Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  Curze launched a fresh offensive, gloating, eyes wide and lips curled with glee. In the close confines of the corridor the clash of weapons was deafening, the nearness of Curze overwhelming, an assault on all of the primarch’s senses as much as the one against his body. The Night Haunter’s attacks pushed the Lion back to the top of another stairwell, two dozen steps that led down to the second sublevel. The floor below was a maze of wooden compartments, an old scriptorium for texts long forbidden in the rest of Macragge, surrounded by a few closed cells and small dormers, likely storerooms and personal chambers where the priests would prepare for the ceremonies that took place on the surface.

  The heel of the primarch skidded over the edge of the first step and he wavered for a half-second before righting himself. He dared not look back, but risked all with a strike towards Curze’s head, the short sword in his left hand glanced aside by a claw, millimetres from its target.

  It was enough of a distraction to restore the balance of the fight. The Lion took a long stride, flinging himself into Curze, arms wrapping around the Night Haunter. Chest to chest he heaved, twisting as he lifted, legs straightening to throw the two of them towards the steps.

  He landed on top of Curze. The exhalation from the other primarch stank like the grave-air in the coffins below. The ferrocrete of the step crumbled and they fell again, this time the Lion taking the brunt of the fall. Another rolling bounce, Curze snarling centimetres from the Lion’s face, trying to bite him with piranha-like fangs.

  They hit the floor sideways, jarring the short sword from the Lion’s grip. He made no effort to retrieve it, but arrowed his empty fingers into Curze’s throat. The blow would have decapitated any normal warrior, but Curze simply let out a coughing laugh.

  Straddling his foe, the Lion’s fist connected with Curze’s forehead, driving the Night Haunter’s skull into his backpack with a loud crack. Curze flailed a hand towards the Lion, a wild blow that was easily turned aside.

  Curze continued to laugh, blood flecking white skin and brown teeth.

  There was something the Lion had to know, taunted by old dreams and Curze’s words.

  ‘Why did you turn? Why did you betray our father?’

  Curze was not listening. His gaze moved past the Lion’s shoulder, not to the ceiling but to something that only he could see. ‘You feel the last bit of breath leaving their body. You’re looking into their eyes. A person in that situation is a god!’

  The Lion felt his prey go limp and found Curze staring at him. He was not sure how to read the other primarch’s expression. Happiness, of a kind. Adulation. Relief?

  ‘Why not?’ crowed Curze. ‘Why not betray him? When these thoughts entered my brain, I will never know, but they are here to stay. How does one cure oneself? I can’t stop it, the monster in my head goes on, and hurts me as well as our father. Maybe you can stop it. I can’t.’

  The Lion lay the edge of his sword against Curze’s throat, on the exact line of a scar he had left not so long ago, though now it seemed like a lifetime.

  ’I am ready to be released.’ Curze closed his eyes, his face going slack, the torment and madness seeping away to leave an emaciated but human face. ‘Release me.’

  The Lion remembered.

  ‘Fall,’ the Knight-Lord said to his brother. His voice was broken, ragged, breathless. ‘Fall.’

  The other warrior’s black eyes were wide, trembling as his life flooded through his hands. He spoke without sound, lips working worthlessly, and finally fell to one knee. The wounds in his stomach and chest bled as fiercely as the cut throat. His body, systematically shredded and torn by the kingly blade, seemed to be held together by desperate hate alone.

  The Knight-Lord wasn’t a soul given to smiling, nor was he petty enough to mock a fallen foe. He lifted his blade in salute, crosspiece resting against his crowned forehead, honouring a slain enemy.

  ‘I told you,’ the Lion said to his dying brother, ‘I would be the end of you, Curze.’

  He stood up and sheathed the Lion Sword.

  ‘You were right, I am not going to kill you. I never intended to kill you. That is why I won.’

  Curze’s eyes snapped open, filled with hatred again. The Lion seized him in both hands, dragged him up and then drove him down, smashing the Night Haunter into the hard floor. Again, and twice more the Lion beat Curze against the unyielding stone.

  Curze twisted like a hooked fish, one moment in the Lion’s grip, the next arching away, turning in mid-air. The Lion lunged after him, snaring an ankle. He turned on his heel, swinging Curze by the leg, crashing him against a wall. The Lion spun back and released his hold, hurling the Night Haunter through half a dozen scriptors’ stalls, ancient wood turned to a cloud of dust and splinters.

  Curze got to all fours, but not quick enough to avoid the Lion’s wrath. An armoured boot hit the Night Haunter in the midriff and lifted him in the air. A second kick connected with his jaw, sending the Night Lord onto his back. The Lord of Caliban reached down and dragged Curze like a rag doll, threw him again, turning another ten stalls to kindling.

  Looming out of the splinter-fog the Lion smashed a knee into Curze’s face as he tried to rise. The Night Haunter’s left arm hung limply as the Dark Angel picked him up again. With a grunt, he tore the powerplant from Curze’s armour, tossing the backpack aside with a hiss of broken coolant links and a shower of sparks.

  Throat in one hand, a leg in the other, the Lion hoisted Curze above his head. The knight of Caliban dropped to one knee, bringing his foe down across his shoulders. Armour split like bamboo and bones cracked, eliciting a shriek from the Night Haunter.

  With a contemptuous glare, the Lion tossed Curze to the ground. He flopped to his broken back.

  ‘Why?’ groaned Curze.

  ‘I am no murderer,’ the Lion replied. ‘You will be executed, but not for my vengeance. For justice. I will not make you a martyr, nor vindicate your twisted ideals.’

  Curze’s clawed fingers scrabbled at the stone for a few seconds, but there was no movement below his waist. The Lion stamped on a hand, buckling the gauntlet, shattering the blades. He did the same to the other, leaving the Night Haunter a paralysed, clawless heap.

  Curze started to laugh, a rasping chuckle that shook his chest. He looked straight at the Lion, into his eyes, into his soul, and the laugh grew louder.

  ‘Before all is done, it is not only my back that will be broken.’ The black eyes were like pits, swallowing the Lion, tiny reflections of his wild appearance reflected in each. ‘I will not beg for my life – but you will. Of all your brothers, for me you will sacrifice your honour.’

  The Lion dragged his gaze away and noticed something at Curze’s waist. It was a sword hanging with blade naked, the design obviously of Calibanite origin. He leaned down and tore the weapon from the belt.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded, holding the weapon in front of Curze’s battered face. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘One of your warriors was very careless, brother.’ Curze let his head droop, lank hair spilling across the dark stone. ‘He left it in my back.’

  The sound of armoured footfalls echoed from the corridor above. The Lion straightened and turned to see Redloss and his companions arrive at the top of the stair.

  ‘Hold!’ snapped the primarch. ‘His body is broken but his spite remains keen. Bring chains. Heavy chains.’

  HEX’D

  TWENTY-NINE

  The Lord Cypher

  Caliban

  Though the Hall of Decemial was large, it was still close confines for a firefight and the erupting battle soon fell to hand-to-hand combat between those loyal to Luther and those who had been of mind with slain Belath. Chainsword teeth screeched across ceramite armour and sharp combat knives glittered in the lamplight of the hall. Armoured gauntlets crashed against war-plate and flesh. The shouts of both sides were deafening.

  For those on the balconies it was impossible to tell friend from foe and the brief fusillade from a
bove ceased. Luther looked on in horror from the head table, Lord Cypher beside him with plasma pistol and power sword at the ready.

  Asmodeus crossed blades with Griffayn, the famed Spear-Cast slashing his sword repeatedly at the Librarian, each blow deflected by a shimmering wall of psychic energy. The psyker offered little attack in return, all his might concentrated on protecting himself against the blistering assault.

  Zahariel entered the fray with pistol in one hand and his force sword in the other, psychic power pulsing along the length. He noticed absent-mindedly that his blade had a jade glow, where once it had shimmered with azure force. His Mystai followed in his wake, Tanderion and Vassago armed with sceptre-like maces that burned with psychic energy, Cartheus with a gold-shimmering morning star and Asradael bearing a long bastard sword.

  The power of Caliban swirled around Zahariel, drawn to those whose thoughts were disloyal to the world of their birth. To the Master of the Mystai the signal was as clear as if they had painted their armour bright orange, the defiant Dark Angels gleaming in his second sight.

  He drove the point of his blade into the side of the closest dissident, a flare of psychic power parting the ceramite plate protecting fused ribs within. Bone shattered as though hit by an explosive bolt, allowing the warp-infused tip to slid effortlessly into lung and secondary heart. Gasping, the Space Marine tried to turn, but was clubbed down by the bolter of a former brother, the back of his head broken to a bloody mush by repeated blows.

  Coming face to face with the other Space Marine, Zahariel exchanged a look of solidarity in the moment before they turned away.

  +Master!+ Tanderion’s psychic warning came at the same moment as Zahariel shared his companion’s premonition.

  At the head table Luther was being ushered away from the fight by one of the rebel officers. Lord Cypher raised his plasma pistol. To any other, he was firing at those allied with Belath. In the next moment of the vision, the ball of plasma smashed into Zahariel’s exposed back.

  Before the Master of the Mystai could respond, Tanderion threw himself towards Lord Cypher, one hand raised as though to ward off the shot. His psychic shield had only started to materialise when the plasma bolt slashed into his face, erupting across his helm with white-hot fury.

  The Mystai’s headless corpse fell to one knee and then pitched sideways, the cauterised remains of his neck smoking like the roasts that had been brought earlier to the feasting warriors.

  Though he had been expecting it, literally foreseen it, Zahariel was momentarily stunned by Lord Cypher’s attack. Leaving him to die in Northwilds had been passive, an act of opportunism. Now the Guardian of the Order had revealed his full intent.

  Zahariel knew that the confrontation could no longer be avoided. The mayhem of the fighting gave him the chance to strike down his former ally, now most certainly revealed as a deadly rival.

  Realising that his opportunity to slay the Master of the Mystai had passed, Lord Cypher retreated, running towards one of the serfs’ entrances. That was even better, Zahariel decided. Provided he could get to Lord Cypher before he reached sanctuary with Luther.

  The fighting had spilled across the hall and was moving beyond as singly and in pairs, those that were opposed to Luther’s statement of independence tried to escape into the rest of the Angelicasta, perhaps hoping to find fresh allies.

  +With me, Mystai,+ Zahariel commanded, cutting the leg from beneath another Space Marine to break free of the melee. He raced after Lord Cypher, robes flapping against his armour.

  Beyond the hall was a short corridor that sloped downwards, ending in a steep stair. Zahariel almost toppled head-first down the steps. He snatched at the metal rail bolted to the wall, his armoured weight ripping it free from its mounting, but the steel strong enough to hold him for a second.

  The clatter of boots on stone echoed from below. Zahariel heard shouts of surprise and muted barks of command. As swift as he was able he descended, the crunching footfalls of the others just behind.

  Three turns down they reached a vault beneath the Hall of Decemial, thick pillars of brick supporting the weight of the vast chamber above. Several attendants fled towards them, concern on their faces.

  ‘Go!’ Zahariel ordered them, thrusting his sword towards the steps.

  They needed no further encouragement and a few seconds later their footsteps dwindled from hearing.

  ‘I can sense you are still here,’ Zahariel called out, the shimmer of Lord Cypher’s mind a few metres off to the right. His Mystai fanned out in that direction, the flickering light from their psychic weapons throwing dancing shadows across the terracotta floor. ‘You sought this confrontation. Why postpone it any longer?’

  A dark shape flew out of the shadows ahead, some distance from the soul-signature Zahariel had sensed. A purplish flame licked along Lord Cypher’s sword as he swept it down into the side of Cartheus, cutting through bone and organs to the spine. The Mystai roared in pain as he collapsed, his morning star mace falling from his grasp.

  Lord Cypher continued his charge, smashing his shoulder into Asradael, the two of them crashing into a pillar. The Guardian of the Order spun away and was swallowed by the shadows.

  Zahariel threw out his thoughts, trying to find the psychic trail left by Lord Cypher, but found only darkness.

  ‘Show yourselves!’ he snarled, flooding the vault with power from Caliban.

  The psychic twilight revealed several dozen short, hooded figures, their eyes pinpricks of scarlet power. They stood at the periphery, their attention fixed on the Mystai.

  ‘We are on the same side,’ Zahariel said, starting to walk towards the closest Watcher in the Dark, sword held out to one side but ready to parry. ‘We both serve Caliban.’

  ‘You do not.’ The voice was Lord Cypher’s but he spoke as if the head of a chorus, a whisper of others behind it that did not echo in the vault. ‘You serve Caliban’s prisoner.’

  ‘No, the soul of Caliban is chained, it must be set free.’ Zahariel hurled a sheet of flame in the direction of the voice but the inferno guttered and died within a few metres.

  ‘The Ouroboros is not Caliban’s soul. It is an invader.’

  The world felt disjointed around Zahariel. He stumbled although the floor was level, disorientated. The pillars seemed to soar up higher than the roof of the Angelicasta, the vault spread further than the horizon. Everything was slow, the motes of dust and ash falling from the bricks hung in suspension, but on the boundary of his senses the world spun faster, days and nights rising and falling, each no more than a heartbeat long.

  He wanted to throw up.

  The energy of Caliban snatched at his arm, moving it without his volition. The ring of metal against crystal-studded metal was stark and sharp as his blade met the downswing of Lord Cypher’s attack. Zahariel had been unaware of his approach, and now that he saw his foe, his mind reeled. Where there had been an armour-clad warrior there stood a man garbed in a robe of bark and leaves, a tree given human form. More than a tree, a whole forest, his hair its spilling canopy, his muscles powered by the strength of millions of deep roots…

  ‘Back!’ The Master of the Mystai unleashed his anger in an unfocused burst, a wave of pure energy exploding out from him.

  The green man stood unbowed, flexing branch-like fingers.

  ‘It is not too late,’ Lord Cypher told him. The bearded man’s lips moved with the words, but they came at Zahariel from a great distance. ‘Renounce this false master and pledge yourself to the Order.’

  ‘It was not the cave that brought the first knight here, was it?’ Zahariel laughed, pulsing with energy from the world’s heart. ‘It was the Watchers. They needed a warden for their prison. The Order does not fight for Caliban, it fights for them.’

  ‘The Order is Caliban.’

  ‘We are not their slaves! Caliban, the Ouroboros, will free us. Free us from the Imperium, from fear of Horus. Free us from these offworld creatures that use us for their own means. It is you that
serves the false masters. I have been shown the truth. Your words have no power here. They have no power but that which we grant them.’

  Zahariel rose to his feet, banishing the vision of the green man, rendering Lord Cypher back to his mortal form. The Guardian of the Order hacked at the cocoon of energy that protected Zahariel, his swings growing weaker, more desperate.

  ‘You cannot attack me directly.’ Zahariel ignored Lord Cypher and directed his words at the Watchers in the Dark. ‘You act through us, turning us into your shields and your swords. Not I.’

  The Ouroboros thrashed against its bonds, beseeching Zahariel to set it free. The Angelicasta, all of Aldurukh shifted. A tremor only, nothing like the great quake that had sunk half of the Northwilds arcology.

  ‘You brought it here?’ Terror was etched into every word that came from his masked foe. The un-legionary fear that had gripped Lord Cypher in the Northwilds was a palpable aura now, rising from his body like a heat shimmer.

  Zahariel felt Vassago joining his mind to his master’s, fusing with the spirit of the Ouroboros, powering his thoughts with shared psychic potential.

  ‘Leave,’ he told the Watchers. ‘Leave or I will unleash the Conqueror Worm and it will devour us all. You are not welcome in Aldurukh.’

  A moment passed, eternal and instant, and the vault returned to normal, lit by a few crimson-glassed lamps, made of stone and mortar and nothing more.

  Cypher stood before Zahariel. Vassago and Asradael arrived behind the Guardian of the Order.

  ‘My lord, your Watchers have abandoned you.’ Zahariel stepped forward, an arm’s length from his rival. The eyes behind the visor were filled with fear, not anger.

  ‘You have no sword.’ As Zahariel said the words, the energy of Caliban snaked along Lord Cypher’s blade, turning it to rust that fell to the floor. ‘Show me your face.’

  Tendrils of green power ripped the mask from the warrior’s helm. Zahariel took a step back, surprised by his recognition of the face beneath it.