Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  Dolor opened his mouth and then closed it again without reply.

  ‘You recall that I offered full cooperation with the Lion and his sons. They have been granted authority to oversee and secure all transit in and out of the capital. Cooperation means accommodating their needs, not simply a lack of interference.’

  ‘There is something more sinister, lord,’ Dolor added, perhaps feeling he had lost face in bringing the previous issue to light.

  ‘Sinister?’

  ‘The First have sent garrison squads onto the orbital defence platforms.’

  ‘As I expected they would.’

  ‘One in three are repositioning as we speak. They are turning their weapons surfacewards.’

  ‘I see.’ Guilliman leaned back. It made sense, from the point of view of the Lion. ‘I am sure it is as much to repurpose their targeting arrays as it is their weapon systems. The defence platforms have high-powered surveillance capabilities if employed in the correct way. A different practical application guided by a new theoretical.’

  ‘Which theoretical is that, lord? To open fire on our own people?’

  ‘A rogue primarch loose on the surface of Macragge.’ Guilliman knew that his brightest and best officers were no fools, but their tribal reaction to the handover of security to the Lion was starting to become repetitive. ‘No matter what we think of the Lion’s methods, remember that Curze remains on our world. The threat to the new emperor is obvious, but bear in mind always that Curze is an indiscriminate murderer. Our warriors, the people of Macragge, are all at risk while he remains at large.’

  The primarch stood up, his chair scraping across the bare floor.

  ‘Our duty is to the people of the Imperium. Keep fixed upon that higher goal. Do not let pride, or Legion loyalty that would be admirable in any other situation, cloud the issue for you, Valentus. In all matters military, for the time being you answer to the Lion. Pass that word to the rest of my sons.’

  ‘As you command, lord,’ Dolor said with a bow. He hesitated, not yet wishing to leave.

  ‘What else?’ Guilliman asked, marshalling his patience as he expected some other complaint.

  ‘The lady Euten sends her regards.’

  He had not spoken to her since the Lion’s public declaration of Legatus Militant, assuming jurisdiction over Macragge. ‘Is that all? Any specific message?’

  ‘None, lord, that she passed to me. She simply asked that you be informed that you are in her thoughts.’

  ‘Thank you, Valentus. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, lord. Master Prayto is waiting outside.’

  ‘I’ll see him next. Send him in when you depart, Valentus.’

  Guilliman turned his back as Dolor left, to look out through the high-arched window behind his desk. From this vantage point he could see across the sprawling estates of the domus all the way to the Gulf of Lycum, past the castle of the Mechanicum, and as far as the Martial Square and the landing fields that dominated the southern expanse of Macragge Civitas.

  He pondered the metaphorical import of not being able to see the great bastion of the Octagon Fortress from the office of the Lord Warden, and listened to the approach of Titus Prayto across the polished boards of Illyrian ash heartwood.

  The Librarian paced quickly, strides shorter than usual. A sign of agitation. Guilliman could hear the slightly raised pulse of his hearts even past the whine of war-plate muscle fibres. The crackle of transparchment rolled in a fist and the slap of his leatherbound scabbard against thigh plate acted as an echo to the heavy footfalls.

  Prayto stopped at the desk with the slightest clearing of his throat.

  ‘What complaint against the Dark Angels do you bring me, centurion?’ Guilliman asked without turning.

  Prayto hesitated, caught off guard by his master’s manner.

  ‘You will not be the first,’ the Lord Warden assured him, ‘so speak plainly.’

  ‘I have received word that the Lion has unleashed his Librarius upon the castrum, lord.’

  ‘Unleashed? A word heavy with emotion, Titus.’ Guilliman faced his subordinate and held out his hand for the parchment leaf. The Librarian handed it over with a grimace.

  ‘They have started to mind-scan all personnel,’ Prayto explained, even as Guilliman read the same from the document. ‘Their leader, an unshaven brute called Myrdun, is demanding that we hand over our keys to the Red Basilica.’

  ‘The tower of the astropaths? Did he explain why?’

  ‘All communication, mundane or psychic, is to be monitored by the Librarius of the First Legion. As if we need the Red Basilica!’

  ‘So you are more insulted by the intimation against your puissance than the loss of privilege?’

  ‘No, lord,’ Prayto recovered quickly. ‘My brothers of the Librarius are a safeguard against the Astra Telepathica failing or falling, ready to take up their duties in the event of attack. We are a redundancy for them.’

  ‘But you just said that you do not need the Red Basilica to transmit psychically,’ Guilliman replied softly.

  ‘What if we need to broadcast further than the system, to the other parts of the Five Hundred Worlds? The Pharos has become… intermittent. Unreliable for important communication. Since the betrayal of Lorgar, you have insisted that we monitor all astrotelepathy, my lord. If we are to break the Edict of Nikaea it is to bolster the strength of the astropaths against the wiles of the traitors.’

  ‘Are the Librarians of the First somehow deficient, centurion? Is there a reason why the safeguarding of the psychic communion cannot be conducted by Myrdun and his brethren?’

  Prayto’s silence verged on the sullen for a moment, but he quickly detected his lord’s worsening mood and spoke up.

  ‘No, Lord Warden. Myrdun presented me with accreditations of the highest calibre and vouches the same for his Librarius.’ He had honour enough at that moment to hang his head in shame. ‘My deepest apologies, lord, for allowing my feelings to obscure clear thinking on this occasion. The halfwit thinks himself a sage, but the sage knows himself to be a halfwit.’

  ‘It is far easier for me to instruct twenty in correct ways, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching,’ Guilliman replied. ‘You have been reading more Shakespire. I am glad you found it agreeable.’

  ‘On a level, lord, though prone to indulgence.’ Prayto bowed. ‘And I have taken yours too long, Lord Warden. I will convey to my brothers that they will comply with all of Master Myrdun’s instructions, as will I.’

  Guilliman smoothed the rolled transparchment on his desk as Prayto departed, glad to see no one else waiting when the door opened. He placed the Librarius communiqué on a pile close to the nearest edge of the desk. It was quite a large stack, and beside it was a digi-slate containing another fifty-eight reports. All of them were grievances, official or subtle, raised against the Dark Angels in the twenty hours since the Lion had declared the Legatus Militant.

  He hoped that they were making headway with security and finding Curze, because they were certainly not making allies or winning friends.

  ‘Though this be psychosis,’ he muttered as he returned to his work, quoting one of his favourite lines of Shakespire, ‘there yet is a process to it.’

  Lines of black armour snaked out from the landing fields fronting the civitas. Some were formed of vehicles – from humble, ubiquitous Rhinos to broad-sided Mastodons and super-heavy Portcullis monotracks bearing energy shield generators unique to the Dark Angels. Other columns were formed of hundreds of legionaries on foot, stepping out smartly beneath banners and pennants, their war-plate polished to a gleam as though they were on drill rather than occupying the capital of the new Imperium. Swordstrike interceptors cut across the sky like daggers thrown by gods, their knife-blade silhouettes dark against the cloud. Even the air belonged to the Lion’s sons.

  Holguin had been amongst the first wave to land from the Architect of History. He had been given a singular task by the Lion, who had impressed upon the D
eathbringer that nobody – not even Lords Guilliman and Sanguinius – was to contradict his orders. He was reluctant to go about that task, and made time to speak to his officers before he left for the Fortress of Hera.

  ‘Nemeres, make sure that you use the Land Speeders to patrol the harbour area too. The domus is a maze, there’s no point us going in there, we’ll leave it to the locals. Every route in and out must be secured, though. Heightened vox protocols, random visual checks by gunship.’

  Captain Nemeres nodded his acceptance of these orders, having been given them twice already. Holguin tested the patience of his subordinates further, glad of the distracting detail.

  ‘We need reinforced barriers at the entrances to the Avenue of Heroes, and I want stop-breaks manned by a squad every hundred metres along the Via Decmanus Maximus. The Milion will be guarded by Casaellis’ Terminators with Land Raider support. First contact and reports will go through the command station at the Octagon Fortress. It’s being reciphered by Paladin Warras as we speak – new channel data will be issued by him before dusk.’

  ‘As you command, Deathbringer,’ they replied, doubtless wishing him to stop and leave them to their duties.

  ‘One other thing, brothers,’ he said, sensing they were about to depart. ‘We are in the home of the Ultramarines and we should extend them all honour and courtesy, but nothing more. We are the Legion de primus and if one of their officers wants to take issue, brook no dissent. We act by the will and the authority of the Lion, the Lord Protector of the Imperium.’

  This cheered them a little and the warriors lifted their fists to their chests in salute before scattering to their various command squads. This left Holguin alone, but for the thirty warriors of the Secta Mortis. His personal guard waited close at hand, their gilded helms marking them out amongst the black of the other Deathwing brethren. Morphael, Carolingus and Athoris – Holguin’s successors, one of whom would take command if he was rendered incapable – were amongst them, each marked with an inverted heart-shaped besagew upon their left pauldrons. Athoris noticed his look and approached, a Terran-forged jezzailli couched under his arm, the blue gleam of its plasma chamber lighting his dark armour.

  ‘Our duty awaits, Brother-Deathbringer.’

  ‘Very well, let us be about it,’ replied Holguin.

  Athoris signalled the others. They split into three, two of the squads heading for Land Raiders parked by the great starport gate. The third squad waited until Holguin set off for Galatine. Based on the hull of a Land Raider, the personal transport of the Deathbringer was, as far as Holguin knew, a unique design of Caliban, replacing tracks with a powerful anti-gravitic generator. As armoured as one of the mobile bunkers of his companions, Galatine was capable of far greater speeds, taking him to the forefront of the fighting wherever that might be.

  Holguin strode up the ramp and took his place just behind the pilot’s compartment while the others seated themselves along the benches in the cramped transport area. When all were ready, he signalled for the Secta Mortis to move off, Galatine leading the way onto the Via Hera, past the memorial gardens and through the Porta Hera.

  They passed through the wall and into the castrum, before turning west towards the Fortress of Hera proper. He let out a breath, not realising he had been holding it, expecting someone to attempt to halt their incursion into the very heart of the XIII Legion’s domain. The transports drew up at the steps to the Praetorium and Holguin disembarked, leaving the gunners and three legionaries to stand watch under the command of Master Dyrnwyn. Committed now, he wasted no time leading the rest up into the Praetorium.

  They encountered a few serfs, scattering from the path of the determined advance of the Dark Angels veterans. Holguin had already memorised the layout and turned left and then right, heading directly for the council chambers now repurposed as a fresh audience hall for the Emperor Sanguinius. Where the Council Militis had once sat, now the Imperial Triumvirate held their court, surrounded by the guard rooms and barracks of the former elite of Macragge. It was a fortress within a fortress, almost as secure as the Angelicasta of Aldurukh.

  The audience hall itself was reached only through a series of antechambers like locks on a canal, ascending towards the slope of the Hera’s Crown mountains. Each antechamber was separated by a broad corridor lined with murder holes and energy barrier generators – a killing field almost impossible to negotiate.

  Still none sought to bar their passage, the Ultramarines manning the posts silent as the black-clad First Legion swept imperiously into the last assembly hall.

  It was full of Space Marines in the livery of several Legions. Holguin ordered his men to stand fast as he spied Drakus Gorod across the antechamber. The Captain of the Invictus bodyguard saw him and the two met halfway across the tiled floor.

  ‘I am here on the orders of the Lord Protector of the Imperium,’ Holguin announced grandly, drawing his greatsword, the tip rounded in the style of the Windmir reavers from whom he was descended. ‘The Lion of Caliban, primarch of the First Legion, declares Legatus Militant. All authority for the security and close protection of the Imperial Triumvirate and the environs of the Fortress of Hera reside in me and my officers. None shall pass into the presence of the Lords of the Imperium without express permission from me. By my life or death, I will guard them.’

  Gorod looked around the reception hall. Holguin followed his gaze, taking in the immobile ranks of the Deathwing, moving across the Ultramarines Cataphractii Terminators guarding the entryway, past the wounded Azkaellon and his Sanguinary Guard prowling at the doors to the audience chamber, before coming to rest on the Space Wolves watch-pack lounging at the far side of the hall. There were some White Scars as well, and a few dozen soldiers of the Praecental Guard. Holguin recognised amongst them the captain of the household division, Vodun Badorum.

  The commander of the Invictarus elite turned his flat stare back to the leader of the Deathwing.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  GO FORTH

  SEVENTEEN

  Hostile territory

  Ultramar

  The snow had been falling for several days, not quite a blizzard but enough to force down the air and anti-grav patrols across Illyrium. Sergeant Sacatus Demor of the Ultramarines found himself seconded to the First Legion as a guide to help them negotiate the ground on foot.

  ‘I grew up in the foothills, used to hunt in these mountains,’ he told his companions from the Dark Angels.

  The Lion’s Legion had a reputation as being closed and taciturn, but he had found the ten black-clad warriors of Caliban approachable enough. They had left their Rhino at the bottom of the gorge and were advancing up the narrow defile on foot. A frozen stream lay beneath the snow, the footing uncertain, so they moved in double file alongside either bank, the rocky cliffs growing taller to each side the further west they marched.

  ‘Not enough trees,’ said Sergeant Thoran, the squad leader. ‘What game beast lives in such emptiness?’

  ‘Goldback bears, greathorn deer, wild agoraks,’ Demor replied. He stopped and pointed further up the defile. ‘There are caves ahead, about three hundred metres. Used to be a smuggler’s lair when I was a lad – could be used for a darker purpose now.’

  Thoran nodded and signalled to two of his men to form rearguard. He slipped a long-bladed power axe free from a harness on his backpack and drew his bolt pistol. Demor followed suit, readying his gladius and sidearm. Thoran took the lead, the Ultramarines sergeant beside him, while the others split across the gorge in pairs.

  Demor spotted the tracks first and called for a halt. Leading Thoran over a jumble of rocks, he pointed out three sets of footprints, the fresh snows barely covering them.

  ‘Less than an hour old,’ he said over the vox, kneeling beside the closest set of tracks. He studied them and then looked around for other evidence. ‘Two men and a woman, heading up the cleft. No tracks leading out.’

  The first of the caves could be seen about one hundred and
fifty metres up the gorge, piercing the cliff to the north, on their right. It was the smallest entrance, barely a metre high; there were three others beyond that which were more accessible.

  ‘Casobourn, locality scan,’ voxed Thoran. The Dark Angel with the auspex took it off his belt and panned it back and forth.

  ‘Heat trace, following the trail,’ Casobourn confirmed. ‘Thermal register concentrated in the caverns ahead.’

  Demor switched his view to thermic optimisation and could see the faint glow of heat from something within.

  ‘Could still be an animal,’ he said, but his hearts started to beat faster with the prospect of confrontation.

  ‘Capture if possible,’ Thoran reminded them all. ‘The Lion wants answers, not corpses. If Curze is here, we need intelligence.’

  ‘Stun grenades?’ suggested Demor, holstering his pistol to take a coin-sized disc from a container at his belt.

  Thoran nodded and waved them on. The snow crunched underfoot while fresh fall turned to a sheen of moisture over their armour. They negotiated half-buried thorn bushes and boulders, weapons trained on the cave entrances ahead.

  ‘Movement, rapid,’ snapped Casobourn, holding the augur in front like a weapon. ‘Third entrance.’

  ‘Swift assault,’ barked Thoran, breaking into a run, ploughing through the snowdrifts in a flurry of white.

  With powered strides they covered the last fifty metres in a few seconds, leaving thick furrows in the snow behind them. Demor spotted a flicker of shadow in the cave ahead. Someone standing between a light and the open entrance.

  ‘By the power of the Emperor Sanguinius, submit to arrest!’ Demor called out, his arm moving back with the stun grenade in his palm.

  The shadow disappeared.

  ‘They’re moving further into the caves!’ warned Thoran, surging ahead, his axe blade glimmering blue in the strengthening snowfall. ‘Swiftly now! Asamund, Faretael, Dolmun, flank move.’