Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘A claim that we can now test,’ said Malcifer. ‘Annotated on the transcript of the interrogation are navigational details that I believe will lead us to Port Imperial. I would say that, like so much of his testimony, Astelan delivered up falsehoods to justify his actions and protect the other Fallen.’

  ‘You thought to save this information until now?’ Sammael was taken aback by the news, having forced himself to be pessimistic regarding the Ravenwing’s chances of finding a worthy lead to follow.

  ‘Apologies, brother, but I thought that context would be important,’ said Malcifer. ‘The time stamp of the Port Imperial coordinates places the addition at the same time the Chapter Keep vault was accessed during Boreas’s absence.’

  ‘How can that be?’ said Harahel. ‘If Boreas did not make the entry, who would?’

  ‘One of the keep serfs, most likely,’ said Malcifer.

  ‘Or one of the Fallen,’ the Grand Master said after a moment’s thought.

  ‘A false lead to cover their trail,’ suggested Harahel. He gestured towards Malcifer. ‘Brother, activate the display and let us see where we would be heading.’

  The Chaplain busied himself with the console while Sammael considered the implications of what Malcifer had discovered. He was faced with two unlikely possibilities, for it would be against all protocol and doctrine for Boreas to entrust the keycodes of the vault to a menial. Weighed against that was the incredible notion that one of the Fallen had deliberately left the information. On balance, it seemed to Sammael that the former was the more probable, considering Boreas’s other breaks from Chapter tradition.

  The hololith gleamed into life, displaying a network of Imperial star systems ranging out a thousand light years from Piscina. A red dot appeared in wilderness space roughly halfway between the Adeptus Mechanicus forge world at Casiorix, and the sparsely populated Orlean system, almost nine hundred light years from the Ravenwing’s current position.

  ‘It could be a trap,’ said Sammael, returning to the idea that the Fallen had tampered with the records. Malcifer moved aside as the Grand Master stepped up to the runepad and keyed in a series of instructions. In the hololith display a swathe of systems started to blink with green icons, almost surrounding the location highlighted by the Chaplain. ‘These are ork-held worlds, catalogued by Imperial Navy patrols a little more than thirty years ago. It is possible that the xenos have encroached further or were not detected by the Navy. The Fallen may be trying to lead us into an ork-infested system.’

  ‘That is not reason enough to pass up this opportunity,’ said Malcifer.

  ‘I did not say that we would not go,’ Sammael replied sharply, displeased by the Chaplain’s tone. ‘We must be prepared, that is all, brother.’

  ‘And what of our brothers in the Fifth Company?’ asked Harahel. ‘If Port Imperial is truly a haven for the Fallen, perhaps several of them, there is a significant risk that our brethren will be exposed to knowledge that is too dangerous to share.’

  ‘It would seem prudent to leave them to assist in the fighting here,’ said Sammael. ‘Both to mend the damage done by the Fallen and to shield them from uncomfortable truth.’

  ‘I think that would be unwise,’ said Malcifer. He shut down the hololith display and turned, leaning back against the console edge. ‘If we take the Fifth Company with us we can continue to observe and control their interaction with the Fallen. Left on Piscina, we cannot determine what they will learn, whether truth or rumour. By Boreas’s account Colonel Brade certainly knew of the Fallen’s arrival, and the hostility of the populace will lead our brethren to question the foundation of such anger towards the Chapter. They are without their company Grand Master or Chaplain to forestall or divert such questions, and dangerous knowledge would easily come to the ears of our brothers if they remain behind.’

  ‘Your appraisal has merit, brother,’ said Sammael. ‘I sense that there is some resentment from Sergeant Seraphiel, and for the Ravenwing to seemingly abandon their brothers at the outset of a difficult campaign would cause grievous injury to our reputation.’

  ‘Brothers, do not cast the warriors of the Fifth Company as a hindrance to our cause,’ Harahel said with some annoyance. ‘They are Dark Angels still, and their presence would be a boon to any endeavour, whether we find Port Imperial or not.’

  Sammael bowed his head, shamed by the Librarian’s admonishment. Such was the nature of the hunt and the risk posed by knowledge of the Fallen, that those of the Inner Circle stood apart from the bulk of the Chapter, forced to endure the secrets of the past and the lies to protect them.

  ‘Let us not countenance further division,’ said Malcifer. ‘The Fifth Company shall be with us, Dark Angels together.’

  Sammael nodded his agreement, though he knew that as was so often the case when the Ravenwing fought alongside any but the Deathwing, brotherly union would have to take second place to secrecy. If necessary, the Fifth Company could be despatched elsewhere to keep them from learning anything of harm, even if that entailed longer-term consequences.

  ‘Commune with the astropaths, brother,’ he instructed Harahel. ‘Send a message to the Tower of Angels that they must come to Piscina as soon as they are able.’

  ‘And of our mission, what do I say?’ asked the Librarian.

  ‘Simply that the hunt continues.’

  Solace and Punishment

  The crack of the bolt-round rang dully from the metal bulkheads of the range. Telemenus watched the flickering trail of its propellant for seventy metres until the round struck the target, dead centre. The ferro-resinous alloy of the target sphere shattered as the bolt detonated, spraying silvery-red shards to the floor. In his mind’s eye, Telemenus saw an ork’s head ripped apart.

  Though the firing range was large enough for twenty Space Marines to hone their marksmanship, Telemenus was alone. There was purity in this place, where he could concentrate solely on the mechanics of his craft without distraction or external consideration. There was just him, his bolter and thirty targets; free from the commands of his superiors, the din of battle and the threat of enemy attack.

  He closed his eyes for the next shot, using his boosted musculomemetic sense and armour systems to target the next globe on the rack. His shot was rewarded by the telltale smash of a direct hit. Without opening his eyes, he moved his aim, adjusting to the target three along to the left. Another round, another clean hit.

  The door pistons hissed as he opened his eyes and took a one-handed grip. Turning his head, he saw Sergeant Seraphiel enter. The provost-commander of the Fifth was dressed in his dark green surplice, cowl pulled back, eyes shadowed in the low lighting of the firing range. Telemenus fired without looking, a frown creasing his brow as the heard a screech of his shot ricocheting off the dense target ball; a hit but not a clean kill.

  ‘The Chaplaincy tells us that it is a sin to be wasteful of the Emperor’s resources,’ said Seraphiel as Telemenus returned his attention down range, taking up his weapon in both hands again.

  ‘Not a single shot misses its mark,’ replied Telemenus. He switched the bolter to burst fire and his aim to an elongated oval at the one hundred metre mark, past the remnants of the globes. A three-shot salvo smashed into the target, evenly spaced between top and bottom, turning it to a cloud of fragments and glittering dust. ‘Where is the waste?’

  ‘To expend ammunition and targets in an attempt to improve already flawless marksmanship, perhaps,’ said Seraphiel, standing to Telemenus’s right.

  ‘It is not my aim I seek to improve, brother-sergeant, but my spirit.’

  Another three-round volley and another shattered target.

  ‘So it is that you remove yourself from evening contemplation to come here, away from brothers who might provide solace?’

  ‘My brothers do not need to hear complaint from me,’ said Telemenus. He fired again, the last three shots in the magazine, a t
rio of closely-spaced targets disintegrating from the impacts. ‘I find this exercise to be most enlightening.’

  He ejected the magazine but Seraphiel placed a hand on his arm as he took another from his belt to reload. Turning to the sergeant, Telemenus lowered his bolter, the next magazine still in hand.

  ‘I know that which gives you cause for complaint, brother,’ said the sergeant. ‘The withdrawal from Kadillus was untimely. It is rare for us to deploy and yet not see conclusion to battle.’

  ‘There were many foes on Piscina, yet we head out-system on the whim of Grand Master Sammael with those foes unrepentant.’

  ‘And laurels for the honour of First Marksman still unearned?’

  ‘I do not place my own glory above that of my duty,’ snapped Telemenus, pulling his arm away. ‘My honours are a testament to my dedication to our cause, not to my ego, brother-sergeant. If laurels go unearned it is because traitors and xenos filth go unpunished!’

  ‘And you would place yourself in judgement of Grand Master Sammael for his decision?’

  The words were softly spoken but Telemenus detected their disapproval with ease. He had known Seraphiel for many decades and reasoned that he could speak freely, as warrior to warrior.

  ‘Does it not give you concern, brother? First Hadria Praetoris and now Kadillus. Two cities where forces move against the rule of the Emperor, abandoned to the uncertain attention of others when the Dark Angels were present to sway the balance. Is this our duty, brother?’

  ‘Grand Master Sammael must attend to a higher duty,’ Seraphiel said, his expression stern. ‘He would weigh decisions on a scale that we cannot see. It is in his judgement that the Supreme Grand Master places trust, and detached from the command of Grand Master Zadakiel we are subject to that authority.’

  ‘We leave Piscina, a world that lies under the aegis of the Chapter, to fight pirates?’ Telemenus did not hold back his scorn, feeling that it would be a greater dishonour to dissemble rather than voice his disapproval of a Grand Master’s decisions. ‘Towards what great goal does that strive?’

  ‘We may be detached from company command but you will show due respect!’ bellowed Seraphiel, and Telemenus knew he had gone too far, but was unrepentant.

  ‘Servants of the Emperor are dying on Piscina while we chase star pirates, brother-sergeant. How can your honour bear such a thing?’

  ‘My honour is my concern, brother,’ growled Seraphiel. ‘And if you choose to place yours above the honour of the Chapter, you are at fault, not Grand Master Sammael. You will pass ten days in the penitentium to transcribe the Angelis Hierarchia. Heed well its doctrine and contemplate your insubordinate behaviour as you do so.’

  ‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, briefly bowing his head in acceptance of Seraphiel’s punishment. He turned towards the door, hiding a frustrated glower.

  ‘Your weapon, brother,’ said the sergeant, holding out a hand for Telemenus’s bolter. The command bit deep into Telemenus’s heart. ‘You will regain it when you have served your penitence.’

  Telemenus hesitated. To be relieved of his bolter was a greater punishment than the seclusion. As he made his way to the penitentium the other Dark Angels would see that he was without a weapon and would know his shame. Reluctantly he handed his bolter to Seraphiel, his antagonism replaced with vexation.

  ‘I shall repent of my deviant thoughts, brother-sergeant,’ he said apologetically, head hanging.

  ‘Pass your armour to the Techmarines for maintenance, so that it can be cleansed as you cleanse your soul.’

  ‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’ Telemenus spoke softly, humbled by the realisation that perhaps his distress was caused by arrogance rather than sincere concern. ‘I offer apology and entreat forgiveness for my rash words.’

  ‘Ten days contemplation, brother, and you shall be forgiven.’

  The Prey Revealed

  Attending to the summons of Brother Malcifer, Annael entered the ship’s Reclusiam with seven other brothers of the Ravenwing. He knew them all and immediately realised they each shared something in common: they were the latest recruits to the company.

  The Reclusiam was dark, lit only by three large candles behind an altar made of titanium, the flames reflecting from the black marble sigil of the Dark Angels worked into its surface. Censers hung from the ceiling, a trio of them above the altar, spilling the scent of musky incense through the chamber. The haze of it diffused the candlelight, casting the chamber in an otherworldly air.

  Dressed in their black robes, the eight Space Marines filed down the centre of the Reclusiam – large enough for a hundred Space Marines to attend to the sermons of the company Chaplain – and knelt in a line facing the altar.

  Silver plaques on the walls were etched with the names of the one hundred and seventy-two Grand Masters who had led the Ravenwing in battle. It was a high number, much higher than those who had been Grand Masters of the other companies, standing testament to the daring and dedication expected of Sammael and those that had come before. Annael had known before he had joined the Ravenwing that attrition was high in comparison to the rest of the Chapter, and that his remaining term of service before he died was now most likely numbered in decades not centuries. It was the price to pay for being the first in the attack. The bravery of all Dark Angels was beyond question, but amongst their brethren the Ravenwing were given regard for being the quickest to place themselves in danger.

  Before he had been inducted into the mysteries of the company, Annael had thought, with due respect, that such an attitude had perhaps been pride or foolhardiness. Certainly warriors such as Sabrael did nothing to dismiss the myth that the Ravenwing were arrogant in their courage and suffered high casualties as a consequence. Yet now that he had ridden alongside them, even if only twice, Annael understood better the dangers they had to face to perform their duty. It was their secret lot to uphold the honour of the Chapter, to delve into peril on the hunt so that the shame of the past could be laid to rest. To know what the Ravenwing knew and to hold back from the fight was impossible; honour demanded action.

  It was with this thought in mind that Annael watched Brother Malcifer enter from a side chamber. The Chaplain wore a robe also, the white of the Deathwing. His bare arms were covered in a tracery of tattoos that depicted links of mail, each inked ring lettered with words of devotion; a representation of the armour of faith that protected the Chaplain’s soul. More black and grey could be seen on his chest, the two heads of an aquila whose wings were hidden by the robe. Malcifer was not bare-headed like the rest. His face was covered with a skull mask, identical to the fashioning of his battle helm, and his eyes were hidden in shadow.

  The assembled Space Marines bowed their heads in acknowledgement of the Chaplain, their hands on their knees. Annael straightened along with the others, all eyes set to Malcifer as he stood behind the altar and laid his palms upon its dark surface.

  ‘You are the Ravenwing’s freshest blood,’ he said, voice solemn and quiet. ‘But this you already know, because you are Ravenwing and you are observant. You have been taught much about your duty since you came to the company, and have all undergone the First Rite of the Raven. Now, as we stand upon the brink of a new battle, you are to be elevated in knowledge and esteem, to be welcomed into the body of the company by the Second Rite of the Raven.’

  Annael wondered at this. It was the first he had heard of such rites, by that title at least. He knew that even as he had learnt of the Horus Heresy and the betrayal of the Dark Angels by their brethren there were further mysteries not yet explained. He trembled at the thought of what new secret might be revealed by this second rite and he could feel the anxiety and anticipation of the others in the reclusiam.

  ‘When I inducted you into the company, I spoke to each of you, passing on the secret of the past. The history of our Chapter is a troubled one, and it takes courage greater than that required to face an
enemy to accept it. You have all demonstrated that courage and today you will be rewarded for your service.’

  Malcifer bowed his head, silhouetted against the light of the candles, a shadow that loomed over the kneeling Space Marines. The skull mask seemed to float in the air and the incense was strong in Annael’s nostrils, sweet yet acrid. Malcifer stayed silent for some time, and when he next spoke his words seemed to drift on the haze of the censers, softly spoken but carrying to Annael’s ears with ease, pushing aside other thought so that the words alone filled his mind.

  ‘In our next battle it is likely that we will face one of the renegades that turned on the Dark Angels and the Lion.’ There was a collective intake of breath and the incense fog stirred into whirls and coiling wisps. ‘Yes, my brothers, the hunt of which I have spoken before now takes centre place in our duties. This renegade was once a Space Marine, but you cannot think of him as such. Should you set eyes upon him, do not be deceived by his appearance. In body he may be alike to you and I, of great build and giant stature, but remember that inside he is as small as an insect. He is a traitor to everything that we hold to our honour, and it is a privilege for us to bring him to justice.

  ‘He is corrupt, as others you have seen before are corrupt, in soul even if there is no sign of it upon his body. Do not be mistaken if he feigns ignorance of his treachery, for he is a liar and a thief. He spoke an oath to the Emperor and turned away from the words. He took the gifts of the Emperor – a body built for war and a purpose purer than any other to destroy the Emperor’s foes – and he turned those gifts against those that had called him brother.’

  Blood. Annael smelt blood.

  He could not hear the words of Malcifer as he continued, not as something separate from himself. He was in accord with the teaching, becoming one with the lesson handed forth by the Chaplain. It was the blood of Dark Angels on the hands of the traitors that Annael could smell. He heard growls and snarls from his brethren and realised that he too had given voice to the anger that had been brought forth by the thought. The incense was like fire, the smoke of the ruin brought to beautiful Caliban by the treachery of the renegades.