‘After all you’ve heard, you still don’t know why I fight, do you?’

  Uzziel had stepped up close to his prisoner and the two had locked eyes, faith and faithlessness colliding with unmatched fury. ‘You fight because you are tainted by Chaos.’ Uzziel had begun. ‘You had your chance to serve the Emperor and you failed him utterly. You, and Luther, and all of your wretched cohorts chose to betray he who gave you life!’

  The Fallen Angel had stood firm in the face of these accusations, and stared back at Uzziel, his every feature screaming defiance. Snarling like an animal, the traitor had lashed out at his tormentor with venomous scorn. ‘I was once like you, monk! Loyal, righteous, dutiful.’ He paused to spit, as if the words themselves were poisonous. ‘Despite my virtues, I was left behind on Caliban by Jonson while he went fighting across the galaxy.’ The renegade’s harsh voice became strained with emotions long-buried as he continued, ‘While my brothers fought battle after battle, I was left at home with the invalids, the women and the children! What did I do to deserve such a fate? I was born to go to war, but the Lion and the Emperor turned their backs on me and the others.’ His voice rose to a scream of pure hatred. ‘That’s why I’ve fought and killed my way over more worlds than you could even name. And now you think you have the right to judge me!’

  The Dark Angel ha
d said nothing at first, so shocked was he by the monstrousness of the traitor’s replies. How the Fallen twisted the truth to hide their own failure! It would be tragic, had the traitor’s hatred not driven him to a life of mindless butchery.

  In sadness, the interrogator-chaplain had turned away and walked towards the heavy iron door that sealed the room shut. The rusted hinges gave out a tortured shriek as he forced it open, but he paused before leaving his prisoner alone to ponder his sins.

  ‘Heretic.’ he intoned, ‘I had hoped for more from you. I prayed that some trace of the Lion still lurked in your soul, but I can see I was wrong. By your unrepentant actions you force me to use any method to save your soul. So let it be done.’

  The door slammed shut, entombing the Fallen in the bowels of the Rock. Over the following days, Uzziel had displayed his expertise as he ground the Fallen Angel down. The weak would call it torture; Uzziel knew it to be justice. Eventually, when his tools were sticky with the traitor’s blood and the screams had ceased, the Fallen Angel had broken. He had admitted his guilt, and that of the other Fallen Angels, and repented in full for his crimes. Ultimately it had been a pitiful spectacle, as the broken man, once one of the Emperor’s elite, poured out his litany of evil deeds.

  As Uzziel prepared to give the man the quick death his repentance had earned him, the Fallen Angel had spoken for the last time. ‘Confessor.’ he had whispered through broken teeth and swollen lips, ‘there is one thing that I have yet to tell you.’ His body was wracked by a coughing spell of such length and intensity that Uzziel had thought the repentant traitor might pass away. Hacking and wheezing to draw more of the stale air into his tortured lungs, the Fallen Angel was finally able to speak again. ‘I’m sorry, confessor, but this deed fills me with regret as no other.’

  ‘Go on, brother,’ Uzziel had urged. ‘Your repentance will not be complete until you tell everything.’

  The Fallen Angel had nodded slowly before continuing. ‘Confessor, three years ago I was in the Knight Worlds serving as a mercenary. My unit raided the eldar exodite worlds regularly and I relished the opportunity to spill the blood of such a spineless and decadent race. We went on coundess sorties, hunting down the cowards and slaughtering them as they deserved.’ At this point, the Fallen Angel’s voice had become animated once more, talk of bloodletting seeming to arouse him from his pain. ‘On one such raid, a band of eldar took refuge in an ancient place of power. They called on their gods, but the gods did not listen to their pathetic cries. We stormed the place and left not one of them alive.’

  The Fallen Angel had paused, caught up in the memory. The obvious pleasure on his face had brought bile to the chaplain’s lips. ‘It was while we were sacking the place that I found it, confessor – an artefact of power lost since the breaking of Caliban.’ The Fallen Angel had abruptly stopped again, overcome with another spasm. The spell did not pass until he had coughed up a wellspring of his own lifeblood.

  Uzziel grew concerned, knowing the signs only too well. Even a Marine’s body could take only so much punishment, and the chaplain had pushed this one past its breaking point.

  Consumed with impatience, Uzziel shouted, ‘What did you find, damn you? Tell me!’

  The prisoner had pulled his body erect. Blood ran freely from his mouth, giving an evil cast to his grin. ‘Fear not, confessor, I am not finished so easily.’ The pain had washed over him again, but he fought it this time and forced out the words by willpower alone. ‘In the temple, confessor, amongst the bodies of the slain… I found the Lion Sword.’

  Uzziel had been stunned. The sword of Jonson, lost these ten thousand years? It could not be.

  The Fallen Angel had seen the disbelief on Uzziel’s face, but he was determined to be heard. ‘I know it sounds fantastic, confessor, but I swear it is true. I could never forget the sword of Lion El’Jonson.’ His confession delivered, the Fallen Angel’s body had gone limp.

  Uzziel’s mind had swirled with confusion. How could he trust one of the Fallen? But if he didn’t, the confession was meaningless. Still undecided, the chaplain had held up his prisoner’s head, wiped the blood from his mouth, and spoken to him gently. ‘Brother, what did you do with the Lion Sword?’

  The Fallen Angel’s life was near its end. He had struggled to talk, only a barely audible croak escaping from his lips. ‘I was afraid… to face up to what I had done… so I left the sword where it lay.’ His body had convulsed, blood gushing from his nose and mouth. Choking and spitting, his words ran together. ‘I regret that I didn’t take it. I could have returned it… to where it belongs, but I… failed again. Forgive me, confessor.’

  Uzziel had almost been overcome in that moment. He could not deny the power or dignity of the confession, but neither could he forget the deeds that had brought his prisoner to the dungeons of the Rock. Holding the Fallen Angel’s head, he had used his dagger to deliver the man’s absolution. ‘Brother, you are forgiven.’

  THE JUDDERING OF the Thunderhawk snapped Uzziel from his reverie, and he shook his head to clear his mind, so clear and vivid were the images. Steeling his brow, Uzziel took his hand from his rosarius and returned his mind to the task at hand. They had a battle to fight, and he would not let himself be distracted when his men’s lives were at stake. Striding the length of the command bay, Uzziel called the sergeants to go over the assault plan again, before checking his weapons one last time. Moments later, the Thunderhawk reared up suddenly, engines screeching like a bird of prey, before hitting the ground with a bone-jarring crash. The bay doors opened and the first squad rushed out, their bolters singing a song of death. The symphony of battle had begun.

  AILEAN STOOD AT the Martyrs’ Tomb, his fist clenched over the runes around his neck. Even now, days after the dream, the runes of divination gave him no clue to its meaning. He had dreamt of a bird of prey, a sword of power and a man with no soul. He looked for a pattern but saw only blood. He opened his senses but felt only a cold wind running through him, as if a great evil were about to awaken.

  From the east came Dragonlord Martainn of the Seana. Tall, gaunt and wrapped in robes of black, Martainn looked like a wraith on his great steed. From the west rode Dragonlord Barra of the Eamann. Long hair flowing in the wind and brightly polished armour shining in the sun, Barra appeared blissfully unconcerned. Laughing and joking with his warriors, the Eamann leader signalled for a halt. His rival did the same. Leaving their retinues behind, the two chieftains rode up on their great stomping beasts. Their dragons hissed and spat at each other, raking their claws in the earth and lashing their tails in eager anticipation of battle. Both leaders dismounted, but did nothing to calm their beasts.

  Ailean could see that their frosty exteriors belied the raging anger within. Let their hatred flow, he thought. They will need it this day.

  Barra, so raucous amongst his men but now icily intent, spoke first. ‘Warlock, why have you summoned us to this accursed place? Are not the living trouble enough?’ he asked, shooting a vicious glance at Martainn. ‘Why disturb the dead?’

  ‘We meet here because the spirit runes demand it.’ Ailean pronounced.

  ‘I’ve no time for your cryptic comments, warlock.’ Martainn growled. ‘I fear neither the living nor the dead.’ He looked meaningfully at Barra and the ancient temple ruins. ‘I’ve only come here at your bidding and out of respect for our king. But Ailean, know this: the so-called knights of this coward cut down my son in cold blood and there will be no peace between us until the matter is settled.’ He looked keenly at Ailean. ‘Blood has been spilled, warlock, and blood will be spilled again before I am satisfied!’

  Barra spat in disgust. ‘Your son died because he was feeble and that is no fault of mine.’

  Martainn bristled at the insult, gripping his sword so tightly that his knuckles cracked. He took one step forward and drew his blade halfway out of its ornate scabbard. Before the warlords could take further action, Ailean was between them.

  ‘Martainn.’ shouted the warlock ang
rily, ‘draw that sword now and I will banish you from Lughnasa!’ He pointed his spear at the enraged Seana warlord and invoked the power of his office. ‘None shall disturb the King’s Peace until judgement has been passed. Now sheathe your sword and hear my judgement.’

  The warlock and the Seana dragonlord faced each other while Barra watched with wry amusement. Martainn slowly pushed the sword back into its scabbard and removed his hand from the hilt. ‘My quarrel is not with you.’ he said. ‘Pass your judgement.’

  Ailean remained between the two dragonlords, and pondered a moment more before speaking. ‘It pains me to see eldar lords consumed with hate,’ he uttered, ‘but sometimes our follies can still serve a higher purpose. I find the grievance of Dragonlord Martainn of the Seana to be legitimate and I decree that it should be settled on the field of battle.’

  Both dragonlords smiled. Martainn stared past the warlock and addressed his rival. ‘Barra, you have robbed me of my only son and for that I will make you pay.’ With that, he strode off to his dragon. The mighty beast reared and gave out a roar of defiance, as Martainn pulled his laser lance free from his tall saddle levelling it at Barra. ‘Prepare to die, Eamann scum!’

  ‘The reckoning is indeed at hand, Seana.’ Barra shot back, swinging up into his own saddle. ‘Your mate will weep the tears of Isha before nightfall.’

  ‘Both of you, cease your prattle!’ Ailean ordered. ‘The Seana and the Eamann do not fight each other this day.’

  ‘What?’ Martainn shouted. ‘You promised me vengeance, you traitor!’

  ‘I did not.’ Ailean said icily. ‘I said you would settle your grievance on the field of battle, and so you shall. But you will not fight each other.’