Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘He did not take this armour for himself. Nor did he give it to his lieutenants or champions. No, Sar Duriel had a better idea than that. He sent a herald and suit of armour to each of his five closest rivals. The armour was a gift, and the message that went with them was simple. “Our enemies are the beasts of the forest,” the heralds declared, “not each other.” Sar Duriel did not see his fellow lords as foes, but as allies.’

  Luther gestured to Griffayn and Astelan, smiling.

  ‘We cannot pretend that we have not had our differences. Blood has been shed, which often demands blood be shed in return, but there will be no reprisals or retaliation. The Order was once many orders, but a singular purpose prevailed, the same purpose that inspired Sar Duriel, and even the Lion. That simple truth. We are not enemies. Terran. Calibanite. Exile or returning hero. We all fight the same foe and are united under that banner. We are all knights of the Order!’

  A tremendous shout greeted this declaration. Luther allowed the warriors to voice their appreciation for a few more seconds before the Grand Master’s hand moved skywards, arcing from left to right to encompass the heavens.

  ‘Up there, beyond Caliban, beyond this star system, a war rages. A war that will decide the fate of thousands of billions of lives.’ His hand dropped into a fist at his chest. ‘But not here! Here, Caliban will decide its fate. The Order and Caliban are one and the same, as has been the case for a thousand years. Though we honour the past, we must look to the future, to our security and prosperity.

  ‘You – my knights, the Order, the defenders of Caliban – are the key to that future. In your hands we entrust our liberty, our very survival. As once a generation of Caliban set forth to conquer the galaxy for the Emperor, now a new generation stands upon the brink of a far more justified crusade.’

  Zahariel could feel the flood of feeling emanating from the crowd. It needed no manipulation from him or his acolytes. A pure upwelling of dedication and loyalty for Luther, swelled by the man’s presence and words. Not for nothing had the Grand Master laboured so hard upon the training of his new knights, nor the precise wording of their lessons and oaths. Right now the majority of the recruits were picturing themselves as the knights of old, servants of the Order ready to ride forth to battle the Great Beasts – a mould into which they had been continually pressed for the last decade or more.

  Luther’s speech continued, delivered perfectly as he stalked to the front of the stage, a hand held out, trembling with suppressed emotion.

  ‘We were an army waiting for a battle. Stranded, ignored, exiled in our own home. We were impotent, blindly and dumbly being led to the slaughter like stunned grox. But no longer! The universe has seen fit to deliver to us a means of salvation. Warships! Transports! The fleet in orbit is only the beginning. These vessels do not make us strong. But they give us a chance! They are a key to the prison that has kept us in bondage. Once released, we shall forever be free, no matter what fate awaits us.

  ‘It is no longer our lot to serve distant masters and uncaring lords. The blood we spill, the sweat we shed, is for us. Each endeavour we embark upon is for Caliban. The Emperor is not our master, and we will not be slaved to Horus.

  ‘It is a message we can take to others. We will be heralds of hope to those that will listen. Other worlds, other peoples will feel the same for us and we will extend the hand of friendship. In alliance we will be stronger still.

  ‘As for those worlds too selfish or foolish to listen… The hand of friendship can easily become the fist that holds a blade. Our reach is long and will become longer still. Not in tyranny and conquest, but in liberation.’

  Another roar of approval swelled from the audience. Zahariel could imagine the decks of the ships above ringing with the same shouts of praise. Luther allowed it to continue for a while, retreating with head bowed to the centre of the stage. This time he waited for them all to quieten of their own accord.

  ‘One day, they will come for us,’ he said, his whispered words carried by the vox-casters. ‘Horus’ Legions, or the Emperor’s. Perhaps even the Lion himself will return to claim the throne he abandoned.’

  Luther paused, allowing his words to sink in. He clasped his hands together, palm to palm, fingers lifted to his lips.

  ‘Let them come. Let them bring all their ire and indignant rage.’ His voice grew in strength. ‘Let them unleash their wrath and spew forth their base lust. We will never surrender. We will never relent.’

  Another pause and another outpouring of support. Luther played his warriors’ thoughts like a carefully tuned instrument, with the deft strokes of a maestro. Now was fast approaching the moment of truth. The moment Caliban craved. The possibilities made Zahariel’s thoughts burn, his nerves afire with excitement.

  ‘The Order has been restored and Caliban’s honour with it. But the Order is nothing if not the sum of its traditions, and there has been a void of late. It is time to fill that void, to bring guidance to aggression, wisdom to strength, a word before the deed. Raise voice in thanks as I present the new Lord Cypher!’

  Zahariel pulled down the iron mask beneath his hood. With his smile hidden, he started up the steps to thunderous applause.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Epiphany

  Ultramar

  In the course of rising to the position of Grand Master of the Order, the Lion had learned the lesson to ‘command without doubt’. Luther had impressed upon him the need to show strength, unwavering commitment and singularity of purpose at all turns. Even against the greatest of reverses it was imperative that a leader never once revealed the cracks beneath the surface.

  Had he learned that lesson too well? Had firm leadership become uncompromising tyranny? Exiling Luther and the others had been an act of leadership, a response to events that sent a message to Luther, but it had been misheard. Had he intended punishment? Perhaps, but the words of trust, of placing the future of the Legion in the hands of Luther, had been meant as spoken.

  If only I had returned, he thought. I should have gone back with them after Zaramund.

  Even if he could bring himself to confide these thoughts to another, there were none to hear them. He waited for his subordinates in the chamber of Tuchulcha. The warp-device’s meat puppet stood close at hand, hands limp by his sides, face slack. The Watcher avoided this place, and he wondered if that was a warning in itself.

  Still, Tuchulcha had another chance to prove itself useful. The power of travel in a galaxy beset by warp storms might yet be decisive in the battles to come.

  Stenius arrived first, bringing with him Lady Fiana. The Navigator kept her gaze on the ground, refusing to look at Tuchulcha. Her body was emaciated, as wasted as the servitor’s, her skin lightly whorled with scars she had received from a nephilla’s warp bolt. Her third eye was covered by a plain silver band, her grey hair cut short.

  They said nothing above customary greetings and waited in silence until Redloss and Holguin arrived. The Dreadwing’s voted lieutenant bore his axe as usual. The brother-commander of the Deathwing had his longsword upon a hanger at his back, and another great blade at his waist. The primarch recognised it immediately – the Lion Sword.

  ‘I thought I said to get rid of that,’ said the Lion, pointing at the blade.

  ‘Forgive me, my liege, but your instruction was to “take care of these”, and I thought it better to be literal in this instance.’ Holguin looked slightly lost as he gazed at the Lion, uncertainty etched into his expression. ‘I thought I might get the blade reforged, if possible.’

  The Lion quelled a contemptuous laugh, returning to his earlier thoughts. The Legion was in a fragile state, beset by gloom and setbacks. They would look to him to lead them, to provide guidance and purpose. He bit back his cynicism and said nothing.

  The last officer summoned was Myrdun of the Librarius. Although he had not been party to earlier strategies, the psyker had proven himself dedicated while performing his duties in the castrum. His insight would be useful in the trials t
o come.

  The Lion looked at them, his closest counsellors. Each had proven their worth and loyalty many times, yet the Lion could not help but feel that his court was incomplete.

  ‘We return to Caliban,’ he announced.

  They looked at him in surprise, even Lady Fiana. Holguin smiled, Redloss frowned; only Stenius’ artificial face betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

  ‘I would not say this expedition to the east had been a waste of time,’ the Lion continued. ‘We have faced battles and tribulations, but we have also seen the true measure of the enemy we face and learned what must be done to prevail.

  ‘We will not depart Macragge in shame. If you bring me a man that says we have made no difference here, I will call him a liar. I do not know if the Lords Guilliman and Sanguinius can build a new Imperium, but if it is at all possible they are the ones that will succeed. But it is not my place, our place, to be fettered by the designs of others. Too long have I pursued the agenda laid down by both enemy and ally. Curze thought to hold us from saving Terra, and though he is now undone, he succeeded in his aim. Guilliman thought to make me a hunting dog, but it was wrong to serve any other master save the true Emperor, and He has been taken from us.

  ‘The campaign against Horus must continue, but the judgement of victory must change to account for our misfortunes of war. If our exploits in the Five Hundred Worlds have taught me anything, it is that no expedition is secure, no war won without a solid foundation.

  ‘For that reason we shall return to Caliban. Tuchulcha will bring us through the ruinstorm again and we will seek out Corswain and the rest of the Legion, for I believe that they fight on. With them we shall reunite with my liege-brother and fortify Caliban against all aggression. Our assembly here will be all the stronger for the presence of Corswain and Luther.

  ‘For a long time now it seems that we have been a broken Legion, sundered between Terrans and Calibanites, split by brotherhoods, divided by the necessities and geography of war. Lord Guilliman may have his faults, but he once passed to me a fundamental truth that has formed the basis of all he has achieved. He told me “no house divided against itself can stand”. Our Legion must be one and whole again.’

  The Lion turned to Tuchulcha’s meat puppet. The servitor straightened, face animating with a semblance of life.

  ‘How may I be of assistance, Lion?’ the wasted vessel asked.

  ‘Can you take us to Caliban?’

  ‘Home?’ the creature’s lips twisted in a grotesque smile.

  ‘Yes, my home.’

  ‘As you will, it shall be done. Do you wish me to move the fleet now?’

  The Lion shook his head. ‘No, we will proceed to the Mandeville point as though for a normal warp jump. It is even more important now that Guilliman does not learn of your existence. With the device at Sotha crippled I do not think he would show restraint in obtaining you for himself.’

  ‘You are wise and courageous, Lion.’

  Returning his attention to his subordinates, the Lion noticed that Holguin’s demeanour had changed drastically.

  ‘Why so glum, little brother?’ asked the Lion. ‘Have you changed your mind about the prospect of seeing Caliban again?’

  ‘No, my liege. It simply occurs to me that whatever happens next, Curze has the last laugh. Even if the Emperor had been able to hold for a time, Terra has surely fallen now. Though I do not doubt that the Lords Sanguinius and Guilliman will finally have his head for his treasonous acts, bringing the lie to all his claims, his actions may well have gained Horus that victory. He’ll be dead, but their traitors’ cause is won.’

  The Lion was about to voice some words of reassurance, unthinking, but the platitude died before it reached his lips. The primarch’s heart started to race as though in the full flow of battle, his skin prickling with thick sweat as a thought tried to free itself from the depths of his mind like a large beast struggling to escape quicksand.

  The more he tried to focus on the thought, the more it eluded him.

  ‘What did you say, little brother?’

  ‘Curze will have won, even though he is going to be executed, my liege. If there was…’

  Holguin’s words faded as memories swamped the Lion.

  ‘You can’t kill me! You don’t kill me!’

  He saw Curze’s gloating face, his assertions time and again. Madness, or actual foresight?

  ‘Justice has hunted me since the day I opened my eyes on night-shrouded Nostramo. But none of you have the guts to level it. You force me to wait until that assassin’s blade strikes. You are all cowards, speaking of conviction but showing none. Not born yet is the wielder of the blade that will bring me peace.’

  Curze’s claims…

  ‘Before all is done, it is not only my back that will be broken. I will not beg for my life, but you will. Of all your brothers, for me you will sacrifice your honour.’

  But it was his other words that burned like fire through the clamour.

  ‘You have to accept it. You don’t kill me. I am redeemed, my life taken by one of the Emperor’s assassins.’

  ‘Tuchulcha.’ The Lion turned to the servitor, grasping its arm in a massive hand. ‘Sanguinius’ hall is shielded against teleportation. Can you bypass those shields?’

  The puppet made a pretence of thinking, eyes cocked upwards. The blank gaze returned to the Lion a few seconds later.

  ‘Yes, Lion. The barrier of Macragge is no obstacle to me, though it may hurt you.’

  ‘Send me to him, to Sanguinius,’ the Lion snapped. He thrust a finger at the commander of the Deathwing. ‘And Holguin too. Send us now!’

  ‘As you command, Lion,’ the servitor said with a bow.

  In an instant, the Invincible Reason disappeared from around them.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The hardest words

  Ultramar

  If there was one consolation to be taken from the entire debacle, it was that Curze would soon be dead. Guilliman glowered at his fallen brother, who stood before Sanguinius with a defiant look, hands still bound. Slowly, the Night Haunter turned his head, his gaze sliding to Guilliman. His lips slowly peeled back to reveal stiletto fangs.

  ‘Does it make it harder, dear Roboute?’ asked Curze.

  ‘Make what harder?’ Guilliman knew he should not ask, but could not stop himself.

  ‘Killing me. Did the veneer of the law make it palatable?’ Curze sighed and looked away, acting coy. ‘And what of the Lion? He broke the law as well. Why is he not standing next to me?’

  Guilliman had no answer for that and glanced towards the regent emperor. Sanguinius regarded Curze with contempt, one fist gripped in the other.

  ‘I have no blade,’ said the new emperor.

  ‘Nor I,’ confessed Guilliman. He had surrendered his gladius as a symbolic gesture when he had passed his military power to the Lion.

  Curze cackled, but Guilliman sensed there was more bravado than humour. Since Sanguinius had dissolved the trial and subsequently declared Curze a traitor, the Night Haunter’s defiance had waned.

  ‘I will summon Gorod with a weapon.’ Guilliman hesitated. ‘Shall I, or will you lay the final stroke?’

  Sanguinius did not reply, his gaze fixed on Curze. Guilliman could not guess at what occupied his brother’s thoughts. His own had been a turmoil in the last few hours, veering between anger at the Lion and despair at his own failure to keep Imperium Secundus intact, occasionally stopping at blind hope along the way.

  ‘I should do it,’ declared Guilliman, though it was the last thing he wanted to say. Even though it went against all of his beliefs, bordering on cold murder, he would be no leader if he expected another to do what he could not. ‘Emperors should not be executioners.’

  ‘Our father would agree,’ said Curze. ‘Don’t sully your hands with the blood of your victims. Why else would he have kept such a terrible specimen as me? Why would he give me a Legion of his finest warriors if he did not think I would be needed?’

&nbs
p; ‘Be silent.’ Sanguinius stood up, stretching his wings to their full extent. He flexed his hands. ‘I need no blade.’

  ‘You don’t kill me, you cretins,’ said Curze. He said the words again, but with diminishing conviction. ‘You don’t kill me. You don’t kill me. I don’t die here…’

  It was as though Sanguinius gleamed with a pale light, his face as white as Curze’s, eyes becoming blood-red, surrounded by the golden crown of flowing hair. Guilliman had witnessed glimpses of his brother’s wrath before, but had never seen the true Blood Angel unleashed. Sanguinius surged forward on alabaster wings, half a metre from the floor, whiteness streaming from him like flames.

  ‘This is not how I die!’ Curze’s shout was desperate, a mixture of anger and confusion.

  Sanguinius landed, towering over the Night Haunter, his face impassive, showing no regret or anger.

  Guilliman felt a pressure in his skull, a momentary force from within that reminded him of a warp translation. A sudden explosion of pressure flowed around him. The primarch reeled, throwing up a hand, expecting some final trickery from Curze.

  There before him, wreathed in aether-frost, was the Lion with one of his officers. The primarch dropped to a knee, his face wracked with pain, one arm moving to clutch at his chest even as he reached out to Sanguinius. The other, Holguin, collapsed with a cry of agonised despair.

  ‘No!’ The Lion’s shout reverberated around the hall. He stood up with obvious effort. Holguin started to stir. ‘Stay your hand, brother!’

  ‘Guards!’ bellowed Guilliman, hand moving to the hilt of the gladius that was not there. ‘Protect your emperor!’

  Curze fell to his knees with a clatter of chains and let out a laugh of relief and triumph.

  Sanguinius turned, an apparition of angelic death. His crimson eyes regarded the Lion for a second. The golden light dimmed and the regent emperor settled, his eyes becoming their usual clear blue, his skin regaining its bronzed complexion.