by Gav Thorpe
‘Do not slay Curze!’ The Lion moved to interpose himself between Sanguinius and the Night Haunter, each movement causing fresh spasms to wrack his face. ‘Though saying such will cause me greater pain than the touch of his accursed blades.’
The doors burst open and a stream of legionaries poured in – Invictus Terminators, Azkaellon and his remaining Sanguinary Guard, Space Wolves and White Scars – all with bolters and blades levelled at the Lion and Holguin. The Deathwing commander pushed to his feet, wincing.
‘Drop your weapons!’ shouted Gorod, striding to the front of the company.
The Lion turned slowly, holding out his open hands. He nodded to Holguin, who unfastened the hanger of his round-tipped longsword and let it fall to the floor. The Space Marines moved out to encircle the primarchs.
‘And the other one,’ Gorod said, jabbing his combi-bolter towards Holguin.
‘This would not be much use,’ the Deathwing commander replied, tipping out the two shards of the Lion Sword next to his signature blade.
‘Explain yourself,’ Guilliman demanded, crossing the hall to Gorod. The Invictus captain handed his master a powered blade, almost a dagger in the hand of his giant master. ‘Do not think I will let you walk away freely this time.’
‘We have made a grave mistake, brothers,’ said the Lion. He looked down at Curze. ‘He does not die here.’
Moving slowly, he stepped back until he could see both of his loyal brothers. Holguin remained where he was, eyes flicking between the primarchs and the ring of Space Marines around them. The Dark Angel kept his hands away from his body, though the truth was that if he desired to attack one of his brothers he would not need a weapon.
‘You have to listen to me,’ he said, holding up a hand in a gesture of peace. He pointed at Curze and then the pieces of the Lion Sword. ‘He saw it, the breaking of the blade. When we fought and I broke his spine, he said that his back would not be the only thing broken that day.’
‘A vague enough declaration,’ said Guilliman.
But Sanguinius was listening intently. The Lion directed his argument to the primarch of the IX, knowing that if he could convince the emperor then Guilliman’s honour would force him to follow.
‘No, it was a prediction. As was this moment when I would beg for his life.’ The Lion gritted his teeth and did not look at Curze, fearing that any sign of gloating, a momentary barbed look or word might ruin everything. ‘He saw what would happen.’
‘He has claimed to have seen many things,’ said Sanguinius. ‘What is the importance of this particular vision?’
‘None,’ said the Lion, ‘other than proof that his visions are real.’
‘A leap of faith, or circular logic,’ said Guilliman. ‘It is a prophecy that fulfils itself. Even so, what of it?’
‘Over and again, above all other things, this wretch has claimed that we cannot kill him, that we do not kill him. He even described the manner of his death. An assassin, sent by the Emperor.’ Neither of them seemed to understand the implications of this. The Lion took a long breath and continued. ‘An assassin not yet sent, perhaps not yet born, if Curze’s word is to be believed.’
Still they did not see what was obvious to the Lion. His frustration shortened his temper despite his efforts and he barked his next words.
‘The Emperor cannot despatch this assassin if He is dead! If Curze is telling the truth, the Emperor is alive!’
Guilliman shook his head in disbelief, but after a moment Sanguinius’ expression was one of dismay.
‘If the Emperor lives…’ The Blood Angel’s words were barely a whisper. ‘Then Terra has not fallen?’
‘Supposition,’ Guilliman said, swiping away the Lion’s argument with a sweep of his hand. ‘A fractured hypothesis based on the rantings of a madman.’
‘And what of my vision, brother?’ Sanguinius asked quietly. ‘Am I mad also?’
To this Guilliman had no reply, his hands flailed the air even as he searched for an answer. The Lion had not considered this and the elation he had felt was tainted by a sad realisation.
‘If Curze’s premonition is true, brother,’ he said, looking at Sanguinius, ‘then so is yours.’
The Blood Angel nodded solemnly, his expression resigned.
‘To die at Horus’ hand is a fate I gladly accept,’ Sanguinius declared, ‘if it means that the Emperor yet lives and fights for mankind. I would speed to this confrontation on the swiftest of wings if it means the enduring reign of the Emperor.’
‘What of this creature?’ Guilliman asked, gesturing with his blade towards Curze. ‘If you say we cannot kill him, will you be his gaoler? I would not suffer his presence a moment longer than necessary.’
The Lion looked at Curze and the Night Haunter stared back, showing no sign of emotion. As surely as Curze was chained, the Lion would be bound to the fate of the traitorous dog who had thrice nearly killed him.
His future would also be here, for the moment, on Macragge, with his brother primarchs. If Terra still held they would have to devise a plan to breach the ruinstorm, to break through the worlds fallen to Horus and the Legions and armies that followed him. But there was hope, even if not for Sanguinius. As much as Curze was destined to survive, then the Blood Angel was destined to meet Horus, which meant that there was a chance the Warmaster would be defeated.
It also meant no return to Caliban. Whatever passed there would have to go untended, there could be no distraction. Despite all that the Watcher had warned him might transpire at home, there was a far greater role for him to play.
‘I plead your indulgence, brothers.’ The Lion fell to one knee. ‘I have acted in a shameful manner and I deserve and ask for no forgiveness. I humbly request a chance to right such wrongs as I have committed. I will be Curze’s keeper, if you spare his life.’
Guilliman’s face was ashen, his arguments dissipated. He stared at the Lion for several seconds and wiped a hand across his face. He turned away, his gaze roaming until it alighted on Sanguinius. The Blood Angel’s expression was dark at he met his brother’s stare.
‘But if the Emperor still lives…’ Guilliman’s voice was barely a haunted whisper as he considered all that he had done.
There was silence for a moment, and then the hall rang with Curze’s shrill laughter.
EPILOGUE
012.M31
The rift spat forth a stream of whirling energy as a ship broke through from the warp, its massive hull silhouetted against an impossible maelstrom of colours. The rift sealed as the battle-barge cut its warp engines and plasma drives burst into life, leaving a stream of cobalt fire.
An experienced onlooker would have known that something was amiss. Not all of the huge plasma nacelles were operating: some remained dark. Debris trailed behind the immense warship, carried along by its mass for a while like the tail of a comet but slowly spinning away.
There were great welts in the hull of the ship. Ragged gouges metres-deep scarred its gun decks and weapons batteries. Craters marked the heavy armoured plates. The mouths of flight bays were dark, landing decks within empty.
Engines stuttering, wounded but not dead, the Terminus Est limped towards its destination.
Over the following day another five vessels manned by Calas Typhon’s Grave Wardens broke warp and followed their flagship. All bore similar wounds of battle to a greater or lesser extent.
It was not just the fleet of the Grave Wardens that bore the marks of war. Scans detected ship hulls drifting lifelessly towards the inner worlds of the system, while radiation sweeps indicated recent combat.
A battle had been fought here, very recently indeed.
In the massive strategium of the Terminus Est the mood was pensive. It was impossible that long-range auspex had not detected the approach of the battered Death Guard flotilla. Those scanners that remained operational reported a few contacts with system monitor vessels. None of them would have been a match for even the smallest ship of the Legion flotilla. They retreate
d before Typhon’s advance – close enough to watch, far enough to avoid attack.
Typhon, Vioss and the other officers remained at their posts, though even their superhuman resources were almost depleted. Typhon had not known such exertion, such exhaustion as he had experienced over the last year of duelling with Corswain of the Dark Angels. The Lion’s son was a merciless foe when riled.
Only the comfort that he did the Plaguefather’s work sustained the desolate captain. His faith, his belief that reward would be at hand, gave him strength to continue. A strength he had never received from his primarch.
‘Large warship, three hundred thousand kilometres ahead,’ Vioss announced from the scanning arrays. The right-hand side of the captain’s face was a mask of burned flesh and blood from a plasma discharge. There was a milky cast to his eye as he looked at his commander.
Such was his fatigue Typhon thought at first that he had imagined the moment.
‘A battle-barge,’ Vioss confirmed. ‘First Legion. On a closing course.’
‘Damn Corswain,’ Typhon snarled. ‘Well earned is his title of the Hound of Caliban. He dogs us without fail. If there is one warship here, there will be more.’
‘The recent battle… Perhaps our signals for aid have been answered by the Legion.’
Shaking his head, Typhon was about to order that the flotilla come about when a call from Hurklan at the comm-unit interrupted him.
‘We are being hailed,’ the sergeant declared without ceremony. Titles and formal addresses had been one of the first casualties of the ongoing battles. ‘An open Legion channel. Visual-stream, no encryption.’
‘A demand for surrender?’ said Vioss, his mutilated mouth slurring the words.
‘I think we are well past that,’ replied Typhon. Intrigued, he signalled to Hurklan to accept the broadcast.
The main display flicked from the strategic overview to a large face. His thick, dark hair was cropped almost to the scalp, cheeks and chin covered by a carefully shaped beard. There was a darkness under the eyes and a few more creases than Typhon remembered, but he recognised the face immediately.
‘Welcome back to Zaramund, old friend,’ said Luther.
AFTERWORD
‘The Tale of Astelan – Part One’
I wrote those words about fifteen years ago, opening the story that would become my first Dark Angels novel Angels of Darkness. I had no idea back then what twists and turns the story would take over the next decade and a half – a story that Angels of Caliban continues to reveal, yet is still not complete.
Nor will it ever be, for what are the Dark Angels if no mysteries remain?
The testimony of Astelan in Angels of Darkness was the first opportunity for a Black Library novel to look at events of the Horus Heresy. The timing was spot on, allowing me to draw on the new background being developed by Alan Merrett for the Sabertooth Games collectible card game that would relaunch the Horus Heresy into full view – background that still serves to inspire the stories being explored by Black Library authors, and now Games Workshop writers as well.
At the heart of Astelan’s disaffection with the Dark Angels, the crucial conflict raised during a conversation with Alan whilst discussing my ideas for the Angels of Darkness tale, was that of ‘Old Legion versus New Legion’. Of all the Space Marines involved in the Horus Heresy, no Legion embodies more the inherently difficult transition from a pre-primarch to a post-primarch existence. This continues to be the central pillar of the wider story even now.
Much of the most recent development of the Dark Angels has come from another Alan – Mr Bligh of Forge World. His work has delved back further than any before, to the very founding of the Legion as the first of a new kind of elite warriors created by the Emperor. For my purposes, many of these revelations are embodied within Astelan, the incarnation of the First as they were at the time of the Emperor’s Unification of Terra. It’s been fascinating to see this character continue to take me in unexpected directions thanks to these ongoing explorations of the background, and yet still holding to the same ideals and personality that were laid down fifteen years past.
Whether on Caliban itself or in Imperium Secundus on the far side of the ruinstorm, the fate of the Dark Angels continues to be defined by the many-layered past of the Legion. I have tried to avoid any simple definitions of loyalty and treachery where the First are concerned, and especially the Lion. They have been, and continue to be, a Legion that defines their own rules. This is no less true for the likes of Luther, Zahariel and Astelan – individuals each driven by their own agenda but considering themselves true servants of a higher ideal.
The same can be said for the concept of honour. The different architects of the Dark Angels’ future all consider themselves honourable warriors, whether holding to a traditional view as in the case of Luther, or being prepared to sacrifice it for a greater cause as we see in the Lion.
These are themes that started with the excellent short story ‘Savage Weapons’ by Aaron Dembski-Bowden, in which we see the Dark Angels against a foe utterly without honour – Konrad Curze and the Night Lords. The Thramas Crusade really kicked off in that story and became the foundation for my novella The Lion and Aaron’s next instalment Prince of Crows. Though the war for the galaxy has moved on considerably since those days, the groundwork for the events in Angels of Caliban was laid then. The Horus Heresy is, among many things, all about the long story, the continuing twists and turns that lead to the unexpected payoff. The ‘Lion versus Curze’ thread has become one of those fascinating narratives, and even though it has reached a new milestone at the end of this book, it still has a few surprises to deliver.
A mission that Aaron and I were keen to pursue was to make the Dark Angels’ tale relevant to the wider Heresy. Their story is not just one that affects a single Legion, but has repercussions for all of mankind and the Imperium. In part this is addressed through the Lion’s crucial involvement with Imperium Secundus, and elsewhere (‘off-screen’ in this story) by the continuing battles of Paladin Corswain. Though by no means easy, making these storylines a part of the bigger picture is relatively straightforward. Tying events on Caliban – the internecine politics of a group of warriors physically isolated from the rest of the fighting – into the grander conflict proved to be a sterner quest.
The solution presented itself by going full circle and returning to the core background now collected in the Visions of Heresy tome. With the help of series editor and M31-savant extraordinaire Laurie Goulding, I teased out the opportunities presented by the episode at Zaramund and – hopefully – in the epilogue delivered a conclusion that brings the Caliban insurrection front and centre to the battles still to rage for control of the Imperium.
Which brings us to the future.
We leave Angels of Caliban poised on the next great leap of the story. Imperium Secundus seems to be over and done, the ideals of its leaders and the foundations of its existence shaken to the core. The rebellion of Luther has borne glorious fruit for the Order and Caliban, but in the heart of his movement the malignancy of Chaos’ corruption starts to swell.
Powers are in motion, the story continues, and there are still several key episodes awaiting us before the fighting is over.
Gav Thorpe
December 2015
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.
An extract from Legacy of Caliban.
How did the Lion die?
It was a simple question, innocently asked, and Brother Annael had wondered why, in over four hundred years of service to the Dark Angels Chapter, it had not occurred to him before. It was the question that had propelled him from an assault squad in the Fifth Company to the ranks of the Second Company, the lauded Ravenwing, and that was when he had found out the truth.
Horus, arch-traitor, thrice-cursed, had murdered the primarch of the Dark Angels.
So he had been told by Brother Malcifer, Chaplain of the Ravenwing, when Annael had been inducted into the lore of the Second Company. Annael had understood immediately why such knowledge was so closely guarded; that the Dark Angels had been brought to the brink of destruction by other Space Marines had been a testing revelation.
He had known that there were always the weak-willed, even amongst the Adeptus Astartes, who put themselves and their ambition above the call of duty and their oaths of dedication to the Emperor. He had fought against such heretics on eight different occasions, bringing the justice of death to them with chainsword and bolt pistol, but had never suspected the full horror of the temptations that draw good warriors away from the service of the Emperor.
Weeping, Annael had listened as Malcifer had related the tale of the Horus Heresy, a cataclysmic civil war that had threatened to destroy the Imperium at its birth. The Dark Angels, the First Legion, greatest of the Emperor’s warriors, had fought against the evil of Horus and those primarchs who had been corrupted by his silken-tongued promises, and they had triumphed. The victory had been won at great cost, and Lion El’Jonson, the primarch of the Dark Angels had given his life to defeat the enemy.
Now that he was a member of the Ravenwing, it was Annael’s duty to hold to that knowledge and keep it as a sacred fire in his heart to lend strength to his sword arm and to fuel his courage in battle. Armed with such understanding, it was the Ravenwing that sought out those traitors who had turned on the Emperor, so that they might be brought to account for their sins. As a Space Marine of the Dark Angels, Annael had never lacked conviction, honour or valour, but as a chosen warrior of the Ravenwing he now understood the importance of discretion and brotherhood even more sharply.
