by Gav Thorpe
Legion transporters struggle against the winter storms
EIGHTEEN
Old secrets
Caliban
‘We should not have allowed Belath to return to orbit,’ said Astelan, staring up into the sky.
‘We did not. Sar Luther did. On what pretence would we have stopped him?’ asked Zahariel. ‘You have been surly ever since the Grand Master informed us that Belath was to be allowed back to his gunship.’
‘Surly? I would have hoped you a better judge of character, Master Zahariel.’ Astelan pursed his lips, his expression at odds with his words. ‘I am concerned.’
‘My mistake, First Master,’ Zahariel replied, making it clear by his tone that it was no such thing. ‘Even so, your concern is ill-founded. What harm can Belath do in orbit?’
‘Harm? It is not the threat of harm that annoys me. It is the opportunity lost. He might leave. His ships, gone. A lifetime stranded on this… On Caliban. Did you consider that? What if he has suspicions?’
‘Of what? Nothing has happened. If he is suspicious, it is only of your boorish behaviour, Astelan.’
‘And if he goes back to Corswain or the Lion and tells them that something is amiss on Caliban? What if one of them returns to set straight our path?’
Zahariel had not considered this, and had no answers. Fortunately, he was saved having to admit as such. ‘You have been proven wrong.’ He pointed to the dark shape that rapidly resolved into a descending Stormbird. ‘Belath returns.’
They watched the gunship in silence, Astelan tense, Zahariel possessed by curiosity. The Master of the Mystai reached out with his thoughts as the Stormbird touched down. The tendril of Caliban’s power touched the hull and like a wire earthing a current it instantly buzzed with power as it connected with a psychic barrier.
Zahariel recoiled.
‘What is the matter?’ demanded Astelan.
‘We have a problem,’ snapped Zahariel. ‘Guard your thoughts!’
‘Guard my…?’
‘Belath is not alone, he has brought–’
Zahariel’s explanation became self-evident as the ramp descended, revealing Chapter Master Belath and his companion. The second Space Marine was clad in black armour also, but the inset of his pauldrons was a deep blue. It was the signature colour of the Librarius, once home to Zahariel, the company of the Legion’s psykers.
‘I see,’ Astelan whispered.
Zahariel’s thoughts raced as he stared at the face of the approaching warrior. It was the Librarian he had seen in the mind of Belath. He remembered a name – Asmodeus – and tried to recall how potent the Librarian’s powers were. It was hard after decades away and Zahariel was a poor judge of past achievements.
He had been right there when Nemiel had died. He had been the reason for it, though his own hands were clean of the deed. Zahariel wanted to demand if Asmodeus’ life had been worth Nemiel giving up his? Had he earned that sacrifice? Before he could speak Astelan stepped forward, perhaps sensing Zahariel’s aggression.
‘You have brought a friend,’ said the First Master. He looked at the Librarian and nodded in greeting. ‘How nice.’
‘This is Brother Asmodeus,’ said the Chapter Master. Belath darted an angry glare at Zahariel. ‘After my last visit, I thought it wise to take precautions.’
‘I must apologise,’ said Zahariel. As he spoke, he felt a shift in the play of psychic energy around Asmodeus. It was not like the gathering swirl of Caliban’s power, but more like a pressure behind a mirror, distorting the reflection of reality. ‘My actions were inexcusable, and I can only offer momentary grief as the explanation.’
‘And what guarantee do I have that another such episode will not occur?’
The shift of power was not connected to the Librarian shielding Belath. It was externalising, heading towards Zahariel and Astelan, like a bow wave ahead of the approaching Dark Angels.
Asmodeus would know better than try to look inside Zahariel. His mind was fortified against all intrusion.
But Astelan?
In moments, the Librarian would be able to fish out everything. Not details, of course, but enough to know about the burgeoning rebellion, the imprisonment of the dissenters and Astelan’s perfidious relationship with Luther.
Gripped by a sudden desperation, Zahariel threw a portion of his thoughts into the mind of the First Master.
‘I understand that my word would be of little value at the moment,’ Zahariel said out loud. While he spoke he formed his mental projection into a narrow spike, aiming it into Astelan’s cerebellum. Asmodeus’ intrusion was far subtler, a thousand tiny fibrous roots burrowing through Astelan’s psycho-conditioning.
‘There have been developments, occurrences, that you should be aware of,’ said Belath’s comrade. ‘Increased perils.’
A moment of pure instinct caused Zahariel to flinch a moment before he made contact with Astelan’s inner thoughts. The core of the First Master’s mind was encased with a protective layer, the like of which the Master of the Mystai had not encountered. Even as he tried to avert his delving, it was as though he was punching through adamantium. The shock of the impact numbed him instantly.
Psychic feedback lanced into Zahariel’s brain.
A golden fog permeated everything.
A booming voice, the words unintelligible but commanding. Beside its power, Zahariel was as a candle next to the sun.
Warmth. Becoming hotter.
Searing. Scorching. Turning him to ash.
Zahariel ripped himself free from Astelan’s thoughts, reeling inside, every mote of discipline needed to show no outward sign of the agony that had been set inside his brain. He retained just enough cogency to witness Asmodeus’ attempt to penetrate the core layer. The attempt was far slower, but the reaction no less vehement. Inside Zahariel’s mind’s eye it was as though a plasma bomb had detonated, disintegrating the threads of Asmodeus’ investigation with a corona of white-hot energy.
The Librarian almost missed a step, recovering from the stumble at the last moment. He stared at Astelan with wide eyes.
The First Master seemed oblivious to all that had transpired.
‘I am sure that we can put behind us whatever unpleasantness has occurred,’ said Astelan, obviously not meaning a word of it. He matched Belath’s stare. ‘Are we not all brothers beneath the banner of the Legion?’
+What did you do to him?+ In his disorientated state, it took a moment for Zahariel to realise that Asmodeus’ words were transmitted, not spoken.
+Nothing,+ he replied in kind. Their thoughts merged close to the tiny flicker that was the light of Astelan’s mind. From outside it looked entirely normal.
+He is not one of us. He has no projection.+
+Did you see it?+ Zahariel asked. +Did you feel the power?+
+For an instant only, thankfully,+ the Librarian replied.
The exchange was near-instantaneous, far more efficient than clumsy lips and tongues. While the two psykers continued their hidden interaction, Zahariel turned and motioned towards the two Rhino transports waiting close to the landing apron.
‘Sar Luther has despatched a carrier to take you to the Angelicasta,’ Zahariel explained aloud. ‘I and Astelan have other duties to which we must attend.’
+I sensed that you were in his thoughts a moment before me,+ Asmodeus sent.
+A warning, nothing more. I confess that I am suspicious of your presence. You were present at the death of my cousin, Nemiel. My assault on Belath was unprovoked, highly regrettable, but it gives you no licence to spy on the thoughts of another.+
+Many are the licences that have been given, of late, that were not granted before. If it is of any consideration, the death of Nemiel pains me also.+
Zahariel nodded his thanks. +You were there, when my cousin was slain. It was against such intrusions that he warned. Was he right to think you unsafe?+
+I do not think you can judge that. Nemiel’s fate was unfortunate, but he defied the Lion an
d risked all of our lives, perhaps even the future of the Imperium. The Lion acted poorly, in haste, and no doubt regrets it at his leisure.+
The intimacy of psychic communion almost lured Zahariel into revealing his new antipathy for the Lion, but he reined back his thoughts at the last moment.
‘At least Master Luther seems to have retained something of the honour of the Legion,’ Belath said, heading towards the transports. He glanced at Astelan but his gaze rested on Zahariel longer. ‘But his indulgence of malcontents and outsiders has already cost him dearly and may do so again.’
+We will speak on these matters again,+ Zahariel sent to Asmodeus, cutting the contact.
‘I must ask your indulgence, Chapter Master,’ Asmodeus announced. ‘I need to speak to Brother Zahariel. I will join you at the Angelicasta shortly. As the Librarius’ overseer of recruits he needs to be appraised of recent threats and developments. The matter of Nikaea and the Lion’s lifting of the ban must be discussed.’
Belath looked perturbed but nodded eventually.
‘Very well. Master Luther awaits me for an audience. We shall meet after.’
When Belath had boarded the Rhino, Zahariel and the others headed for the second transport. Before they boarded, Zahariel motioned to Astelan to remain.
‘Permit me a moment, brother,’ the Master of the Mystai said to Asmodeus.
The Librarian strode up the Rhino’s assault ramp without comment, leaving Zahariel with the First Master.
‘What did He do to you?’ Zahariel hissed, the question bursting out like water through a crack in a dam.
‘Asmodeus?’ Astelan glanced at the Rhino and shrugged. ‘Nothing, that I know of.’
‘Not him. The Emperor.’
Astelan’s dumbfounded silence was as concise an answer as any he might have spoken.
‘Do you remember anything from your time with the Emperor? Any specific moments when He might have…’ Zahariel let the words drift away in the face of his companion’s blank incomprehension.
‘What about the Emperor? You are babbling, Zahariel.’
‘It is… difficult to explain.’
‘Try,’ Astelan growled. ‘What were you saying about the Emperor?’
‘You were one of the First, yes?’ Zahariel said, choosing a different tack.
‘Before the First.’ Pride radiated from the ancient warrior. ‘An Angel of Death.’
‘You fought beside the Emperor, spent a great deal of time in His presence.’
‘Years, why?’
‘It has left a mark upon you, upon your mind,’ Zahariel said. It sounded weak, but he had no other theory he wanted to share. ‘A gift, you might call it.’
Astelan grinned and tapped the side of his head.
‘You tried to get in, didn’t you?’ He slapped a hand on Zahariel’s shoulder and looked back at the Rhino that Asmodeus had boarded. ‘He did too? Both of you found something surprising?’
It was Zahariel’s silence that answered this time.
‘Do you think the Emperor was the only powerful psyker vying for Terra during the last years of the Long Night? Dhul-Quarnayn? The Sigillites? Did we not expect to meet untold horrors in the shadows between stars? Of all those that understand the true nature of the universe, would the Emperor send out His warriors with the best war-plate to protect our bodies, when our minds were like a fortress with the gates unbarred and unguarded?’
Astelan thought about this for a few seconds, his gaze becoming distant with memory.
‘Were you all… I mean, all of the Angels of Death were protected? What was it like?’
‘It was… beautiful,’ Astelan replied. Then he focused on Zahariel again, expression hardening. ‘It was also taxing to the Emperor, I think. Not to be repeated for the Legions. Anyway, that is the past. The future is still being forged, and we have tasks at hand.’
The First Master entered the Rhino, leaving Zahariel alone with a whirl of thoughts. Luther, the Emperor, Belath, Asmodeus. It was all starting to blur into nonsense, a pointless web of intrigue and betrayed loyalties and oaths.
One thing remained pure, a bright blade that cut through the morass.
Caliban. The future of Caliban was indeed being forged. The time was fast approaching when it would be decided which hands would bring about that new future. Hands connected to ears that were being distracted by other allegiances and desires.
If Caliban were to be set free, the competing voices had to be silenced and Luther set back on the correct course.
He mounted the Rhino and signalled the driver to move out. Zahariel spared a conspiratorial smile for Astelan. An opponent, no doubt, but one best kept as an ally for the moment.
NINETEEN
A fated moment
Caliban
The banners overhead rustled in the breeze from the atmospheric units. Normally the sound was obscured by the shuffle and step of feet, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of conversation or the much heartier throb of a feast in full swing. Sitting alone, awaiting Belath, Luther had only the sounds of the hall to listen to.
Legion standards. Victories of the Dark Angels. He respected the achievements they represented, the last and largest being a celebration of the discovery and compliance of Caliban. Not by coincidence did it hang directly over the Lion’s throne, directly above Luther’s head.
How he had come to loathe that banner in recent years. None would know it, but he longed to reach up and tear it to shreds, spitting on the remnants. Not a day passed when he did not desire to unmake that day and everything it had brought.
The memory caused him to glance over his shoulder at the mightier throne behind him. The great rose window at the head of the hall threw the throne’s shadow across Luther, an unplanned yet entirely prescient quirk of arrangement.
For all that the banners were from a time before him, nevertheless they had been hung here to remind him of who he was and what he had become.
For his entire life Luther had felt the weight of history upon his shoulders. A son to knights of the Order, it was his destiny to take up the blade and gun in defence of his people. Duty and honour had been his lot, from the first moment he had been brought into the world screaming, delivered upon the courtyard flagstones when his mother had been caught by a swift labour.
One might have scripted it, arriving in full view of the knights and serfs, lifted crying and bloody for all to see, his mother weeping with joy. Upon such events are the biographies of the greatest composed. His father had raced down the steps from the inner wall and held him against the cold breastplate of his armour.
The Grand Master’s lip curled in an ironic smile. That moment – told to him, not remembered – was a metaphor for his upbringing. Always the love of his mother and the coldness of his father. Not that he felt sorry for himself in any way, such was simply the life of a child growing up in Aldurukh.
And he knew better than to linger on stories of destiny. He knew too many were the children born in stables, on stairwells, next to the kitchen stoves, whose lives amounted to mediocrity or greatness in equal measure. Had he been born in the chambers of his parents, with midwife and physician in attendance, the bards would find a way to twist it into an omen of what later came to pass.
That fate had owed him nothing did not detract from his appreciation of what nature and nurture had given him. His birth might have been auspicious, but the teachings of his family and the inheritance of his mother’s active mind played a greater role in delivering him up to the tides of greatness.
A superb shot, a master with the blade, these things singled out Luther early in his training. He would make serjant at the age of seventeen, the second youngest ever to do so. But it was not simply his skill at arms that his superiors recognised. He had an easy way with people, speaking equally to commoner and master. He had always been well regarded by his peers and superiors, and respected by his subordinates. It was natural that others wished to follow where he led, and just as natural that he took to leadership
as a fish takes to a river.
Others might have been stalled by the politics of jealousy, or allowed their own ambitions to get ahead of the natural progression of matters. Neither of these factors were detrimental to Luther’s rise. When Grand Master Ocedon died, Luther had been of an age – perhaps at the younger end of the scale – to be considered mature enough for the role. None thought it outrageous, and while some argued in favour of other candidates, none argued against his investiture.
So was to begin a golden age for the Order under the command of Luther.
A chance encounter – or the hand of greater powers than chance? – changed all of that. A forest clearing, a hunt for the Great Beasts and the meeting of Luther and the feral adolescent that would be named the Lion of the Forest by the Grand Master.
Lion El’Jonson.
So often told, so frequently embellished. Imperial historians marked it as the pivotal moment of Caliban’s history, ignoring millennia of struggle and fighting to survive during what would be known as Old Night. The hundreds of years from Aldurukh’s founding to the discovery of the Lion were rendered irrelevant by the pens of fawning chroniclers.
Caliban and the Order had been changed, that was for certain. Even now, after everything that had transpired, Luther remembered fondly that time of their own crusade, driving back the wildness of Caliban, creating a new era of the Order.
He knew that some, Astelan and others of his ilk, thought him jealous of those times, having to hand power to the primarch. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Lion had quality throughout, as brave, noble and loving as any servant would wish from a master. As others had been happy to follow Luther, so he had been joyous to find a son-cum-brother who would eclipse all previous achievements.
He stood and looked at the throne, its wood blackened with lacquer, the high and broad back carved with the likeness of a lion matching that upon the breastplate of the primarch’s finest wargear.
Luther did not hate the primarch. He could not, for he could never hate his own family.
