Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  A new Warmaster.

  Such was the prize he called to mind. Sanguinius’ vision of death would not come to pass while the Lion wielded such terrible might. The Triumvirate would be the match of the Emperor-lost, the power and majesty of mankind’s saviour renewed. He would take the fight to Horus at the forefront of the Legions – the finest augmented warriors dedicated to the most beloved of the primarchs, recruited, organised, trained and armed by the greatest logistician in the galaxy, commanded by its paramount general. Horus and his ragtag entourage of misfits and dissidents would be shown the true strength of the Imperium.

  Such glory awaited, if he could but rid the new Imperium of its troublesome foe. A motivation far beyond simple revenge, that spurred the Lion on with every stride.

  Yes, that was a goal certainly worth a few risks.

  The ruined stronghold was little more than a hole in the mountainside now. Plasma and void weapons had gouged out the surface defences, like the claws of a cudbear breaking open earth to get at verminites below. Craters both smooth and rugged, cracked stone and phosphex-scorched earth surrounded the broken castle.

  Nearing cover from which Curze could attack, the Lion slowed, concentrating on his senses. Sight, sound and smell brought a plethora of sensations, none of them pleasant. The breach of the fortress was choked with the dead, those manning the outer defences when the first rad-bombs had landed. They were mostly intact, save those that had been broken apart by the fall of rubble. Their skin had sloughed off, eyes burst, exposed arteries and veins shredded. To the Lion’s eyes the bodies almost sparkled with radiation, a miasma that hung low across the ruins, still close to where the bombs had detonated.

  Other senses were at full stretch. The Lion liked to call it his instinct, but he knew it was more than that. It was the sensation that had guided him through the forests of Caliban, warning when one of the Great Beasts or the nephilla were nearby. It was the tingle he felt in close proximity to his brothers, the skin-shredding sensation he had encountered when he had first met the Emperor.

  It was the surest way to find Curze, who was riddled with the spoor of warp-taint. It had been so strong before, in the lower decks of the Invincible Reason, it had been of no use. Out here in the wilderness, far away from other minds, Curze’s presence would be much easier to find.

  Standing on the edge of a glass-sided plasma scar, the Lion crouched, closing his eyes. He tilted his head, letting the environment seep into him through every pore. The slightest sound, the nuances of smell, the sensation of death permeated him.

  Curze was not here.

  He had not expected a confrontation this early. The Night Haunter would delight in being hunted as much as being the hunter – the matching of wits.

  The snow was getting thicker and thicker, the wind now close to a gale. Night was still a few hours away, but darkness shrouded the slope of the Alma Mons. Curze would be watching, waiting.

  If he got bored…

  It was too soon. This was not the place.

  The Lion stood and opened his eyes. Time to move on to the next ambush site.

  He made his way up the mountain, moving through the ashen remains of pine forests and along defiles and gorges thick with the corpses of birds and animals caught on the periphery of the devastating assault. In places there were human cadavers too – some single, others in groups. Some had bolter wounds, a few bore plasma scars but most were rad-victims. They had tried to flee.

  Had some of them been innocent? It seemed unlikely, albeit even if unwillingly, that everyone on the Gatepeak had supported the dissidents in one way or another. As the Lion had told Guilliman, compliance had its cost and it was not always paid by the guilty. He had annihilated armies and then agreed peace terms with their rulers. Like the Emperor before him, the Lion could not afford to count the price, only the prize. Billions – trillions – of lives depended on the strength of Imperium Secundus. It was vanity to pretend that individuals mattered against such overwhelming numbers.

  The other lairs of the Illyrians were as empty of life as the first. Now and then he thought he caught an echo of Curze’s presence, like the scat of a wolf that has been scavenging the kills of larger prey.

  The Night Haunter had doubtless been examining the work of the Dreadwing. Did he hope to learn something about the Lion from such examination, or was it simply curiosity or, most likely, perverse fascination?

  The gloom of smoke became twilight proper and still the snow and ash fell. Here on the upper slopes the damage was less severe. More than eight kilometres above sea level, no unaugmented human could live for long without apparatus or a sealed environment. Even the Illyrians, famed for their resistance to altitude, could not function on the highest slopes of the Alma Mons. The Dreadwing had hunted down the relative few that had made it to their pressurised camps, more than capable of meting out vengeance with conventional weapons.

  Twilight gave way to dusk, barely noticed, and then night fell and pitch blackness enveloped the mountain. What light crept through the clouds and smoke, reflected from the constant fall of ash and snow, was more than enough for the Lion’s enhanced vision. Like the auto-senses of his little brothers, he could see far beyond the spectrum of normal humans.

  The ash cloud glowed with residual radiation, a combination of heat from the plasma missiles and promethium, and more dangerous wavelengths unleashed by the rad-grenades and bombs of the Destroyer units. It had no colour that he could describe to a mortal, but in his mind’s eye the ground and sky shimmered with silver and gold, flecks of phosphex-tainted ember gleaming with a sparkling ruby tint. Rocks, corpses, the blade of the Lion Sword: all glowed with radiant otherlight.

  He headed back below the death zone, knowing exactly where he was going and what would happen when he got there. His heart started to race in anticipation of the confrontation he knew was fast approaching.

  It was an ancient temple structure, its location well hidden in what had once been a broad pine forest. The trees were petrified now, caught by the blast of the Dreadwing’s terrible weapons. As he approached, the Lion reached out a hand, the fingers of his gauntlet closing around a bough as thick as a man’s thigh. It crumbled easily in his grasp, showering stone needles to the floor.

  The stone trees gave way to a circle of broad columns, which supported a domed roof about four metres high. The pillars looked at first to be arranged haphazardly, placed by no sane architect, leaving no clear path to the centre. All was darkness within, just the ambient glow of background radiation to light the stepped concentric levels that led down like an amphitheatre.

  The Dark Angels had discovered the temple the previous night. The Illyrians had tried to hold it, but compared to the fortress dug into the mountain’s heart it was not defensible. They had died defending their profane house, fighting to the death rather than abandon the temple. Their bodies were piled five deep in places where they had physically hurled themselves at the Dreadwing and died by the score.

  The Lion’s armour sounded a soft chime in his right ear.

  One second to midnight.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Awkward questions

  Macragge

  The atmosphere in the audience hall was frosty, and not just because of the winter weather. Holguin stood to attention, his long blade on a hanger at his right, helmet under his left arm. Sanguinius watched him carefully from his throne, fingers interlocked beneath his chin, elbows on the massive chair.

  Guilliman was more animated, leaning forward, fingers gripping the arms of his throne. Beside him, Valentus Dolor stood with arms crossed, studying Holguin as intently as the two primarchs.

  ‘It has been two days since we received a formal report from Illyrium,’ Guilliman said, as stern as any schoolmaster. ‘What little we hear is not encouraging.’

  ‘I have received no word from my brothers, lord,’ Holguin replied.

  ‘I wonder why that might be,’ Guilliman said. ‘Is it possible that my brother keeps you uninformed so th
at you can stand dumb before us without dishonour?’

  ‘All things are possible, lord.’ Holguin accepted the scorn of the Lord Warden without rancour. He had known for some time that the Lion had called on the Deathwing to protect the castrum not simply because of their skill, but also because Holguin was amongst the most diplomatic of his staff officers. Even so, he would not let Guilliman cast aspersions against the Lion when his liege was not present to defend himself.

  ‘It is also possible, lord,’ said the voted lieutenant, ‘that my liege is engrossed in prosecuting the final defeat of the Illyrians, and too occupied to dispense blow-by-blow accounts to us here in the civitas.’

  Sanguinius smiled. Guilliman did not.

  ‘The Lord Protector is not a power unto himself, he is accountable to the emperor.’ Guilliman stood up and took a step closer. Holguin held his ground though it was difficult in the face of the giant advancing on him. ‘He is the blade, Lord Sanguinius guides the hand.’

  ‘I am sure that is foremost in my liege’s thoughts, lord.’ Holguin kept his gaze steady, not directly meeting the stare of Guilliman but not really looking away. ‘He was despatched with the command to bring Curze to justice by all means short of orbital attack. He is complying with those orders.’

  ‘Orbital augurs suggest that our brother has been exceptionally vigorous of late,’ said Sanguinius, his humour gone. ‘Tens of thousands dead. Many more displaced, their homes and livelihoods destroyed.’

  ‘I am sure my lord emperor knew when he despatched my liege that his attention would be most thorough in this,’ said Holguin, as close to saying that Sanguinius should have known better as he would ever get. ‘Illyrium is non-compliant, and my liege brings it to compliance. I believe he knows exactly the terrible cost, but also the steeper price of failure. We cannot countenance dissent on the new throneworld of the Imperium.’

  ‘Would your liege rampage across Terra in such fashion?’ asked Dolor. ‘Or Caliban?’

  Holguin matched the tetrarch’s stare.

  ‘Yes.’ He returned his attention to the Lord Warden. ‘I know that you think he pursues a personal vendetta against Curze, but my liege places duty at the forefront of his concerns.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Guilliman rubbed his forehead in agitation. ‘That was why, under guise of securing our borders, he secretly took his pursuit of Curze across the Five Hundred Worlds. What of duty then?’

  ‘A dozen worlds liberated from the grip of Lorgar’s and Angron’s vile sons,’ Sanguinius intervened, before Holguin could speak. ‘There might be cause for concern, but the Lion did not ignore the wars presented to him.’

  ‘I have overstated my case.’ Guilliman acquiesced to the will of the emperor with a solemn bow. ‘It is convenient, however, that the Lord Protector’s strategy in Illyrium inflamed the situation, giving him cause to move to such extreme measures. He did introduce the Dreadwing.’

  ‘With my permission,’ Sanguinius said. He glanced at Holguin and then Dolor, perhaps wondering whether to dismiss the Space Marines to continue his discussion. He evidently decided against it.

  ‘I know that you think I gifted the Lion this charter without proper consideration.’ The emperor stopped Guilliman’s protest with a sharp look and a raised hand. ‘Do us both the courtesy of not contesting that claim. You think, brother, and it is not a fault. You consider the theoretical and monitor the practical, honing your plans, redrafting and reworking everything you have created. If others of us had showed such circumspection, the galaxy might not be aflame with civil war.’

  Guilliman accepted this praise in silence, brow slightly furrowed as though he expected a caveat to follow. He was right.

  ‘The Lion knows that Curze is a wild element, driven in ways we cannot imagine.’ Sanguinius looked away, gazing towards one of the high windows, lit by pale sunlight. ‘I spoke to him, looked into his eyes. There is little humanity left there, and that which remains is quite, quite mad.’

  ‘I do not see how that excuses the razing of Illyrium. Does that not give Curze exactly the death and destruction he craves?’

  ‘It brings swift end, brother,’ the emperor said firmly, returning his gaze to Guilliman. ‘The Lion is right, this should never have been an issue. We are all at fault. The excision is painful, the surgery required.’

  Guilliman took a deep breath. His eyes moved to Holguin.

  ‘Our orbital stations monitored a lot of activity yesterday,’ the Lord Warden said slowly. ‘Gunship launches and drop pod cascades, dozens of ships targeting the Alma Mons. Have you any comment?’

  Holguin shook his head.

  ‘I know nothing, lord.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The declaration

  Caliban

  All was arranged as he had planned. The goblets marking out those that would likely comply from those that might resist were in place, as were the Space Marines on the balconies above.

  Luther was no stranger to reading the hearts of men, even Space Marines. Of those at the head table, Belath was still an obstacle, but not intractable. Griffayn’s presence had caused some consternation at first, but Lord Cypher’s subtle signals indicated that the ranking warrior of the Firewing would be a likely ally. The lower officers were clearly swayed by Griffayn, those that were fellow members of the Firewing.

  Asmodeus… Who could say what guided the loyalties of the psyker. Zahariel had spent some time with the Librarian, and had reported on the encounter just before the banquet. Asmodeus was malleable, in the opinion of the Master of the Mystai. He was, like so many of his talent, open to the temptation of knowledge, and access to the library of the Mystai had proved to be a tantalising bribe. Even so, there was no way of telling for sure; Asmodeus kept his thoughts as well protected as any vault.

  There was still time to win Belath to the cause. Astelan had spent considerable effort trying to persuade Luther that the Chapter Master was nothing but a lackey of the Lion, but his history with Belath could not be ignored. And if Belath could provide the ships without bloodshed, that was to be worth fighting for. Combined with Griffayn’s backing, Luther might even be able to dispense with the Terran altogether.

  To have loyal Calibanites at every level of the Order would make the secession a lot simpler.

  A change in Belath’s demeanour attracted Luther’s attention. The Chapter Master had gone from a state of casual conversation to attentive tension in an instant, head slightly cocked and eyes narrowing – evidently he had a comm-bead in his ear.

  Belath turned his gaze sharply on Luther, brow beetling.

  ‘Is something wr–’

  ‘I have received a report that Astelan is commandeering my ships,’ snarled Belath. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘I gave no such command,’ Luther replied, masking his anger with a look of surprise. It was the truth, conveniently – a rare resource of late. ‘Astelan has exceeded his authority.’

  ‘Perhaps you have too, Master Luther,’ said Belath. His eyes cast around the hall suspiciously. ‘What is your intent?’

  ‘I tell you again, I gave Astelan no order to seize your ships. It appears that your personal antipathy has overpowered his reason.’

  ‘There will be consequences,’ Belath said.

  ‘There will,’ agreed Luther.

  ‘You will order Astelan and his warriors to stand down immediately,’ insisted the Chapter Master. ‘The transport fleet is under my command.’

  ‘That will be more difficult.’

  ‘Brothers!’ Belath called, surging to his feet. ‘Beware!’

  The assembled company was slow to respond, taken unawares by the warning. Several Dark Angels rose, others looked around in confusion. The Space Marines overlooking the scene had not moved, thankfully. Luther had impressed upon them that they were to do nothing without an explicit order. The same ban had been laid upon Astelan, but he had ignored it.

  ‘Wait!’ demanded Luther, holding up his hands. He turned on Belath. ‘Do nothing in has
te, Chapter Master, I beg you.’

  ‘You beg?’ Belath’s voice rose in pitch with incredulity.

  ‘Listen to the Grand Master.’ Griffayn’s voice was calm and deep. He remained seated, hands laid flat on the table.

  ‘I crave your indulgence, sons of Caliban,’ said Luther, inwardly cursing Astelan’s name. This was not how he had wanted to make his declaration. ‘I have something important to tell you all.’

  Belath flexed his fingers in agitation but said nothing. Luther clasped his hands in front of his chest, exuding solemnity from every pore.

  ‘It is time that Caliban was liberated from the yoke of the Imperium.’

  The words echoed for a couple of seconds. Silence followed. All eyes of the gathered Dark Angels were upon him, including those of his officers stood with Zahariel. His intent had been clear, but never overtly spoken.

  Luther let free a half-smile. It felt good to finally give voice to the desires that he had held inside for so long. Uttering the words brought with it a sense of action, of a decision made. This was history turning, for good or bad.

  Build bridges or burn them, that was his choice to make. Few were given the chance to choose. When the galaxy burned, why not turn the flames to your advantage?

  ‘It is a dream of mine, that Caliban and its sons and daughters be free. Not always has this occupied my thoughts, but of late it is an issue that has vexed me. When the Imperium arrived, I was as excited as any by the promise of a great future for our world. Technology, communication, trade. Protection. All of these things would make Caliban great. My son-brother, the Lion, learned of his place in the scheme of the universe. Learned that he was not of Caliban, not truly.’

  ‘The Lion has always been loyal to Caliban,’ Belath said, fists clenching.