Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  The Lion stood at the centre of the main chamber. In front of him knelt a Dark Angel, a white tabard over his black armour, head bowed in obeisance. Surrounded by his personal guard, Brother-Redemptor Nemiel stood over the kneeling legionary, his pistol and crozius in his hands. The kneeling warrior’s helm was under his arm, his face half-hidden behind long waves of black hair. It was Brother Asmodeus, formerly of the Librarius.

  The rumble of the doors drew his attention away from the tableau. Corswain entered accompanied by the Navigators. The seneschal whispered something and motioned for them to stand to one side.

  The Lion looked across at Corswain.

  ‘Your timing is unintentionally impeccable, little brother,’ said the primarch. ‘I am faced with a dilemma.’

  ‘My liege, I do not know what is happening here, but I am sure it can wait a while. We need your guidance. The ship is under sustained attack, from creatures that are almost impervious to our weapons.’

  ‘The punishment of oath-breakers brooks no delay,’ said Nemiel.

  ‘Oath-breaker?’ said Corswain, looking at Asmodeus. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘My little brother has transgressed,’ said the Lion, his tone even. ‘Upon being attacked, he broke the Edict of Nikaea and unleashed the powers of his mind.’

  ‘He performed sorcery,’ snarled Nemiel. ‘The same vileness perpetrated by the Night Lords that now threatens our ship!’

  ‘That is to be decided, Brother-Redemptor,’ said the Lion. ‘I have not yet delivered my verdict.’

  ‘The Council of Nikaea was absolute, my liege,’ said Nemiel. ‘Warriors of the Librarius were to curtail their powers. Asmodeus has breached the oath he swore.’

  ‘Did it work?’ said Corswain.

  ‘What?’ said Nemiel, turning his skull-faced helm in the direction of the seneschal.

  ‘Asmodeus, did your powers destroy the enemy?’

  The former Librarian said nothing, but looked up at the primarch and nodded.

  ‘Interesting,’ said the primarch, his green eyes fixing on Corswain.

  ‘I have seen first-hand what these things can do. They are…’ said the seneschal, hesitating. He took a breath and continued. ‘We face nephilla, my liege, or something akin to them. They are not wholly physical and our weapons do little damage to their unnatural flesh.’

  ‘They are creatures of the warp, lauded primarch.’ The group of Dark Angels turned as the Chief Navigator Lady Fiana approached. ‘They are made of warp-stuff, and the breach has allowed them to manifest in our world. They cannot be destroyed, only sent back. The gaze of our third eyes can harm them.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked the Lion, stooping to lay a hand on the shoulder of Asmodeus. ‘Were your powers capable of harming our attackers?’

  ‘From the warp they come, and with the power of the warp they can be banished again,’ said the Librarian. He stood as the Lion changed his grip and guided the legionary to his feet. He met the primarch’s gaze for a moment and then looked away again. ‘Brother-Redemptor Nemiel is right, my liege. I have broken the oath I swore.’

  ‘A grave crime, and one that I will be sure to prosecute properly when the current situation has been resolved,’ said the Lion. He looked at Nemiel. ‘There are two others of the Librarius aboard – Hasfael and Alberein. Bring them here.’

  ‘This is a mistake, my liege,’ said Nemiel, shaking his head. ‘The abominations that attack us, these nephilla, are a conjuration of sorceries. I swore an oath also, to uphold the Edict of Nikaea. To unleash further sorcery will endanger us even more. Think again, my liege!’

  ‘I have issued an order, Brother-Redemptor,’ said the Lion, drawing himself up to his full height.

  ‘One that I cannot follow,’ said Nemiel, his tone hard though his hands trembled with the effort of defying his primarch.

  ‘My authority is absolute,’ the Lion said. He clenched his fists, his lips drawn back to reveal gleaming teeth.

  A cold chill crept up the observer’s spine, as the Lion took on his name in countenance. He thought he saw something savage emerging, but the Brother-Redemptor was oblivious, or chose to ignore the warning signs. He wanted to cry out, to urge the Chaplain to cease his protest, but he feared intervening in the unfolding drama.

  ‘The Edict of Nikaea was issued by the Emperor, my liege,’ said Nemiel. ‘There is no higher authority.’

  ‘Enough!’ The Lion’s roar drowned out all other sound.

  He was not entirely sure what happened next. The Lion moved and a split second later a cracked skull-faced helm was spinning through the dull glowing lights of the strategium, cutting a bloody arc through the air. Nemiel’s headless corpse clattered to the floor as the Lion held up his hand, pieces of ceramite embedded in the fingertips of his gore-spattered gaunt–

  Something smashed into the side of Zahariel’s head, knocking him to the deck of the transport. A glittering trail of gold linked him to Belath until the connection was lost a second later.

  Astelan moved forward, his weapon pointed unwaveringly at Zahariel’s left eye. He was just moments from pulling the trigger, his face impassive.

  The options screamed through Zahariel’s thoughts. He could knock the Space Marine away with a raw blast of power. Blind him with a flash of light. Break the mechanism inside the bolt pistol. Swathe the Land Raider with darkness.

  ‘We heard only that the Librarius was to be disbanded, nothing more.’ He snarled the next words, barely containing his fury. ‘What was so powerful about this edict that my cousin died for it?’

  ‘The command of the Emperor Himself,’ gasped Belath. ‘All Librarians were to cease using their powers and return to the battle-ranks. There were to be no exceptions. I do not understand psykers very well, but your abilities were declared to be against the Imperial Truth. So said the Emperor, and so believed Nemiel!’

  In the couple of heartbeats it took to process this, Zahariel expected to hear the report of the bolt. Nothing came.

  Astelan stepped back, lowering his weapon. He thrust out a hand to push back Belath as the Chapter Master sought to gain his feet.

  ‘Stand down!’ the First Master snapped at both of them. He turned his frosty glare on Belath. ‘Unless you wish for me to allow him to continue his examination, you will stand down.’

  Belath darted an angry stare at Zahariel but made no further attempt to rise. Astelan returned his attention to the former Librarian.

  ‘The Lion killed Nemiel,’ said the Master of the Mystai. He raised his fingers to his temple and saw congealing blood on his gauntlet when he took it away. ‘Took off his head.’

  ‘The Lion is not here,’ Astelan said calmly, holstering his pistol. He offered a hand to Zahariel and helped him up. ‘Belath is the messenger, not the perpetrator.’

  ‘If Nemiel’s will had prevailed, we would have all been slain,’ Belath growled. ‘He had no right to defy the primarch.’

  ‘A crime punished by death without trial?’ replied Zahariel. ‘I saw what you saw. The Lion killed him out of hand.’

  The comm-unit was barking inquiries from the escorting vehicles and the driver was bent at the hatch to his compartment, concern written across his face.

  ‘Is the Land Raider still operational?’ Astelan demanded.

  ‘A few electrical systems overloaded, First Master, but it will run.’

  ‘Then why are you gawping at us? Get us into the Angelicasta!’

  The driver swiftly retreated and the hull pulsed with the restart of the main motors. A few seconds later the rumble of the tracks reverberated through the transport. Zahariel tried to push aside the memory of his cousin’s death as seen through Belath’s eyes, but he could not.

  The Lion moved and a split second later a cracked skull-faced helm was spinning through the dull glowing lights of the strategium, cutting a bloody arc through the air. Nemiel’s headless corpse clattered to the floor as the Lion held up his hand, pieces of ceramite embedded in the fingertips of his gore-spattere
d gauntlet…

  A cracked skull-faced helm, spinning through the strategium, cutting a bloody arc through the air. Nemiel’s corpse clattered to the floor as the Lion held up his hand, pieces of ceramite embedded in the fingertips of his gore-spattered gauntlet…

  Nemiel’s corpse clattered to the floor as the Lion held up his gore-spattered gauntlet…

  A cracked skull-faced helm…

  Nemiel’s corpse…

  Gore-spattered gauntlet…

  Zahariel wrenched himself from the trance at the weight of a hand on his shoulder. Astelan gestured for Zahariel to sit as he lowered himself back into his alcove.

  ‘Now you understand the nature of the beast that was awoken,’ the First Master said quietly.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Zahariel snarled at Belath, ignoring Astelan. ‘Why have you returned?’

  ‘I am beginning to wonder that myself,’ the Chapter Master replied.

  Merir Astelan, Chapter Master of the First Legion

  FOURTEEN

  Signs

  Ultramar

  The ramp had barely touched down on the snow before the Lion was descending with long strides, emerging from the gloom of the Stormbird’s interior into the pale winter sun. The midday light gleamed from the first snows on the Illyrian peaks to the north and west.

  Holguin followed, along with several of the Masters and Paladins of the Deathwing. The Lion was grateful for his subordinates’ silence as he stood with arms crossed, waiting for his brother to arrive.

  In a blizzard caused by the downdraught of its wings, Guilliman’s personal ornithopter descended to the mountainside. It was almost silent, powered by stacked atomic cells, a blue-and-white ghost in the flurry of disturbed snow. Hydraulics whined as landing feet extended. The craft settled with all the grace of a butterfly, the remaining snow crunching under the weight.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s wrong with a Stormbird,’ said Barzareon, Paladin of the 31st Order. ‘That flitter-bug looks like it would be knocked over by a strong breeze.’

  ‘While I am at post as Lord Protector, Lord Guilliman believes that a civilian transport better fits his role,’ the Lion replied. As much as he had his doubts about his brother’s conviction to prosecute the pursuit of Curze, he would not have his legionaries speak ill of a member of the Imperial Triumvirate. ‘It is a noble warrior that is willing to sheathe his sword.’

  ‘Of course, my liege,’ said Barzareon.

  Guilliman emerged from the open side of the shuttle-flyer, flanked by two legionaries. The first the Lion had come to know well enough, Drakus Gorod, captain of the Invictarus, clad in blue Cataphractus Terminator armour chased with polished white marble and gold. The other was more of an enigma – Valentus Dolor, Tetrarch of Occluda. He was a titan of a warrior, even next to a primarch, his highly ornate plate crafted by the finest artisans, painted in white with trims of blue, a reverse of the standard XIII Legion livery.

  ‘You can see me well enough from there,’ Guilliman declared, raising a hand in a gesture to stop. ‘You are not part of this.’

  Only after a moment did the Lion realise the words were addressed to the grey-armoured warriors skulking at the door to the ornithopter. Space Wolves, on a self-appointed mission to watch Guilliman. For what, exactly, the Lion was no longer sure. The founding of Imperium Secundus had begun. What the VI Legion thought about it had been rendered irrelevant. It was likely that there was another so-called watch-pack scouring the galaxy for him. Tuchulcha’s rapid transit through the ruinstorm had put paid to any chance they had of finding the Lion.

  If they came across Corswain and the rest of the First Legion, they would get scant indulgence.

  ‘Why are we here, Lord Protector?’ Guilliman asked, crossing the muddied snow.

  ‘To see this.’

  The Lion waved towards the blocky building two hundred metres further up the slope. It was two storeys high, its ferrocrete foundation jutting out in a solid block from the mountainside. A tall obelisk of girders stretched up from one side of the station, its summit encrusted with vox transmitters and receiver dishes.

  ‘A communications relay station,’ said Guilliman, joining the Lion as he started up the slope. They came upon a black-surfaced track that zigzagged up the mountain. They strode across it and up the rock. ‘Station Fifty-eight-decline, to be exact. A redundancy system in case of loss of orbital relays.’

  ‘It has been attacked,’ said the Lion as they reached the road again and this time followed it to the small doorway in the side of the communications building. ‘Contact was lost yesterday, just after midnight.’

  Guilliman said nothing as the Lion stopped and looked within, the door being too small to allow him entry with any kind of dignity. Inside, the building was broken into a split-level, the bottom floor filled with purring atomic generators and the communications consoles. Upstairs, on a mezzanine overlooking the machinery, three bunk-cots and a row of lockers accommodated the six-strong work shift.

  The station was empty of people, and of any evidence of violence – not a spent casing or las-mark marred the perfectly maintained facility.

  He felt Guilliman at his shoulder and moved aside. The primarch of the Ultramarines knelt and stuck his head in.

  ‘Why do you assume an attack?’ asked the Lord Warden as he withdrew.

  The Lion nodded to Holguin, and the leader of the Deathwing ducked his bulk through the door as carefully as he could. The stairs were made of the same ferrocrete as the foundations and sustained his weight as he took them three at a stride.

  ‘Here,’ said Holguin, opening the first of the six lockers.

  Inside were the bloodied remains of a woman, clothes in tatters on her lacerated body. Gore matted her hair and streaked her face, which seemed untouched from this distance. She was pinned to the back of the locker with a narrow metal spar.

  Holguin opened the other lockers, displaying the three other women and two men of the last shift. All were similarly pierced and displayed, their faces showing no signs of the pain or terror they must have felt.

  Saying nothing, Holguin turned the head of the man in the last locker and used a thumb to raise an eyelid. The socket within was empty.

  ‘They’ve all had their eyes removed,’ the voted lieutenant declared.

  ‘It has to be Curze,’ the Lion said as Holguin returned.

  ‘Who found the bodies?’ asked Guilliman. ‘Where is everyone else?’

  ‘I was here earlier, Lord Guilliman,’ said Holguin. ‘The previous shift-crew have been located and detained, as have the third shift members, due on in three hours. We secured the area when our nuncio alerted us to the control centre’s repeated requests for the station maintenance logs.’

  ‘Your nuncio-vox intercepted a secure, ciphered transmission?’ Dolor said. ‘By what right are you listening in to the civilian communication stream? And you should have alerted the Praecental Guard before seizing anybody.’

  ‘Who is “we”?’ Guilliman asked. ‘Who secured the area?’

  ‘My legionaries,’ the Lion replied. He turned his attention to Dolor. ‘We are listening to civilian communications because it is more likely that we will find the telltale signs of Curze’s presence in their chatter. Civilian operators gossip more, tetrarch. They swap rumours, strange goings-on. Ghost stories. These are the footprints in the snow that will lead us to Curze. It is not my right to do so – as Lord Protector, it is my duty.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘As for the Praecental Guard, they have already proven themselves incapable of rendering any area secure, even the Fortress of Hera.’

  ‘A bloody big footprint,’ muttered Gorod.

  ‘What’s that?’ the Lion demanded, turning the full intensity of his attention towards the fief commander of the Invictus bodyguard. Despite his years and conditioning, Gorod could not help but flinch.

  ‘Why would Curze leave such obvious evidence?’ Guilliman interceded. ‘You speak of paper-thin trails leading us to hi
m, but claim he has left six corpses on display.’

  ‘Blinded, in a vox post,’ the Lion pointed out. ‘Do you not think that there is a message there? He is baiting us, be sure of it.’

  ‘There is another explanation, Lord Protector, Lord Warden,’ ventured Dolor. ‘We are in Illyrium. What the uncouth would call “bandit country”. There are clans here that have squabbled with each other for millennia. For all we know, these workers were on the wrong side of a retributive strike, or targeted by Illyrian dissenters.’

  ‘You think they were killed because of a highland feud?’ said Holguin. ‘Eviscerated, blinded and pinned to their lockers by angry neighbours? Without a drop of blood being left elsewhere?’

  ‘These people are barbarians,’ added Gorod. ‘They do all sorts of bad things to each other. Scare tactics. Could even be a common criminal element. It is not unknown that smugglers sometimes use these stations. Perhaps the crew were uncooperative.’

  ‘Illyrium has always harboured a lawless element,’ Guilliman said, his manner apologetic. ‘Important information crosses these mountains, the stations give them a mechanical entry point into the network. Theoretically, it is easier for them to crack the ground-based ciphers, manually accessing the signals.’

  ‘Smugglers? Common criminals?’ The Lion could not believe what he was hearing and fought to keep in check the biting remarks that crowded towards his tongue. He breathed deep. The cold of the mountain air through flared nostrils cleared his thoughts.

  ‘Possibly anti-Imperial dissidents,’ admitted Guilliman. ‘There is an equally long and unpleasant history between Illyrium and the civitas.’

  ‘If that is the case then, Curze or not, we have to deal with this,’ the Lion insisted.