Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Can we be sure it is nonsense?’ asked Harahel, his voice heavy.

  ‘There is no cause to jump to conclusions,’ Sammael told them both, though the suspicion he had felt earlier returned. It was not unheard-of for demagogic leaders to affect godly influence, but the Grand Master was cautious to dismiss the claims of the Overlord without further investigation.

  ‘Have you seen the Overlord?’ he asked Verekil.

  The youth’s eyes lit up and he was suddenly animated.

  ‘Oh yes, I have seen him four times! That’s more than most of the Unworthy. He is a giant, like you, filled with the grace of the Divine. He speaks with the voice of the Divine and his words carry truth and wisdom. From him we learnt...’

  ‘Learnt what?’ demanded Sammael as the youth’s voice died away. ‘What did the Overlord teach you?’

  ‘It is forbidden to speak of such things,’ said Verekil. His expression hardened and Sammael realised that loyalty to the Overlord, or perhaps a greater fear, had suddenly bolstered the pirate’s courage. The Grand Master saw determination returning as Verekil set his jaw and turned away his gaze. It was time to move away from the subject of the Overlord.

  ‘What defences protect the spire?’ asked Sammael. ‘What weapons do the Divine possess?’

  ‘Jagrain was right, I have said too much,’ replied Verekil.

  ‘It is not too late to save yourself from damnation,’ the Grand Master said quietly.

  ‘There is no damnation, and there’s no salvation neither,’ Verekil whispered. ‘Only oblivion.’

  Sensing that he was losing control, Sammael glanced at Malcifer.

  ‘You are the dedicated interrogator, brother,’ he said to the Chaplain over the comm. ‘You need to continue.’

  Malcifer walked over to join the pair, the heart of Jagrain still in his fist. He let the organ flop from his fingers to the deck beside Verekil, flicking droplets of blood from the fingers of his gauntlet. Crimson spattered the young pirate, causing him to flinch.

  ‘You will know pain, Verekil. Far greater pain than your companions endured. And you will speak to us. If only oblivion awaits then there is nothing to protect, no higher power to serve.’ The Chaplain spoke coldly, his tone matter-of-fact. ‘All that matters occurs in this world and you can save yourself needless agony.’

  Verekil shook his head, hands forming fists in his defiance.

  ‘Even if you do not speak, we will learn what we wish from the others,’ said Malcifer, waving a hand towards the unconscious prisoners. ‘You sacrifice your wellbeing for nothing.’

  Still Verekil refused to speak, head bowed. Malcifer looked at Sammael and spoke over the comm.

  ‘I can extract more information if you wish, brother, but it will take time.’

  Sammael read the meaning behind Malcifer’s words; a lengthy interrogation gave the enemy further time to prepare and could render worthless any intelligence gained. The Grand Master studied the youth for a moment, trying to gauge what the pirate knew.

  ‘I do not believe he can furnish us with the information we desire,’ said Sammael. ‘He is just a low peon within the group.’

  ‘The others?’ Malcifer turned towards the unconscious men and women. ‘I do not expect any swift success. The application of a higher authority has made their loyalty unthinking.’

  ‘Then we must move on with what we know,’ said Sammael. He drew his sword. Though Verekil could see nothing of the Grand Master’s expression and had not heard his words, the pirate read correctly Sammael’s intent and began to back away.

  ‘Save ammunition,’ said Sammael, pointing his blade towards the others. He returned his attention to Verekil. ‘Be thankful that your ignorance shields you. Your death will be swift.’

  Verekil opened his mouth to cry out but Sammael struck fast, lopping off the youth’s head with one blow, the edges of the Raven Sword crackling with power as blood fizzed and spat along the blade. Harahel and Malcifer despatched the other survivors without hesitation and the three of them returned to their steeds.

  Checking the scanner, Sammael saw that the sensor returns had strengthened. A sizeable number of foes – more of the Unworthy, most likely – were protecting the approaches to the main spire. It was time to bring in additional forces.

  ‘Ravenwing. Brothers of the Fifth Company. Attend to orders,’ announced the Grand Master. ‘Prepare for the main attack.’

  ‘The Overlord, do you think he is still here?’ asked Harahel as they joined the two Black Knights by the doors.

  ‘The boy’s testimony gives us no clue,’ replied Sammael. ‘Yet his description of the Overlord makes me more confident that one of the Fallen is indeed in command here.’

  ‘We must ascertain whether one of the ships we have crippled is the Scar,’ said Malcifer. ‘If one of them is the Overlord’s flagship there is still hope.’

  ‘I sense that the Unworthy will not be easily forthcoming with such knowledge,’ said Harahel.

  ‘I agree,’ said Sammael. ‘We must proceed carefully until we understand the full capabilities of the Divine. It is from them that we will learn the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ Malcifer laughed. ‘No, not the truth, brother. Yet we may unravel more of the lies that have been wrapped around these people.’

  ‘There can be only lies when there is truth to hide,’ argued Sammael. ‘When we tear down the falsehoods erected by the Overlord, the truth will be revealed. And it is a weapon greater than any other.’

  While he said these words, Sammael had a darker thought that he did not share. The truth was indeed a powerful weapon, and that was why the Dark Angels had such cause to fear it in the hands of others.

  Holding the Line

  There were three main routes of ingress towards the chamber where Cassiel guarded the elevator shaft. Araton swiftly divided the squadron to cover each approach, protecting the wounded sergeant until Brother Gideon and his escort arrived. For the moment, the pirates had pulled back from their attacks and appeared to be waiting for the Ravenwing to advance further.

  Annael found himself with Sabrael on the platform of a rail transit station, positioned to cover both directions where the line disappeared into unlit tunnels. The platform was not high, only a metre above the line, and devoid of cover. There were small holes in the ferrocrete, left where furnishings or other fittings had been removed and the rail was littered with debris – broken ferrocrete, tattered rags and scatters of broken bolts and tools.

  Ferrocrete ceiling blocks had fallen out and broken on the rails and platform, exposing the reinforcing girders within. There was rust on the metal, a lot of rust, and Annael was not certain of the chamber’s structural integrity. Half-columns lined the walls on either side of the tunnel entrances but they appeared more decorative than functional, the plaster heavily cracked, exposing crumbling ferrocrete beneath.

  On the wall opposite the pair of tracks were wooden frames, fragments of paper still fixed within, though what had been on the posters was now lost. The light fittings set at regular intervals on the curved ceiling were in poor repair, only a few of them giving out a fitful, flickering blue light. Now and then the power would fail, plunging the station into darkness for a few seconds before returning to cast jittering shadows from the immobile Space Marines.

  ‘The Unworthy?’ said Sabrael, referring to the term Grand Master Sammael had used for the enemy in his last broadcast. ‘What twisted minds would cling to such a title?’

  ‘It is fitting,’ replied Annael. ‘They have turned from the light of the Emperor. That makes them Unworthy of any mercy or consideration.’

  ‘I do not think it is in reference to their rebellion, brother. Unworthy hints at aspiration unfulfilled, and one does not aspire to a position voluntarily forsaken. Our enemies consider themselves unworthy of something else.’

  ‘Does it matter, brother?’ Anna
el was content to wait in silence for the enemy or fresh orders, whichever came first, and found his squadron-brother’s chatter a distraction. Even by voicing his ambivalence Annael realised he was playing into Sabrael’s desire for attention.

  ‘The motivations of the enemy are always worthy of consideration,’ said Sabrael, his tone conversational though his words were an attempt to sound erudite. ‘It speaks to their mindset and allows us to understand their tactics and capabilities. If we cannot comprehend why it is that our foes fight, what chance have we of knowing the means they will employ? Does their self-perceived unworthiness make them better or worse fighters? Do they hope to attain worthiness in battle?’

  ‘Is that not our goal?’ asked Annael, despite himself. There was some truth to Sabrael’s opinion, though it was more a quest to discover understanding of himself than the foe that had occupied Annael’s thoughts since Piscina. ‘Glory and honour are the means by which we judge ourselves, brother. Without them, do we not consider ourselves also unworthy of our place amongst the Chapter?’

  ‘You cannot compare the two,’ Sabrael answered quickly, offended by the question. ‘We have already been deemed worthy by those who brought us into the Chapter. Each of us is an anointed warrior of the Emperor, and that brings with it a certain amount of honour that cannot be removed. Our foes, scabrous and vile as they are, cannot measure themselves by the same standard. If they judge themselves against us, they will always be the Unworthy no matter their courage or efforts.’

  Something about Sabrael’s conclusion did not sit right with Annael. He considered the desperate rebels that had attacked the Dark Angels on Piscina. They were hopelessly outclassed and outgunned by the Space Marines, and the chances of achieving any meaningful victory were virtually nil. Had the Dark Angels force remained on the world the insurrection would have been put down swiftly, without any meaningful objective achieved on the part of the rebels. It seemed as senseless to Annael as the resistance of the pirates, yet there was something about the human soul that could not accept inevitability. To a Space Marine, to fight without clear purpose, even if devoid of the opportunity for ultimate victory, was as alien as surrender.

  ‘If we are paragons of worth, as you say, then might our foes see worth in defeating us? We take no glory in killing lesser foes, so it must be the case that there is glory in killing a greater foe for our enemies. Our very presence gives purpose and meaning to our enemies. To kill a Space Marine, for those who have turned from the guidance of the Emperor, must be a goal in itself and one that brings worth.’

  ‘Your philosophy is flawed, brother,’ said Sabrael after a short while. ‘We do not seek out the toughest enemies for the simple sake of proving our worth, nor do we shirk from slaying those who cannot match us simply because we can. We kill our enemies as part of a higher purpose, whether individually they are lesser or greater than ourselves. The Chapter and the Emperor are the higher purpose that drives us. Which brings more glory to the Chapter, to slay one greater foe or a hundred lesser foes?’

  ‘I see your point, brother. We do not ascribe arbitrary value to individuals, but create it from the wider context of our purpose. A host of tough enemies may be slain and yet victory not achieved, whilst the death of a single less powerful individual may prove the victorious moment.’

  ‘Then we are in agreement,’ Sabrael said, his tone light-hearted. ‘Our enemies do not gain worth simply by slaying a Space Marine, unless that death is informed by some greater purpose. In the case of these renegades, the purpose is survival. The selfish drive to live for the sake of living is all that sends this rabble into battle. They know that if they do not fight then they are dead.’

  While he spoke, Annael monitored the sensor readings on Black Shadow’s display. They showed a strengthening return several hundred metres down the tunnel to Annael’s left, towards the hub of the star fort. A smaller group was approaching from the right, moving slowly up the rail line on foot.

  ‘Our philosophical discussion must wait,’ he told Sabrael.

  ‘Theory must give way to practice,’ replied the other Space Marine. ‘We are confronted by two groups, both of which pose a threat to the mission. One is larger but further away. Even as you analyse the tactical situation you are ascribing value to the individuals signified by the returns on your augur array.’

  ‘This is not the time, brother,’ said Annael, annoyed that Sabrael seemed intent on continuing the conversation despite the approach of enemies. ‘We must focus on the mission.’

  ‘Yes we must, brother.’ Sabrael’s voice moved from Annael’s external pick-up to the vox-feed in his ear. ‘Request permission to pre-empt attack. It is better to strike now than face assault from two directions.’

  ‘Denied,’ replied Araton, without hesitation. ‘Remain in position.’

  ‘Brother, further assessment reinforces my opinion that a pre-emptive attack is the best course of action in the current situation.’ Sabrael’s voice switched back to the external speakers as he addressed Annael. ‘Araton’s bloody-mindedness alters the context. There is no time to delay. If we strike now, we can eliminate the threat and return in time to counter the next attack.’

  ‘I disagree with Brother Sabrael’s assessment,’ Annael said over the vox so that the others could hear. ‘We have sufficient firepower to drive back a two-pronged attack.’

  ‘Foolishness!’ snapped Sabrael. His bike let loose a plume of exhaust as he powered up the engine and set off along the platform. ‘The enemy can keep us stuck here without launching an attack, we must seize the initiative.’

  ‘Sabrael, you are to remain in position!’ barked Araton, but his words were ignored. Sabrael steered his bike off the side of the platform onto the rails, the thud of his machine’s landing echoing along the station.

  ‘Mobility and speed are our weapons, brother,’ Sabrael argued as he rode into the tunnel. ‘Do not surrender them lightly.’

  Annael cursed Sabrael as the gleam from his armour receded down the tunnel and then disappeared. He did not like the idea of abandoning the position he had been given to guard, but was equally vexed by the thought of leaving Sabrael to attack alone. In the end, his hesitation made the decision for him – any benefit of Sabrael’s counter-attack would be lost if Annael followed now. All he could do was protect the station and await his battle-brother’s return.

  Whether the enemy realised what had happened or not, the signal return from the tunnel ahead of Annael started to approach more swiftly. His audio pick-ups detected echoes from the incoming pirates; the scuff of footfalls and whispered voices. The noise grew swiftly louder, as the conversation fell silent and the sound of slapping feet quickened.

  Annael opened fire into the darkness of the tunnel before he saw any visible target. From his position he could cover the first twenty-five metres or so and a scream announced that his speculative salvo had met a target. Something small and round flew out of the tunnel mouth and rattled across the rails for several seconds. It detonated with a loud bang and white flash, but the stun grenade was useless against Annael’s autosenses, which had instantly dampened the audio and visual input from his armour to protect his ears and eyes. So it was that when a wave of warriors sprinted into view, rather than coming upon a disorientated foe they ran straight into a sustained volley of fire from Black Shadow’s twin bolters.

  The hail of bolts cut a gouge into the press of men and women pouring from the tunnel. The Unworthy seemed heedless of the carnage as they scrambled and leapt over the fallen, blasting wildly with autoguns and laspistols, their shouts ringing from the curved walls and roof of the chamber. Ten of them had already fallen, but twice that number followed on, seeking the shelter of the platform lip.

  One thumb pressing the firing stud again, raking fire moving left and right with his roaming gaze, Annael pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt and armed it. With a measured throw, he tossed it toward the end of the
platform. The grenade bounced once and then fell from sight onto the tracks. Like a flock of birds set to flight by the attack of a hunter, the pirates dashed in all directions to avoid the grenade. The thunderous blast reverberated down both tunnels, the clouds of fire and shrapnel catching the four slowest, turning them to ragged corpses.

  Annael glanced at the sensor screen and could see from Sabrael’s transponder location that the battle-brother had engaged the enemy to the right, though over the din of his own firing he could hear nothing from the far tunnel. More grenades bounced and rolled across the platform, surrounding Annael with flashes and bangs and smoke, but he continued to fire, pulling free his pistol to add to the hail of bolts screaming from his steed.

  The unthinking desperation with which the Unworthy hurled themselves up the steps at the end of the platform and clambered from the rails gave Annael cause for concern. There were still two dozen and more piling out of the tunnel and he could not hope to bring them all down before they reached the passageway at his back. Had Sabrael remained at his post, the two of them could have withdrawn into the corridor and gunned down any foe reaching the entrance, but now Annael was caught between guarding the rear of Sabrael and the flank of the rest of the squadron. If he pulled back, he could not prevent the pirates continuing along the station to come at Sabrael from behind, but if he remained where he was there were so many foes some would inevitably pass by him if they wished, breaking the perimeter he was meant to protect.

  ‘Sabrael, report progress,’ he growled, firing a bolt into the face of a man who had snuck along the tracks and was pulling himself up to the platform. He fell back, half of his head missing.

  ‘Three more to go, brother,’ Sabrael replied. ‘They ran away, the cowards. Returning to position in thirty seconds.’

  ‘Return to position immediately. It is a diversionary attack to draw you away,’ said Annael. Two more bursts of fire littered the platform ahead with blood, bodies and limbs. ‘I need you here!’