Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Prepare yourselves for close assault,’ he told the others, drawing his power sword. Malcifer held up his crozius and Harahel his force axe, while Athelman and Daedis signalled their readiness with their corvus hammers. ‘Combat speed!’

  The squadron accelerated along the last hundred metres of bridge, the lights of their bikes glaring bright into the opening ahead. As the beams glinted upon metal, Sammael heaved his bike to the right out of instinct, a moment before a pulse of plasma spat from the opening. The flash of las-fire erupted along the bridge as the enemy launched their ambush, catching Malcifer in a storm of energy blasts. The Chaplain’s rosarius blazed into life, enveloping Malcifer in a shining aura of red as the field within the ancient device converted the incoming fire into light. Arcane technology also protected Sammael from the worst of the volley; the night halo fixed upon the gorget of his armour encasing rider and machine in a forcefield that glimmered with small forks of black lightning where the las-bolts struck. Those blasts not deflected by the night halo scored marks across the Grand Master’s armour but lacked strength to melt or crack the plates of ceramite that protected him and Corvex.

  In the gleam of the bike’s lamps, Sammael saw the walls of the chamber ahead lined with enemy, skulking behind buttresses and pillars. The room seemed to be some kind of junction chamber, spreading out from the bridge to join with rampways, stairwells and conveyors to the left and right.

  ‘Douse lamps!’ he commanded, realising that the squadron were making themselves easy targets as they plunged into the lightless hall. His autosenses compensating as the lights on Corvex faded, Sammael slid his mount to the right, swinging his sword low to cut through the arms and stomach of the nearest enemy. Around him the other riders obeyed his command instantly, shrouding the squadron in shadow.

  The black-clad Ravenwing were not entirely invisible, their polished armour gleaming in the light of criss-crossing las-beams and plasma stars, their weapons giving off the glow of power fields in the blackness. Steering close to the right-hand wall, Sammael plunged his blade into the chest of a woman armed with a chainsword and pistol, her face a screaming mask for a moment in the haze of the sword. She disappeared as Sammael swept on, ripping the sword free to slash the leg from a man who had turned to run, cleaving his thigh with one blow.

  The crack of discharging energy punctuated the blows of the corvus hammers wielded by Athelman and Daedis, breaking the darkness with flashes of white, their victims falling to the floor with arcs of the same energy coruscating across their bodies. Harahel’s force axe left a glittering trail of psychic sparks as he swept in wide arcs, severing limbs and heads to his left and right.

  Another plasma shot screamed into Malcifer but his conversion field took the brunt of the blast, the Chaplain momentarily disappearing in the heart of a nova of white light. Scattered autogun rounds snapped and rasped around Sammael as the pirates tried to track his arcing progress across the hall, the bullets whining wide of their mark, defeated by the speed of the Grand Master’s attack. The storm bolters of Corvex snarled into life at his touch, sending a hail of fire cutting through a group of foes clustered behind an archway leading off from the foyer on the right. Killing his speed and turning sharply to the left, Sammael spun his steed to face a stairwell opposite the bridge entrance, from which a fierce fusillade was emerging.

  With a slow whine, the magnetic accelerators of Corvex’s plasma cannon charged, funnelling energy from the machine’s miniature reactor. With a high-pitched shriek and a crack of super-expanding air the plasma bolt sped from the ejector muzzle beneath the front fairing, filling the chamber with flickering blue and purple light for a moment. Hitting the stairwell, its containment field disintegrating, the plasma charge exploded, engulfing everybody on the first flight of steps in a ravening corona of heat and electrical discharge. Those whose bodies were not vaporised immediately fell screaming down the steps, flesh burned to the bone, nerves and blood vessels shredded by the energy unleashed.

  One of the enemy fighters came to the conclusion that the dark served the Space Marines better than the ambushers and a switch was thrown. Lumen strips hanging from the ceiling crackled into life, bathing the chamber in a yellow glare. In a moment Sammael’s autosenses had adjusted, dimming the view so that the Grand Master was not blinded.

  Able to better see their enemies, the pirates let forth another hail of firepower, the weight of the attack falling upon Malcifer as his bike’s bolters roared forth a volley into a group of foes sheltering behind a rusted vat. Adelman fired his bike’s mounted grenade launchers, the frag devices sending shrapnel scything along a walkway to the left. Harahel’s axe spat lightning as he swept it towards the pirates, forks of psychic energy arcing across the warehouse to earth through the bodies of half a dozen foes. There were at least two dozen dead and the same again still fighting. Despite the pandemonium of combat, Sammael remembered his instruction from a few moments earlier.

  ‘Prisoners if you can,’ he reminded the others, cutting off the plasma cannon recharge and powering down his bike’s storm bolter ammunition feed. He sheathed the Raven Sword and sped forwards, heading directly into a stream of las-fire coming from three men sheltering behind an overturned metal cabinet. Las-bolts flared from the night halo field around him and skimmed across his armour, but he did not waver from his course. The toppled furniture was less than a metre high, easily cleared by Corvex as the Grand Master ploughed directly into the enemy using the sloped prow of the jetbike as a ram.

  The trio of pirates were thrown to the ground by the impact, rolling over and over until they came to a stop lying awkwardly. From the way he lay at an unnatural angle, one of the men had his back broken, but the other two were still alive, though they could barely move. Bringing Corvex low, Sammael leaned over and grabbed one of the men by the throat, squeezing just hard and long enough to render the man unconscious. He let the pirate flop back to the floor. The other was trying to crawl away, fractured arm cradled underneath him. A boot to the back of his head served the same purpose as the choke hold.

  Hearing the whine of a power cell behind him, Sammael turned in the saddle in time to see a young pirate, no more than fifteen or sixteen Terran years old, crouched behind a pile of rotting pallets. He held a laspistol in trembling hands, eyes wide with fear, face soaked with sweat that darkened the white bandana tied across his head.

  ‘Murderer!’ snarled the youth, opening fire as Sammael pulled free his bolt pistol.

  The las-shot crackled harmlessly from the Grand Master’s protective field. Sammael fired a single bolt in return, cracking open the youth’s head from within. He watched without feeling as the headless body toppled against the pallets, blood seeping into the wood.

  The junction chamber had fallen quiet save for the moans of the renegades incapacitated by the Dark Angels. A quick visual sweep confirmed to Sammael that the rest of the enemy were dead, though the scanner showed more foes massing a few hundred metres beyond the hall’s main doors.

  ‘Athelman, Daedis – overwatch.’ The two Black Knights moved to cover the closed doors while Sammael, Malcifer and Harahel gathered together the prisoners; six remained alive although three were unconscious. The others struggled feebly as they were dragged to the centre of the chamber and deposited roughly on the metal deck. Ringed by the trio of Space Marines on their steeds, the captives were defiant, glaring sullenly at their captors.

  ‘We require information,’ Sammael told them as he dismounted, leaving Corvex hovering just above the floor. Malcifer and Harahel followed, looming over the pirates with weapons bared.

  ‘We’ll tell you nothing, Imperial scum!’ snarled the oldest of the group, grey in his shaggy black beard and hair. He wore baggy worker’s trousers and a padded tunic, nursing his left wrist, which was clearly broken. ‘We are ready to die for the Divine.’

  ‘Your deaths are not in dispute,’ said Malcifer, grabbing the man’s injured hand and t
wisting, eliciting a yelp of pain. ‘Your lives were forfeit the moment you took arms against the servants of the Emperor. Only the manner of your demise remains to be determined.’

  ‘Torture?’ This came from one of the others, his face bloodied from a cut above his eye, swelling with bruising where he had been punched by one of the Dark Angels. ‘How like the attack dogs of the Emperor to be so cowardly.’

  Malcifer released his grip and crouched in front of the pirate that had spoken. The man’s face reflected in the glassy lenses of the Chaplain’s skull helm, sneering through his fear.

  ‘I can coax a confession from Space Marines.’ Malcifer’s voice, edged with the metallic tone of his external augmitters, was a barely-heard whisper full of menace. ‘Warriors that can survive injuries and withstand pain that would kill a man such as yourself. Harbour no illusion that you will remain silent against my attentions.’

  The man swallowed hard, his sneer replaced by a nervous glance towards the other two. He clamped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes, refusing to say anything further. Malcifer nodded in acknowledgement of the man’s defiance and turned his stare upon the third conscious prisoner. He was the youngest, face marked with the boils and spots of adolescence, his red hair long and lank across his face.

  ‘And what of you?’ asked the Chaplain, deactivating his crozius and hanging it on his belt. ‘Do you choose excruciation over swift mercy?’

  The youth spat at Malcifer, the gobbet of saliva landing on the brow of the Chaplain’s helm. Malcifer did not react immediately, but stood up and turned to Harahel. When he spoke, it was in conversational tone.

  ‘The old one is weakest, he will not last long. When the others see what is in store for them, they will see the error of their decision.’

  Harahel nodded and grabbed the oldest pirate by his jerkin, pulling him to his feet with one arm. The gleam of the psyker’s force axe shone blue on the man’s pale skin as Harahel held its blade close to his throat, the brightness forcing the man to blink rapidly.

  ‘Watch,’ Malcifer told the other two as Harahel laid his hand on the scalp of the pirate. Dark sparks glittered along the cabling of the psychic hood surrounding the Epistolary’s helm and the renegade jerked, baring his teeth in pain, growling profanities through gritted teeth. The Librarian’s eye lenses grew bright, lit from behind by small stars of red that fixed the stare of the prisoner.

  ‘Speak,’ said Harahel. Scarlet witchlight crackled from his fingers and the man thrashed against the Librarian’s grip but was unable to break free. ‘Tell us everything.’

  While the attention of the pirates was fixed upon the psyker, Sammael stepped behind the youth and crouched down to lay a hand upon his shoulder. The captive flinched as if struck.

  ‘My companions speak truth,’ the Grand Master said softly, keeping check the anger he felt at being defied. The young man had clearly been born and raised on Port Imperial, and Sammael tried to find some empathy with the youth. The young pirate knew no better than what he had been taught, fed lies since he was born. It did not absolve him of his guilt, but thinking of this made it easier for Sammael to sound conciliatory, keeping his ire from his voice. ‘You have been damned by your parents, but we can cleanse your soul with confession. You do not have to suffer the same fate as your friend.’

  ‘The gnawing! Make it stop!’ the older man shrieked as Harahel exerted his power once more. ‘The rats, they burrow deep. They chew on my lungs, feast on my guts!’

  ‘What nightmares keep you awake, young man?’ Sammael asked as the youth started shaking, eyes moving to the tormented pirate. ‘What darkness will my Librarian find in the depths of your soul?’

  The third prisoner leapt to his feet, seeking to drag his comrade free from Harahel’s grasp. Malcifer was quicker, his elbow smashing into the man’s already injured face, pitching him to the deck. Like a pouncing beast, the Chaplain fell to all fours over the man, one hand held against his chest. The pirate squirmed as Malcifer applied more pressure, the plastek breastplate protecting the man’s chest bending inwards, cracking under the Chaplain’s exertion.

  ‘Who are the Divine?’ whispered Sammael. ‘Tell me about them and you will know peace.’

  ‘I cannot, I swore,’ the youth said. He started to babble, speaking names, talking about a promise made, though to whom he did not say. The young man scrabbled backwards across the deck, away from the Dark Angels, until he came upon a corpse, the chest of the woman ripped out from within by several bolt-rounds. He gave a quiet moan. ‘Oh, come save me. Save me from these monsters!’

  ‘Who do you call to, boy?’ Sammael demanded, stalking towards the youth. The captive shook his head and kept repeating the call to an unnamed saviour. Sammael grabbed the youth’s arm and with a simple twist dislocated the elbow, causing him to scream. The Grand Master’s voice became harsh as he poured forth his scorn, every word filled with his contempt. ‘They cannot save you, not from us. We are the Dark Angels, the First, Sons of the Lion. You belong to us now.’

  ‘He will come, he will come for me,’ gibbered the youth as Sammael released his hold.

  ‘Tell them nothing!’ bellowed the man pinned down by Malcifer. His next shout was cut short as the Chaplain leaned forwards, the breastplate buckling further, pushing the breath from the pirate’s body.

  ‘Tell me your name, young man.’ Sammael reverted to his soft approach. The youth shook his head. ‘Surely you can tell me your name?’

  ‘I will say nothing,’ the young pirate replied quietly, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  ‘That is not true,’ Sammael said, snatching hold of the youth’s injured arm. He did not even have to exert a fraction of his strength to set the pirate to howling again. Sammael released his hold and glanced over at Harahel, realising that the old man had fallen silent. He appeared catatonic in the Librarian’s grip, eyes glazed, mouth slack.

  ‘There is little of use in his mind,’ Harahel said, letting the inert figure fall to the floor. ‘Names of family and companions. They call themselves the Divine.’

  ‘We are not Divine,’ yelped the boy, the Librarian’s assertion filling him with dread equal to that he had shown to the Dark Angels. ‘We are the Unworthy. The Divine will come for us, you will see.’

  ‘They will not,’ said Sammael. Terms like ‘Divine’ and ‘Unworthy’ did not sound like they were dealing with simple pirates. Suspicion crept into the Grand Master’s thoughts, as yet formless. ‘They have abandoned you.’

  The words struck home, puncturing the last vestiges of defiance. The youth sagged to his knees, sobbing.

  ‘Say nothing! They lie! They always lie!’ The renegade under Malcifer gasped the words and weakly battered at the Chaplain’s armour. ‘Tell the bastards noth–’

  With a loud crack, the turncoat’s breastplate and sternum gave way, Malcifer’s hand thrusting into the man’s chest. Blood surged up the Chaplain’s arm and spilled across the deck as his gauntleted fingers ripped out the pirate’s heart.

  ‘What is your name?’ Malcifer rasped, standing up, the bloody organ in his fist. Harahel stepped up beside the Chaplain and raised a hand, tiny flickers of energy passing between his splayed fingers.

  ‘Verekil,’ the youth whispered, chin sagging to his chest. ‘I am Verekil.’

  ‘Good.’ Sammael lowered to one knee beside him. ‘That was not so hard, was it? There need not be further pain. Tell us what we wish to know and your torment will end.’

  Verekil nodded, eyes averted from the Dark Angels.

  ‘How many ships do you have?’ Sammael asked. He avoided the matter of the Divine and the Unworthy for the moment, allowing the youth to think about more mundane things. ‘How many starships?’

  ‘Four,’ said Verekil. Sammael heard a growl of annoyance from Malcifer and knew what was passing through the Chaplain’s thoughts: only three ships had been encountered so far.

&nb
sp; ‘Good. Thank you.’ Sammael reached out and, as gently as was possible, took hold of Verekil’s injured arm. ‘This will hurt, but not so much as it does now.’

  He twisted the elbow back into place, a spat curse coming from Verekil as he pulled away from the Grand Master. The youth rubbed his arm vigorously, shaking his head.

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘I don’t know, five hundred maybe. Five hundred of the Unworthy.’

  ‘And how many Divine?’ Sammael asked with an encouraging nod. Verekil looked fearful again and the Grand Master thought for a moment that he would refuse to answer. ‘Tell me, Verekil, how many Divine are on the station.’

  ‘Most of them,’ the youth answered. His expression was fearful that his ignorance would see him hurt again. ‘Two hundred? I have never seen them.’

  Fortunately Sammael’s helm masked a moment of confusion. Perplexed, he mastered himself and continued.

  ‘How can you fight alongside them and not know who they are?’

  ‘They fight with the Overlord,’ explained Verekil. ‘On board the Scar.’

  ‘And you are not on the crew of the Scar?’ said Sammael, ignoring for the moment the mention of the Overlord.

  ‘No! Only the Divine serve aboard the Scar. We are Unworthy.’

  ‘And what else separates the Divine from the Unworthy?’

  ‘They have ascended to the spire, where the Unworthy cannot go. The Overlord has chosen them from amongst the Unworthy and elevated them to Divinity.’

  ‘Pseudo-religious nonsense,’ Malcifer said over the vox, unheard by Verekil. ‘This Overlord clearly maintains control through the deception that he can access a higher power.’