by Gav Thorpe
He waits at the door knowing that what he is about to do treads a fine line between assertion and disobedience. The seconds and minutes pass slowly until he hears the approach of another. Asmodai steps through a door in the bulkhead, like Belial divested of his armour for the moment and dressed in the robes of the Deathwing, patterned with the sigils and symbols that denote their stations. Belial nods his head in welcome, comforted by the fact that the Interrogator-Chaplain shares his view on the present matter. Unexpectedly, Asmodai speaks.
‘You are determined to pursue this with the Supreme Grand Master? Master Azrael and I have frequent disagreement, but your standing with our commander is exemplary.’
‘I did not accept the position of Grand Master of the Deathwing to be popular, Brother-Chaplain. I admit that the extremity of our cause might cause consternation, but the outcome warrants the risk to reputation.’
‘Very well.’
Belial activates the door terminal, announcing their presence. A few seconds pass before the door hisses open, revealing the chamber of Supreme Grand Master Azrael. For generations these rooms have hosted the commanders of the Dark Angels, and if legend is to be believed then before that they were used by the Lion himself. The walls are hung with banners showing the heraldry of successive Chapter Masters, Azrael’s taking pride of place above the chair and desk at the far end of the chamber.
He looks up, stern, and beckons the two petitioners to approach. His brow furrows, his gaze lingering more on Asmodai than Belial.
‘You understand that our campaign on Piscina is ongoing.’ The Supreme Grand Master focuses on Belial, who called for the audience, eyes as dark and hard as granite. ‘All three of us have duties elsewhere.’
‘I will be brief, Grand Master. I think that we waste valuable time and resources trying to reclaim Piscina Four from the ork infestation. With the Rock in orbit we possess the weaponry required to obliterate all life on the planet, and should do so before casualties amongst our ranks become excessive.’
‘I am surprised that out of all my warriors you are prepared to abandon Piscina Four without a battle. You have already strived so hard to guard this world for the Chapter and the Emperor, why give in to the counsel of despair now?’
‘No despair, Brother Azrael, only a long-delayed acceptance of the consequences of my failures many years ago. Had I succeeded in eliminating the ork threat properly at its arrival the current situation would not have developed. That I did not has allowed the orks to gain a grip on this world that no effort of the Chapter can prise away.’
‘I see.’
The Supreme Grand Master stands up and starts to pace back and forth behind his chair, one hand stroking his chin, the other lightly gripping the thick rope belt at his waist. Belial takes this as an opportunity to argue his case further and Azrael says nothing to stop him.
‘We cannot accomplish this task alone without ignoring other battles that require our intervention. The longer we spend on this lost world, the more danger to other planets of the Emperor. The Piscinans have been rendered useless as allies, would you have us wait until forces from the Imperium arrive to assist us?’
Asmodai shakes his head, thumping a fist into his other hand.
‘Impossible! All three of us know that the Fallen interfered with Piscina during the stewardship of Chaplain Boreas and his companions. We risk knowledge of their existence spreading beyond the world if outsiders become involved in the campaign.’
Azrael stops and turns towards the Chaplain, his hands moving to clasp each other behind his back. Talk of the Fallen, the Dark Angels that turned against the Lion and the Emperor during the Heresy, earns an even fiercer scowl from the Supreme Grand Master.
‘You suggest that I destroy the population of an entire world to keep secret the existence of the Fallen? An act that will earn us further investigation and suspicion, no doubt. Sometimes I think you desire a confrontation with the Imperium, Asmodai.’
‘There is precedent, Brother Azrael. And the presence of the orks presents far more justification than has sometimes been offered.’
‘If there is evidence of the Fallen to be removed, it will be removed. If I listened to your counsel, every world where even rumour of the Fallen is found would be left a lifeless wasteland.’
Asmodai has not mentioned previous petitions to call for exterminatus, and this revelation annoys Belial. He wonders for a moment if his desire to vanquish the orks is being used by the Chaplain. The Deathwing commander steps closer to his superior, feeling that the terms of the conversation have moved away from his initial purpose.
‘The Piscina System is tainted. We can no longer recruit from here with any confidence. If we become mired in a war against the greenskins we compound the failure of my earlier campaign.’
Azrael’s eyebrows rise in surprise.
‘Your campaign? Your failure? Did you not hold back the orks sufficiently to stop the world being overrun, and did not the entire Chapter under my command conduct the intended annihilation? You would embroil us in intrigue with the Imperium and throw away millions of lives because of your impossible quest for perfection?’
‘Apologies, Supreme Grand Master. Our failure. And it is not perfection I seek, it is simply an absence of error. Our warriors spend days in the Reclusiam pondering their failings and atoning for their deficiencies. Those of us of higher rank must hold to an even stricter code.’
‘The reasons are irrelevant. We cannot place ourselves in higher moral authority than the people we are sworn to protect. If there is atonement to be made, should it not be painful? Should it not involve sacrifice? You suggest the easy route, thinking there will be no repercussions, no regrets.’
There is truth to Azrael’s words that Belial cannot argue against, but equally he cannot hide his consternation at this refusal.
‘And I see from your expression that there is some other purpose for wishing swift conclusion to our war in Piscina.’
Directly confronted, Belial must confess his ulterior motive, knowing that there is selfishness behind his dismay but unable to deny the Supreme Grand Master. Belial sighs heavily.
‘There were reports of the Beast, sightings a few thousand light years from our current position. It would be a better use of our might to strike down the creature that dealt the fatal wound to Piscina rather than to remain here and mire ourselves with the scraps left behind.’
‘So it is to be revenge, is it?’
‘I would prefer you not cheapen my motives with such terminology, Supreme Grand Master. It is justice to punish those guilty of the crimes, is it not? The Beast ruined Piscina. We are simply putting the planet out of its misery.’
Azrael looks to speak but pauses, confounded by Belial’s argument. He sits down, steepling his hands to his chin as he rests his elbow on the report-strewn desk. He looks at Belial for some time and then moves his gaze to Asmodai, eyes narrowing slightly.
‘It is a bleak day when the Adeptus Astartes must weigh the life and death of a whole world, an entire culture that has supported and praised them for generations. You are both dismissed.’
‘Are you refusing my proposal, Supreme Grand Master? Am I to conclude that my plan does not find favour in your eyes? You will not conduct exterminatus?’
‘You have made sound arguments, brother. I will not decide the fate of a world in a moment.’
Ghazghkull straightened and broke into a run, covering the ground with strides surprisingly swift for the bulk of his armour. It took only an instant to calculate that the plasma pistol would not be recharged before the Beast was upon me. I was in no haste to meet the Beast in single combat, not while there were other courses of action open. I holstered my plasma weapon as I turned, and pulled out my bolt pistol as I broke into a run. I fired blind, on the move, dispensing a shot every second. The compact cogitators fitted into each bolt guided them towards the warlord. I
heard the crack of their impacts but had no idea where they struck.
I headed for one of the abandoned warehouses, the front wall listing like a sinking ship, the roof pulverised by the earlier bombardment. My auto-senses switched to low visibility mode as I ducked beneath the cracked lintel of a secondary door into the darkness within.
Slowing, I leapt over piles of collapsed masonry and navigated past fallen beams, ducking and turning as dictated by the mangled debris. I paused and checked behind frequently, knowing that the ork could be upon me in moments. Ghazghkull was silhouetted against the main cargo doors, almost filling the gap.
I activated the vox and requested a gunship strike on my position. For an aiming point, I detached my homing device and dropped it to the floor. The ping of its comm-signal sounded clear as I moved away, heading towards the rear of the warehouse.
The Winged Retribution answered my request and I ordered the gunners level the whole building and then turn it into rubble. I was younger then, still occasionally prone to such imprecise melodrama.
Looking again, I saw that Ghazghkull was shouldering his way through the tangled wreckage, plaster and masonry dust falling thick as he heaved aside a broken wall. A glow from the bionic eye glinted from shattered window panes and fallen skylights. The tread of the warlord’s steps was muffled by the rubble underfoot, a soft crunch of settling gravel and crushed brick that I could use to determine his position even as I circled, my back to the enemy.
I needed him to come further into the building, to ensure there would be no escape. I stepped out in front of the Beast and fired the last two shots in my pistol. The bolts exploded against the ork’s engine pack, letting out a cloud of steam and spray of thick lubricant. His claw opened and shut several times as the Beast saw me and turned.
I backed away, holstering the pistol and drawing my plasma weapon. I checked the chrono-display and was satisfied that there would not be enough time for the Beast to get out of the warehouse before the gunship arrived.
I fired the plasma pistol, aiming not for the ork but for a metal girder above him, holding back the collapsed remnants of an upper floor. The shot parted a support, causing it to buckle in moments. With a creak, the tortured metal twisted and gave way. Several tonnes of plasboard and ferrocrete fell on the Beast. Not enough to knock the creature from his feet, but distracting, giving me time to break to the right, heading for an external door I had seen as I entered.
Once outside, I turned and headed back to the main harbour front where I had first encountered the Beast, granting me a clear view to the Thunderhawk’s attack run. Missiles streamed from its wings and heavy bolters let out a fusillade of fire. The nose-mounted lascannon sent stabs of white into the building and the fuselage battle cannon opened fire. The missile hit a second before the shells, detonating only after penetrating the warehouse wall and throwing up a plume of shattered bricks and plasteel. The battle cannon shell ripped into the interior, fire and smoke belching from the hole as it exploded within.
The Thunderhawk circled and continued to rain down vengeance with lascannon and shell. It turned broken brick to gravel, glass to glittering splinters and metal stanchions into molten droplets. A power inlet erupted into a plume of burning gas, sending a cloud of masonry shards into the sky. Small pieces of ferrocrete fell on my armour like rain and on the roadway around me. After continued punishment the warehouse collapsed, the last vestiges of its wall and roof reduced to several tons of rubble.
The pilot affirmed that the target was destroyed and I despatched the gunship back to the fighting, thinking that even if Ghazghkull had survived, the ork would be heavily injured and easy to finish off. A mistake, a moment of overconfidence I have regretted ever since.
I could still hear the ping of the personal transponder deep beneath the smoking remnants, its coordinates appearing in my visual display. Something shifted in the rubble. It might have been simply debris settling, but I was going to leave nothing to chance. I approached the ruin, plasma pistol at the ready.
He lies in the gloom, the shadows held back by the fitful light of a pale lamp in the bulkhead above his cot. Azrael has not yet replied to his proposal and four days have passed. Four days and four more missions in Kadillus Harbour and across the East Barrens. Four missions, hundreds of dead orks, and yet how many more await their death? Four missions, another dead brother of the First Company, another suit of Tactical Dreadnought armour consigned to the Techmarines for repairs that might take months if they can be completed at all. And nothing to say of the battle-brothers killed and wounded in the other companies. Belial and the Dark Angels could spend a year, five years, and still the purging of Kadillus would not be complete, and the world of Piscina IV would not be freed from the threat of the orks.
His thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the door terminal and a voice on the local comm.
‘It is Brother Ezekiel.’
Belial sits up and barks at the vocal pick-up mounted on the wall.
‘More light. Door open.’
The lights brighten and the door whines aside, revealing the Chief Librarian arrayed in his battleplate, his heraldry the blue of the Librarium. Belial is taken aback by the other Space Marine’s appearance as he moves towards the vox-catcher to warn the armoury of his arrival.
‘A mission? I received no warning.’
‘No, brother, I have just returned from battle. You can relax.’
‘I think not. Did the Supreme Grand Master apprise you of my proposal?’
‘He did, but another issue eclipses it for the moment. I bear a message that cannot be communicated across the vox network.’
Intrigued, Belial beckons for Ezekiel to enter and orders the door closed behind him. The Librarian casts a glance around the sparse quarters before continuing.
‘Sammael and the Ravenwing have returned. The Supreme Grand Master is to convene the Inner Circle as soon as they make orbit.’
‘And they have news? Of… the old enemy?’
‘It would appear to be the case. I have decoded certain messages within the transmission, which indicates that they have in their custody an individual of significance.’
‘One them alive?’
The thought heartens Belial, pushing aside his dark mood, but then the importance of Ezekiel’s news to his current situation becomes more clear.
‘The Deathwing are going to be redeployed, aren’t they? Perhaps the whole Chapter? That is why you have come here. That is why my proposal will not be addressed yet.’
‘I cannot say for sure what will happen, I came to you only as a courtesy, brother. It is likely that if information is gleaned from this new captive, an expedition will be launched. The Deathwing will, you are correct, be required to spearhead such an operation, in concert with the Ravenwing.’
‘So I am to leave Piscina again before my task is completed?’
‘That is not your decision to take. Brother-Sergeant Seraphiel, one of the Knights of the Old Order, has also sent word. He has been forced to elevate three of the battle-brothers to the status of Deathwing. You can access the full details on his engagement report.’
‘I see. Three more brothers to welcome to the damnation of the truth. I do not envy them the next few days. We shall see if they really have the mettle to become Deathwing.’
‘I must speak to Brother-Chaplain Sapphon. I will see you at the convening of the Inner Circle.’
Belial bids farewell to the Librarian with a nod and turns his attention to his network terminal. He spends some time reading the reports of Sergeant Seraphiel, one of the Inner Circle’s lesser ranked agents. At times it is useful for the Inner Circle to have eyes and ears in places where those of officer rank would arouse suspicion and quieten tongues.
Several more days pass, days of fighting orks and rebels, days of monotonous bloodshed, yet every encounter, every skirmish and battle is treated with equal im
portance by the Master of the First Company. He may wish the battle ended but not the smallest detail in tactics or execution escapes his attention. None that exceed expectation go without praise and none that fall short go without penance.
Belial notices his own distraction on occasion, thinking about his entreaty to Azrael or the meaning of the returned Ravenwing, but he tries his best to conquer the unease he feels. He would expect nothing less of those under his command, and certainly expects total focus from himself.
Eventually Sammael and his Second Company reach the Tower of Angels above Piscina and Azrael convenes the Inner Circle. Before he can attend, Belial has another matter to address, one more duty to execute: to welcome the newest inductees of the First Company.
He waits for them to arrive from their ship, an imposing figure of absolute authority as far as the battle-brothers are concerned, unaware as they are of the debates and dichotomies that cause him such anguish on occasion. His mind is filled with dark thoughts and his mood is grim.
Two of the newcomers, Brothers Menthius and Daellon, disembark swiftly from the Thunderhawk and come to attention in front of the Grand Master. Belial eyes them patiently, simultaneously disappointed by them and yet full of empathy.
He is disappointed because they have disobeyed orders and witnessed the Fallen first-hand. Sergeant Seraphiel could perhaps have organised their deaths to maintain the close secrecy around knowledge of the traitors, but he has seen promise in the warriors and has chosen to spare them.
Belial feels for them also because he knows what they do not, what they will learn soon. Myths and outright lies have been their diet up until now, and their next meal with be the raw truth, as unpalatable as grox tripe. He has known even the most mentally strong warriors lose their courage, their purpose and duty when they have learned that much of what they fight to protect is a lie.
The third, Telemenus, descends after another minute has passed, his gaze casually appraising Belial as if he was at a briefing or report. Telemenus falls into place without so much as a word of apology. Such disrespect, on meeting his new Grand Master for the first time, has to be confronted lest it lead to further laxity. Belial can see the latent arrogance that lingers behind their confident looks. They have been welcomed into the elite of the Chapter, why would they not be pleased with themselves?
