by Gav Thorpe
‘It is you that lies. The Emperor defeated Horus. Your crusade is over, your Legion shattered. There is nothing for you here, dark flame of Nostramo!’
The daemon had no features but the jolt of its head signified surprise.
‘That is right, son of Night Haunter, I know the darkness from whence you came,’ Azrael said, advancing slowly, paying attention to the flex and moan of the Thunderhawk wreck beneath his feet. ‘Caliban died, but the Angelicasta survived. You think we do not have records of the Heresy, when all was anarchy and betrayal? I know you Night Lord. I know your kind. Ten thousand years you have lusted after the dominion of the Emperor, and for ten thousand years men like me have held you back. Today it shall be the same!’
‘You throw around names that mean nothing to you.’
The daemon prince pulled back on the leash of its shadowhound, causing the grotesque monster to whine and gibber with frustration. ‘You have no knowledge of the deeper mysteries, just children’s books with bright pictures. The World of Night is no more – I hail from a far grander realm.’
‘And you will see it again soon, son of Curze.’
‘Do not use that name, Lion’s pup!’ Motes of redness flashed from the daemon prince’s eyes. ‘It is a dead thing, of no value. There is only one title that you need speak. The Painted Count demands your subservience and you shall grovel before me to be granted it.’
‘I see that ten thousand years has not settled your delusions,’ Azrael said with a forced laugh. He had almost reached the top of the slope, twenty metres from the daemon prince. ‘I am Azrael, Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, Lord of the Rock, Scion of Caliban, Commander of the Angelicasta. I bow only to one power and He resides on Terra! You... You are not fit to scrape the mud from the tracks of my Land Raider.’
‘This world shall be mine, Lion’s whelp,’ the Painted Count said with a deep laugh. It lifted up its monstrous hand and lightning crackled across the splayed fingers. ‘It is too late to stop me.’
A dozen wrinkles in the air became splits in reality, and from each spawned a dozen more, spreading out across the battlefield, scattering across the sky. Warp power churned and an unnatural storm boiled the smoke clouds while purple beams of coruscating energy leapt from one abyssal gate to the next.
Azrael watched impotently as the portals widened, stretching and distending, revealing crowds of nightmarish entities pushing and clawing as though trapped behind flexible glassite.
‘Be thankful you shall not live long enough to see the world fall and your brothers devoured.’
The Painted Count released the shadow-tether of its infernal hound. With a screech of joy it bounded forwards, limbs a blur, phantom mouths spraying spittle.
Reaching the summit of the slope, Azrael steadied himself to meet its charge, a shoulder turned towards it, the Sword of Secrets held in a two-fisted grip. He fixed all of his attention on the approaching daemonbeast, blotting out the horrendous moans and screams that cut the air, the flare of purplish otherlight as the Painted Count’s host started to burst through the veil that held them back from Rhamiel.
The thing lurched, one moment a dozen metres away, the next upon Azrael, a flailing, snarling cloud of blackness that engulfed the lord of the Dark Angels. A hundred mouths snapped at his armour, countless teeth rasped and scratched at the plate. Droplets of spittle hissed and burned where they fell on the enamel, and stung the flesh of his exposed face.
He swung the Sword of Secrets.
The blade was a shard of silver in his hands. Its light separated the body of the shadowhound to leave frayed tendrils of darkness parting around Azrael. He had expected resistance and met none, almost overbalancing, at the last moment throwing out a hand to seize hold of a jutting spar to stop an awkward tumble back down the slope of armoured plate behind him.
Oily black rain spattered across him and onto the ground, each a tiny quivering creature for a second until they splashed together into a puddle at his feet. The surface seethed and boiled, quickly vanishing into nothing.
Azrael pointed his sword at the Painted Count, a silent challenge.
The daemon nodded in acceptance. It arched its back, exposing a heavily ribbed chest. The bones shifted and split, breaking open to reveal the gory cavity within. The Painted Count reached inside its chest and seized hold of a bright gem that pulsed like a heart. As the daemon pulled it free the jewel elongated, becoming a long blade of dark red that left after-images of shadow on Azrael’s vision.
Daemonblade in one hand, brutal powerfist encasing the other, the daemon flexed its arms and wings, obviously relishing the contest to come.
It levelled its fist to fire a stream of flaming blasts at Azrael.
The Supreme Grand Master narrowly evaded the salvo, forced to hurl himself to one side, seeking better footing as the Painted Count laughed again.
The air behind the daemon prince shimmered. A corona of gold and emerald formed around the creature, flickers of energy spreading out like cracks in the air. The Painted Count adjusted its aim and cocked its head to one side.
‘Good bye, Lion whelp.’
A golden shard appeared in its chest, pushing through from behind. For a moment the daemon prince stood transfixed, immobile, eyes widened in shock. Auric power rippled from the needle of gold like flame along paper, consuming the daemon prince, stripping away its physical shell in seconds.
A cloud of gold-edged ash fluttered away, as though driven by a wind, to reveal a figure. As tall as Azrael, though slender of waist and shoulder, swathed in a scarlet robe embroidered with curving silver sigils. The gold shard was revealed to be the point of a sword, no wider than a finger, slightly curved with a basket hilt. In the figure’s other hand was clutched a staff headed by an intricate sun design, wrought from gold and precious stones. Black gloves covered long, narrow fingers. An ornate full helm enclosed its head, adorned with oval gemstones that gleamed with a light not from Rhamiel’s sun nor the fires of battle. Jewelled eye-lenses regarded Azrael with their sapphire gaze.
Even if he had not known what it was he looked upon, the moment the figure moved – the simplest of motions to lower its sword to its side – it was clear that Azrael looked upon no human. Effortless grace defined the figure, a lightness about its person so that it seemed barely of the real world at all, but instead perhaps a reflection of something distant.
One of the ancient and mysterious eldar.
Date Ident: 114940.M41#0900
Across the battlefield the fluctuating abyssal rifts spasmed and wept golden energy. Bruises on the veil of reality became iridescent spheres; the half-seen daemons within shimmered and the wails of their anguish flooded over the renegades and Dark Angels.
Where the unholy entities of the warp had been making egress into the realm of mortals, graceful craft swept out from flickering arches of gold light. Swept-wing aircraft and sleek grav-tanks slid effortlessly into being from the void portals, their hulls the same red as the robe of Azrael’s saviour. Behind came flights of jetbike riders in scarlet and black, long pennants trailing from their speeding mounts.
More portals opened in the distance, delivering alien warriors against the renegade artillery corps and the last infantry columns still marching down from the foothills. A particularly blinding flash of auric power opened up a wavering gate twice as tall as the Dark Angels command tower and from its whirling depths strode two immense walkers – elegant war machines with slender limbs as tall as the Knights, with cannons and blades to match the might of the hereteks’ renegade engines. Pulses of blue energy leapt from their guns to catch the closest Knight unaware, punching through its rear armour.
As its companion fell, the last surviving Knight ponderously turned, its directional field flaring when the eldar walkers redirected their attack, its multi-barrelled cannon roaring a violent defiance. Alien vehicles and jetbikes curved and raced, encircling the labouring rebel tanks, xenotech weapons scything and blazing.
‘If you think to fe
ed on the scraps of our battle, you will find they have a nasty bite left in them,’ Azrael told the eldar that had slain the daemon, brandishing the Sword of Secrets.
The eldar regarded him silently, poised elegantly on a rise of rock just a few metres away. The golden portal from which the alien had emerged fluttered several times and a handful of other figures appeared, also garbed in robes and odd bone-like breastplates, bearing swords and spears. Their helms were less ornate, their finery not as ornamented as their leader.
‘We do not come for you.’ The eldar’s voice drifted on the wind, each syllable pronounced with soft precision, its mellow tone neither deep not high-pitched. Azrael could not tell from the voice nor the slim build of the alien whether it was male or female. ‘It is the slaves of the Dark Gods that feel our wrath today.’
‘We do not need such aid,’ growled Azrael. ‘This world is not yours to protect.’
‘Pride, warrior of the Emperor, is a terrible weakness. I do not think you truly believe you had retained the upper hand in this battle.’
Azrael knew the alien spoke the truth, but would never admit as such openly to one of the xenos. The arrival of the eldar had averted what had looked to be another disaster, but he was not yet ready to claim victory.
‘You have not answered to your purpose in coming here. What is the world of Rhamiel to the eldar?’
‘This planet is not yet safe. Though its banishment seemed dramatic, the Painted Count is not vanquished, nor is its dark host. We are able to keep their power at bay for a while longer while we slay their mortal allies, but that will not keep them from this world for long.’
‘You propose a truce? Unite against a common foe? You still have not told me your motive for this intervention.’
‘Such is the gratitude of the Emperor’s sons,’ the eldar said with a long sigh.
‘Such is the nature of alliance with the eldar,’ Azrael snapped back. The alien responded with a lilting laugh and a tilt of the head.
‘You are not wrong.’ The alien sheathed its blade and took up its staff in both hands. ‘I am… My name would be Walker on Grey Paths in your tongue. I know from our intercepts of your communications that you are Azrael of the Dark Angels.’
The Supreme Grand Master said nothing. He heard cautious calls from behind and glanced over his shoulder to see that a small knot of Space Marines had ventured from the aegis-line – two squads led by Ezekiel and Dagonet.
‘Hold your fire,’ he shouted back, raising a hand to forestall any such behaviour.
‘Your warriors are quite safe, Azrael of the Dark Angels,’ the eldar told him, though he knew better than to trust the word of an alien.
‘I ask one more time, and if I do not receive a clear answer there can be no alliance. What is your purpose in coming here?’
‘Speak not with the xenos!’ Dagonet bellowed, coming up past the broken Thunderhawk fuselage. ‘Lies fall from the tongues of the eldar as easily as rain from clouds.’
‘Do not make any bargain with it, Azrael,’ warned Ezekiel. His eye was a shimmering orb of gold, the wires of his psychic hood blazing with power as he confronted the eldar. ‘It is a farseer, a high warlock of their kind.’
‘Enough!’ The harshness that entered the alien’s voice was a stark contrast to the mellifluous air of moments before, like the stroke of a soft glove that became the crack of a barbed whip. ‘Time is not our friend.’
‘You have an answer?’ Azrael asked, motioning for Ezekiel and Dagonet to stay back a short way.
‘A common foe and vested interest,’ Walker on Grey Paths told him. ‘Your gifted companion is correct – I am a farseer, a teller of prophecy and unwinder of the skein of fate. If you are not victorious today, your foes will claim Rhamiel and from here their taint will spread to threaten our home in the future. Today offers us the best opportunity to cut that thread of fate and protect our people.’
‘You buy your security with the lives of the Emperor’s faithful.’
The alien offered no argument against this. Dagonet moved as though about to speak but Azrael raised his hand to quiet him.
‘You could have intervened earlier,’ he said slowly, gaze fixed on the farseer. ‘If you wished to cleanse Rhamiel of the infernal taint, you had opportunity to slay the rebel leaders before today. Why wait until battle is engaged?’
Another tilt of the head. Azrael thought the farseer amused, but the words that followed were not spoken in humour.
‘Your insight is a credit to you, Azrael of the Dark Angels,’ said Walker on Grey Paths. ‘This battle will not seal the safety of my people. There is another, a sorcerer of the faction you call Night Lords. It is his power that allowed the Painted Count to break the veil to this realm. He was hidden to my sight, but has revealed himself now.’
‘We were bait in a trap?’
‘More than that. We require you to hunt down the Dark Summoner. I need your help, Azrael of the Dark Angels.’
‘What can I do that the eldar cannot?’
‘The Dark Summoner has a ship in the outer system. A fortified lair surrounded by a guard of enhanced warriors.’ Walker on Grey Paths swept a hand to encompass the raging battle. Scarlet-hulled craft and flights of jetbikes zoomed and slashed through the renegades, who in turn pressed towards the unforgiving guns of the Dark Angels. Overhead Thunderhawks, Nephilim, Dark Talons and eldar craft circled each other warily, some diving down to strafe the enemy tanks in swift attack runs while others flew patrols over their own forces. ‘My people require room to manoeuvre. We do not like to fight in confined spaces. It would cost a great many eldar lives to prise free the Dark Summoner. Your warriors are hardened to brutal assault.’
Azrael did not bother repeating his accusation that the eldar were spending the lives of his brothers for their own benefit. The farseer either did not acknowledge the sacrifice or simply didn’t care.
‘I warned that time is short. The Painted Count is not banished, merely inconvenienced. The Dark Summoner will return its master to the battlefield before night falls.’
‘If the sorcerer is hiding in the outer system it would take days to reach him,’ said Dagonet.
‘That is not the alien’s intent,’ replied Ezekiel. He pointed his sword at the golden portal that still shimmered behind the farseer and its entourage.
‘Is this true? You think we would use your diabolic gates to reach our enemy?’
‘My companion, Blade of Winter Tears, will guide you,’ said the farseer. One of the other eldar stepped forwards, a curved blade in one hand. ‘She will make the parting of the ways and take you to the heart of the Dark Summoner’s void castle.’
Azrael retreated several paces, never taking his eye from the eldar. Dagonet and Ezekiel came closer, sensing his desire for council. The accompanying Space Marines spread out, their weapons levelled at the eldar cabal.
‘You cannot trust this creature,’ Dagonet said.
‘I do not,’ Azrael assured him. ‘But that does not mean it is lying.’
‘We are being manipulated,’ the Chaplain countered.
‘We were being beaten.’ Azrael said quietly, his gaze moving from Dagonet to Ezekiel. ‘Again. You were right, the omens were poor for today. What do you see now, Master of the Librarius?’
‘I am not an eldar – I do not conjure visions of the future on a whim,’ Ezekiel snapped.
‘Tell me, then, whether you feel the infernal host is still close at hand. Can you sense it?’
The gleam of the Librarian’s psychic hood became more diffuse, extending from his helm for several seconds.
‘There is a darkness upon the warp. I hear the scratching of overthings, their whispers in our waking dreams.’
‘Walker on Grey Paths is telling the truth, it seems, or part of it.’ Azrael tightened and then relaxed his grip on the Sword of Secrets. ‘I do not like this situation, but we have little choice. If the eldar wished us ill they could have attacked at any time since our arrival. I do not know how their
scheme will play out, but I see no alternative but to hunt down this sorcerer, for the sake of Rhamiel.’
‘Alliance with the aliens?’ Dagonet could not keep the disgust from his voice. ‘It is against every teaching of the Chapter. What honour is there in such a bargain?’
‘Better our honour than a world lost to the darkness,’ Azrael growled. He turned on his heel and strode back to Walker on Grey Paths. It seemed as if the farseer had been immobile during the entire conversation, a statue that came to life again at his approach.
‘Twenty warriors, that many the web-strand can carry,’ said the farseer before Azrael had even spoken of his assent. ‘Your best will be required to defeat the Dark Summoner and his creatures.’
‘I do not trust you, Walker on Grey Paths. Not all of my brothers will return from this venture. My life may be the cost. We will not be your puppets. If this mission is so important to your people, what sacrifice do you offer in return for that?’
The farseer did nothing for several heartbeats. And then, almost too swift to follow, reached to the gem set in the middle of the bone-like breastplate and plucked it free. It sparkled with its own light as the eldar stepped forwards, the jewel proffered to Azrael.
‘I have no need for baubles,’ said the Supreme Grand Master. ‘Its value is meaningless.’
‘This is my spirit stone, Azrael of the Dark Angels.’ It was impossible to be certain with an alien, but the Space Marine detected sadness, a deep and profound regret, in the voice of the eldar. ‘You shall never understand how important it is to me, nor the power it contains. It will suffice as hostage, for if I should die without it, my spirit is forfeit and I shall be eternally damned. I entrust my fate to you, warrior of the Emperor.’
Azrael held out his hand and the farseer dropped the spirit stone into his palm. He felt its warmth, but not in a physical sense. The soft throb in the heart of the gem pulsed through his thoughts, his feelings. The rhythm was mesmerising, and it was with an assertion of will that he broke his eyes from the gem and thrust it into a pouch at his waist.
