by Gav Thorpe
‘Speed death to the unworthy,’ he whispered to his bolter, settling the sighting reticule once more on a black-robed figure.
This time there was no intervention to prevent the bolt striking the bald-headed man in the back of his neck. The demagogue’s head flopped to one side, spine shattered, as his body crumpled to the plascrete.
‘All fire on the craft,’ declared Amanael. Shifting his view, Telemenus saw the blur of black robes disappearing into an open hatchway just behind the cockpit. He silently cursed that he had missed his second mark.
The scream of the engines increased even further as the gyrocopter lifted off, the downdraught of its rotors sending the men remaining on the apron tumbling to the ground. With a flick of his thumb, Telemenus switched his bolter to burst fire and unleashed a salvo of three rounds into its hull, slivers of metal and paint spraying around the door where the leader had climbed aboard. He stood up as the aircraft rose straight up from the apron. It was slowly turning towards the Space Marines and Telemenus took aim at the canopy. Bolter fire from the others sparked from the rotors and fuselage, to little effect against the armoured plate.
Slowly the cockpit was swinging into view as the gyrocopter lifted higher and higher, bringing the pilot towards Telemenus. It would be almost level with the clifftop before Telemenus could see inside. He waited, the reticule dancing a little as the ground shook from the thumping of the rotors.
Two more seconds would bring the pilots into view. Telemenus’s finger was tightening on the trigger in expectation.
‘Assault cannon!’
Menthius’s shouted warning came a moment too late. Angled as far as its mount allowed, the multi-barrelled gun slung beneath the gyrocopter’s nose came to bear before Telemenus’s target came into view. A storm of shells scythed along the clifftop and engulfed him, slamming into his armour. The outer layer of his suit shattered, sending shards of ceramite spinning in all directions. The impact of the heavy shells on his left side turned him slightly as he fired, sending his salvo of bolts flaring past the canopy without effect. His autosenses picked up the rip of the cannon’s fire a split-second later.
Pain flared through his left arm. He ignored it as he sighted again, but the distraction had cost him his shot. The gyrocopter soared up over the trees, its nose dipping as it accelerated towards the north.
‘Brother, are you wounded?’ said Menthius, glancing back at Telemenus. He looked down at his left arm. His shoulder guard was nothing more than a few scraps of ceramite attached to the actuators. Blood poured from the cracks in the armour around his upper arm. He became aware of four neat holes punched into the left side of his breastplate, the shells from the assault cannon buried within, deep, but not enough to penetrate to flesh.
‘It is usually better to fire first, you damned idiot,’ said Daellon.
‘Noted, brother,’ Telemenus replied sourly, turning his attention back to the soldiers still firing from below as Amanael broadcast on the company-wide channel.
‘All command, we have priority target escaping in airborne transport. Last heading approximately twenty by fifteen.’
‘Already aware, sergeant,’ came Seraphiel’s reply. ‘Paladin Four tasked for intercept.’
Telemenus glimpsed the head of a rebel glancing around the corner of a shack below and fired his bolter one-handed. The rounds tore through the flimsy walls and two men in fatigues staggered away, one holding the stump of his right wrist, the other with a hand clamped to a wound gushing blood from his thigh. Telemenus emptied his magazine with two more bursts, cutting down the injured men.
He looked up as he heard the scream of plasma jets above. His hands moved on instinct, ejecting the spent magazine and inserting another as he followed the dark blur of a fighter soaring overhead, the dull ache in his arm ignored. With a flare of light, the aircraft fired a missile, which left a curving trail of vapour as its internal cogitator steered it after the departing gyrocraft. A few seconds later a distant but distinct crack was picked up by Telemenus’s autosenses.
‘Target has ditched in the foothills,’ announced the pilot of Paladin Four. ‘Crash-landed. Survivors probable. Grid epsilon-four-eighty.’
‘Get ready to move to the crash site,’ announced Sergeant Amanael. ‘Sergeant Seraphiel, Squad Amanael preparing to investigate crash. Brother Achamenon and the others can finish off the stragglers here.’
‘Negative, brother-sergeant,’ Seraphiel replied quickly. ‘I have received orders from Grand Master Sammael. All Fifth Company squads attend to your orders. Hold the line against rebel evacuation. Do not approach the crash site. Ravenwing forces despatched to investigate survival of the priority target and will advise if assistance is needed.’
Amanael looked at Telemenus and then the others before replying.
‘Please confirm, brother-sergeant. Squad Amanael is less than five kilometres from the crash site.’
‘Orders are confirmed, brother. Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged, brother,’ said Amanael. His next words came from the external speaker of his helm. ‘Looks like the glory hounds of the Ravenwing want to have a hunt.’
The Hunt
As the squads of the Fifth Company swept through the woods towards the final citadel, Squadron Cassiel received orders to make all speed to rendezvous with Grand Master Sammael on the road leading north. There was little resistance at the first objective and they were able to withdraw from the fortification without incident before speeding down to the main highway that ran between the citadels and Hadria Praetoris. On the open road they opened up their engines, the wooded embankments lining the road speeding past in a blur, the growl of engines loud in Annael’s ear.
‘This is the truth of the Ravenwing,’ said Sabrael. ‘A foe to hunt, a fine steed and an open road.’
Annael admitted to himself that the sensation was uplifting, almost as pleasurable as the heat of battle. Despite the light spirits of the squadron they remained alert for possible ambush and rebels fleeing the fighting. Occasional flutters of scanner returns flared in Annael’s display, but they were not conclusive enough to warrant investigation. Their orders had been specific: make all speed to rendezvous with their commander en route to the priority target’s crash site.
Three kilometres north of the final citadel, the highway was joined by a smaller road winding down from the heights. Just as the squadron reached the junction, Grand Master Sammael and his command squad powered into view. Cassiel slowed the squadron a little, allowing the Grand Master and his attendants to come alongside.
‘Well met, brothers,’ said Sammael, glancing across towards Cassiel and his warriors. ‘Let us run down this traitorous dog and his henchmen. We shall discover the truth behind this unseemly insurrection.’
‘As you command, Grand Master,’ replied Cassiel.
‘I see that you have fine company, Brother Annael,’ remarked Chaplain Malcifer, steering his bike to ride beside the Ravenwing’s newest recruit.
‘I am honoured,’ replied Annael, keeping his answer short so that he could concentrate on controlling his mount; the experience of the others allowed them to steer their bikes guided by instinct alone. Short answers also gave the Chaplain less opportunity to find fault.
The highway started to curve westwards, away from their objective, and the two squadrons moved off the road, racing up the embankment before plunging into the shadows of the forest. The squadrons split further to negotiate the rough terrain. Annael kept his gaze fixed on the scanner return, using its artificial eyes to guide his bike between trees, avoiding ruts and boulders that were too large to traverse.
‘Do you think we should slow down for our new brother?’ said Sabrael. ‘I would not see a good machine ended on a tree.’
‘Would that you should suffer such a fate to spare us your prattling, brother,’ said Malcifer. ‘If you could control your tongue as skilfully as you master yo
ur steed we would be blessed by your silence.’
‘I must reveal that the secret of my skill is to let both mount and tongue free to follow their own spirit,’ said Sabrael. ‘I simply let them take me where they wish to go.’
‘Is he always this boastful?’ Annael asked, his bike dipping down a shallow incline, dead leaves and mulch spraying in its wake. He glanced across to Malcifer. ‘Have not the penitent cells taught him good manners by now?’
‘Sabrael is the bane of the Chaplaincy, it is certain, but enthusiasm is not a crime,’ said the Chaplain. ‘It is the nature of the Ravenwing that it provides home to those of restless or wayward spirit.’
‘Is that what I am now?’ asked Annael. He leant to his right and guided his bike past a moss-covered fallen tree. ‘A wayward spirit?’
‘You take reproach where none is intended. Your inquiries revealed a questing mind seeking answers best provided by service in the Ravenwing. As now we hunt a physical foe, so we also run the truth to ground.’
‘Then I shall be content that I have found my place.’
‘You are welcome amongst us, brother,’ added Sammael. ‘It was not chance that I picked your squadron, Annael. I would have you experience the deepest nature of the Ravenwing and set before you the reward of service in the Second Company.’
‘I am doubly honoured, Grand Master, to be in your consideration,’ replied Annael, humbled by the attention of his superior.
‘Good, for the matter will swift come to resolution,’ said the Grand Master.
A warning chime attracted Annael’s attention to his scanner. They were within two kilometres of the crash site, which showed up on the display as a reading of dense artificial materials and heat; the burning wreck of the traitor leader’s aircraft. Glancing up, the Dark Angel could see smoke drifting across the cloudless sky through gaps in the forest canopy. Even though he had looked away for only a moment, when he returned his gaze ahead he was forced to duck down to his handlebars to avoid a low-hanging tree limb. Smaller branches snapped around him, raking across his backpack as he powered through the thick foliage.
‘Rightly it is that the Chaplains warn of eternal vigilance,’ said Malcifer, who had seen Annael’s close call. ‘Let us put distraction aside and focus on the hunt.’
They soon came across a scatter of broken branches and pieces of snapped rotor blades, and a short distance away Sammael signalled as a crackle of flames and a cloud of smoke drifted through the trees. A check of Black Shadow’s scanner showed no sizeable life forms nearby, only the heat from the fires.
The two squadrons slowed as they reached the downed gyrocopter, its mangled wreckage propped against a thick trunk, debris scattered all around. Fire had licked up from its engine, scorching the tree trunk and setting fire to the leaves of the tree. A corpse dangled halfway out of the shattered cockpit, skull smashed.
Cassiel ordered his squadron to form a perimeter around the wreck while Sammael and his squadron circled the site, checking for survivors. None were evident within the crashed gyro, and the Grand Master confirmed as such.
‘Three more bodies inside,’ said Sammael, bringing his jetbike to a halt not far from the wreckage. ‘Focused heat scan shows a residual trail leading west. Someone escaped the crash. One, possibly two targets. Spread out, echelon primus.’
The riders fanned out into their search formation, twenty metres between each Dark Angel. Annael narrowed his scanner array to detect the slightest variation from the ambient temperature and his vision lit up with signals of birds and small mammals fleeing from the oncoming bikes, and a ghostly trail that meandered between the trees ahead.
A Space Marine on nearly a tonne of motorbike was not built for a stealthy approach and the woods trembled with the noise of engines as the Ravenwing advanced, scattering birds from the trees. The heat trail grew more definite as they advanced, and it was Araton who made the first sighting.
‘Heat mass, quadrant four, two hundred and fifty metres.’
‘Cassiel, Zarall, Sabrael, circle around. All others, close on signal,’ ordered Sammael. Annael picked up speed as the three nominated riders peeled away to the left to cut off escape – not that escape was likely with the warriors of the Ravenwing bearing down on their prey.
Annael could see the telltale glimmer of heat from behind a tree not far ahead and switched from thermal view to catch a glimpse of gold catching a shaft of sunlight. The rebel made one last attempt for freedom, bolting from the cover of the tree, cutting to the right. His bald scalp glistened with sweat, his heavy black robes impeding him as they caught on the thorns of a low bush, pulling him to a halt.
Sweeping around from the right, Sammael reached the rebel first, an outstretched hand grabbing hold of the fugitive’s robe as he ripped himself free from the tangling embrace of the bush, lifting him from his feet as easily as a normal man picks up a child. The Grand Master of the Ravenwing turned towards the others and brought his jetbike to a halt, flinging the man to the ground where he tumbled through fallen leaves and dirt and lay unmoving.
‘Priority target detained,’ announced Sammael. ‘We have their leader, but there are more rebel scum to be brought to justice. Rendezvous with the Fifth Company squads and scour the hills of the filth. This one I leave to your attentions, Brother Malcifer.’
Annael wondered why a Chaplain would be interested in a rebel commander, but had no time to consider the answers; Sergeant Cassiel was already ordering the squadron to form up on his position to return to the battle.
Disappointment
Two mind-scrubbed servitors were lifting the body of the captured rebel leader, the corpse wrapped in a bloodstained white shroud, as Sammael entered the chamber. Malcifer had conducted the interrogation of the prisoner, Ansat Neur Hakol, in a sub-basement of one of the captured citadels, and was wiping blood from his gauntlets with a rag. Epistolary Harahel stood to one side, in the shadows cast by the flickering light globe hanging from the ceiling, his hands clasped to his chest in contemplation. Aside from the small metal chair that Hakol had occupied, the only furniture in the room was a table on which Malcifer’s crimson-flecked interrogation implements glinted.
‘No taint,’ said Malcifer. The Chaplain tossed the bloodied rag onto the shrouded corpse as the servitors clanked past on bionic legs. He looked at Harahel to continue.
‘Just a man with misplaced ideals,’ said the Librarian. ‘Not a hint of possession or corruption.’
‘The other commander, the one that died in the crash, was the instigator,’ said Malcifer with a slight shake of his head. Sammael knew that it was not a gesture of sorrow, but maybe one of disappointment. ‘This one’s confession gives no cause to suspect that the Ruinous Powers are at work in the system. There has been no contact with external influence, and nothing to suggest this is part of any grander scheme.’
Sammael was not sure whether to be pleased or not by this news. On the surface, the fact that the local rebellion was a straightforward anti-Imperial insurrection and nothing more sinister meant that there was no further threat to nearby star systems in contact with the world. Weighed against that was the distraction it had been for the Ravenwing, who had other rumours to investigate, other calls for aid to address. On balance, Sammael was frustrated by the mundane nature of the enemy. He had arrived hoping to encounter one of the true targets of the Ravenwing, foes the specialist company had been created to hunt, or at the least the mark of such an insidious enemy at work. Instead he had simply killed disillusioned labourers led astray by ambitious demagogues.
‘Very well,’ said the Grand Master. ‘There are pockets of resistance remaining, but nothing of significance that would require us to tarry here. I shall inform the Imperial Command that our mission has been concluded.’
‘Where does the hunt take us next?’ asked Harahel.
‘I am inclined to respond to news of attack in the Raedal system,’ replied Sa
mmael. ‘The astropathic messages are not definitive, but hint at possible incursion by followers of the Ruinous Powers. The speed with which orbital protection was breached hints at prior knowledge of the defences. It is not conclusive, and I will weigh alternative suggestion.’
‘Raedal is only three hundred light years away,’ said Malcifer. ‘It warrants scrutiny.’
‘I have no counsel to offer that would sway decision,’ Harahel said as Sammael moved his gaze to the Epistolary.
‘Raedal it shall be,’ concluded the Grand Master.
‘And what shall we do with the rebel’s remains?’ asked Malcifer.
‘Have it presented to the Imperial Commander,’ replied Sammael. ‘A gift from the Dark Angels and a message for others to heed.’
Omens from Afar
The door to Harahel’s cell opened to admit two robed figures with sunken faces and blank eyes. The Librarian turned, his plain wooden stool creaking under his weight, and beckoned for the astropaths to enter. He stood up from his desk, where he had been penning a report on the knowledge gleaned from his foray into the mind of the rebel commander.
‘You received a vision?’ he asked.
‘One of terrible import,’ replied Bayoth, the eldest of the two. The astropath looked at Harahel with pale eyes, seeing him with a sense other than normal vision. ‘We seek your guidance in its interpretation before we speak with Grand Master Sammael.’
‘We are but five hours from translation to the warp,’ said the Librarian. ‘A timely omen.’
The astropaths nodded inside their hoods but said nothing.
‘Very well, we shall commune,’ said the Librarian. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue robe, revealing arms covered with the scars of old burns, the legacy of a plasma gun malfunction when he had been but a novitiate in the Scout Company. Lacking later adaptations that would have healed the wounds with barely any trace, Harahel had borne the scars without thought ever since.
