The Purging of Kadillus

by Gav Thorpe

  Such was the nature of the Chaplains, to be ever alert to the faintest glimmer of laxity or doubt. The 10th Company trained a Space Marine; the Apothecaries created his superhuman body; the armoury provided his armour and weapons. It was the Chaplains that gave a Space Marine the most deadly tool in his arsenal: righteousness of purpose. Without it, a Space Marine was nothing.

  Adherence to the Chapter’s teachings, participating in the brotherhood of warriors that was the Dark Angels, was the core of discipline and fearlessness. An Apothecary could tinker with glands and hormones and proteins, but such manipulation was merely a foundation upon which the Chaplains built courage, honour and aggression.

  Just thinking about his duties fired Boreas’s spirit. To be a Chaplain was to demand the highest expectation, of oneself as well as one’s battle-brothers. Boreas remembered the sense of justice and completeness he had felt when the last ork had died in the basilica, and felt it again as real as the first moment.

  It was more than hatred of the enemy that fuelled Boreas’s self-belief. Privy to the ancient secrets of the Chapter he knew the price that would be paid for a moment of hesitation or doubt. Nearly ten thousand years had passed since those days of treachery, when Lion El’jonson had been set upon by those he had trusted. Boreas had heard the lies from the lips of those traitors, extracted in the depths of the Tower of Angels. He had heard first-hand how deceit had grown in the hearts of Space Marines. If he was harsh, it was because Boreas understood the dangers of equivocation.

  It was sometimes a heavy burden to bear. Boreas looked at Zaltys rejoining his squad and for a moment tried to remember what it was like to simply be a Dark Angel, before he had been inducted into the Inner Circle and learned about the Chapter’s moment of weakness during the Horus Heresy. Had he been weaker or stronger for his ignorance? It was impossible to say; Boreas had been out of the 10th Company for less than a year when the Chaplains had summoned him and told him that his strength of mind marked him out to become one of their number.

  He had been filled with pride that day. Not the kind of pride that leads a Space Marine to believe himself better than his brothers, but pride that he had something to offer the Chapter. Had he known then what he would learn over the next decades, he would not have been so glad that his strengths had been recognised. He had needed all of that mental fortitude, and the unending support of his brother Chaplains, to come to terms with the ignominy of the Dark Angels’ failure those many centuries ago.

  For a lesser man – even a lesser Space Marine – those interrogations with the Fallen would have weakened resolve. For Boreas, the opposite was true. Every different lie he heard, every false justification and self-aggrandising rationale that was spat out in the interrogation cells was a confirmation of his devotion to the Lion and his trust for the Dark Angels. No matter how persuasive the argument or reasoned the principles espoused by those that had turned on the primarch, Boreas was reminded on each occasion of the self-serving nature of those that had become traitors.

  His last interrogation had been particularly fraught, his subject espousing all kinds of propaganda and venom against the Lion, challenging the primarch’s loyalty to the Emperor. That treacherous viper had been amongst the worst, an instigator of the rebellion and an unashamed detractor of the Lion.

  Boreas recalled the Fallen’s name: Astelan. He had not repented and had clung to his self-delusional beliefs despite every effort of the Chaplain. Raving and half-mad, the Fallen had made wild claims and re-invented history for his own purposes. What truth could there be from the mouth of a self-confessed architect of genocide, who had the brazen nerve to be proud of his defiance of the Lion and the Emperor?

  It was against such insanity that the Chaplains had to contend. And from the lies the truth was eked out, teased from the misinformation and posturing. Over ten thousand years the Chaplains had learnt a great deal about treachery and how to spot its earliest signs, from the evidence given by those who had succumbed.

  With this knowledge Boreas could strike against the smallest seed of doubt and crush it before it took hold. Zaltys was a Space Marine of the Dark Angels and Boreas did not doubt his devotion for a moment. Yet there were those who had been trusted before, by none other than the Lion himself, who had proved the error of indulgence. Zaltys meant no harm and was no threat – yet.

  His sentimental attachment to his home world was a tiny chink in the armour of his soul; one that could be exploited if it was not repaired. What today was a reason for fighting even more fiercely against the orks could tomorrow become a reason for disobedience. If, against all expectation, the Dark Angels failed to stem the ork attack and Piscina had to be sacrificed for strategic reasons, could Zaltys be trusted to obey the order, and more importantly, pass it on to those who served under him?

  A thrum of anti-grav motors from the patrolling Ravenwing land speeder swept past the power plant. As the Ravenwing stood watch against the enemy without, Boreas was alert for an even deadlier foe: the enemy within.

  The night passed quietly. Boreas sat on a rock, cleaning his bolt pistol as the horizon to the east fringed with red. He looked around as the hum of the Ravenwing’s land speeder shook the ground behind him. The black-liveried speeder settled down a few metres away, stopping just above the ground. Brother Amathael jumped out, leaving the heavy bolter to droop on its mount, its muzzle clanging against the speeder’s hull. Amathael bent down and looked at something on the vehicle’s underside.

  ‘Is something wrong, brother?’ Boreas asked over the comm.

  ‘I am not sure, brother,’ Amathael replied.

  His black armour almost invisible, the Ravenwing Space Marine ducked under the floating land speeder. The rocks around the mine head echoed with the sound of his armoured fist thumping against metal. The Space Marine emerged with a twisted length of branch in his hand. He held it up to the driver, Methaniel, as if in explanation.

  ‘We must have picked this up during our last pass through that gorge to the east,’ said Amathael as he tossed the offending branch aside. ‘How’s the sensor return now, brother?’

  Hearing this exchange, Boreas stood up and walked over to the land speeder as it rose a few metres into the air, its twin-fan engine throbbing. The ground shimmered through the craft’s anti-grav field, dust kicked up by the gravitic impellers keeping the land speeder aloft. The Chaplain’s autosenses registered a wave of electromagnetic energy emitted by the antenna jutting from the blunt nose of the craft as the pilot activated the long-range augur.

  ‘There is still something wrong, brother,’ reported Methaniel. ‘I’m getting a large, blurred return. Check the housing again.’

  The land speeder settled down once more under Methaniel’s direction and there followed some more thuds as Amathael effected his own form of repairs.

  ‘The links are all in place,’ said Amathael. ‘Check the connections on the chin-mount.’

  Pneumatics wheezed as the multi-barrelled assault cannon slung beneath the land speeder’s nose swivelled left and right. At a command from the pilot, the assault cannon’s barrel spun up to firing speed with a whine and then slowed to a low growl.

  ‘I think your crude attentions have offended the spirit of the sensor matrix, brother,’ said Methaniel. ‘I told you to ask Brother Hephaestus to cast his blessing upon it before we left Kadillus Harbour.’

  ‘Master Belial’s orders were specific, brother,’ Amathael said. ‘There was not time to seek the Techmarines.’

  Boreas cleared his throat meaningfully, interrupting the two Space Marines’ bickering.

  ‘Explain the situation, brothers,’ said the Chaplain.

  Amathael and Methaniel looked at each other, waiting for the other to speak. Amathael conceded first and turned to Boreas.

  ‘We have suffered damage to the long-range augur, Brother-Chaplain,’ the Ravenwing gunner admitted. ‘We thought we might effect a field repair, but it seems the land speeder’s spirit is more troubled than we realised.’
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  ‘You felt it necessary to abandon your patrol for this matter?’ Boreas kept his tone even, masking his annoyance.

  ‘We have been up and down the mountain all night, brother,’ said Amathael. ‘There’s nothing more threatening than a few rock lizards.’

  ‘How long ago did you first experience this sensor problem, brothers?’ Boreas asked patiently.

  ‘No more than twenty minutes, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Methaniel.

  ‘And you are experiencing an unexpected sensor return at the moment?’

  Methaniel looked down at the console and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ said the pilot. ‘The accursed thing thinks there’s a huge heat source three kilometres away. If it were caused by the orks, there would have to be hundreds of them to register like that.’

  ‘I think we should investigate,’ Amathael said hurriedly. He glanced at Boreas and then pulled himself up to the gunner’s position next to Methaniel. ‘Better to be sure, is that not right, Brother-Chaplain?’

  Boreas allowed his deafening silence to answer for him.

  ‘Dawn patrol protocol,’ said Amathael. ‘Sweep east to west. Let us not distract the Brother-Chaplain any longer.’

  Boreas shook his head with disappointment as the twin glows of the land speeder’s engine disappeared into the night. A certain freedom of spirit and independence was required of the Ravenwing, but poor patrol discipline was unacceptable. When the Chapter returned, Boreas would be making a report to Brother Sammael, Master of the Ravenwing, regarding Brothers Amathael and Methaniel. Such cavalier behaviour would not be tolerated by the 3rd Company.

  A few minutes later, the shouts of the Piscinans’ lieutenants calling for the morning watch echoed around the mine head. Troopers roused themselves wearily from their blankets, their babble adding to the noise. Walking amongst them, Boreas heard something else above the low din, echoing from the gorge to the south. It was a loud drone, like the buzzing of an immense wasp.

  The Chaplain recognised the sound instantly: an assault cannon firing.

  A moment after he heard the sound, the comm chimed in Boreas’s ear.

  ‘Brother Boreas!’ Methaniel’s voice was urgent. The comm rattled with the sound of Amathael’s heavy bolter and continued sporadic bursts from the assault cannon. ‘This is Ravenwing-Six. Hostile force encountered, two kilometres south of your position. We are falling back out of weapons range. Heavy enemy presence. Requesting orders, Brother-Chaplain.’

  Boreas’s first act was to switch the transmission to general broadcast.

  ‘Brothers of the Lion, sons of Piscina: the enemy are upon us! Gather yourselves and prepare your weapons. Today our courage and our strength will be tested. We will not be found lacking.’ The Chaplain switched back to the command channel. ‘Ravenwing-Six, this is Boreas. Estimate enemy numbers.’

  ‘Four hundred to five hundred including light vehicles and Dreadnoughts, brother,’ said Methaniel, his voice calmer. ‘Count five warbikes approaching, and one of those flamethrower light half-tracks. Orders, brother?’

  ‘Engage the warbikes and slow their attack,’ Boreas said, striding into the heart of his force. He looked around to gauge the readiness of the defenders. The reaction had been mixed. Zaltys and his Assault Marines were bounding off to the left, to take up positions opposite the ruins of one of the mine’s administration buildings. The Piscina troopers were rushing to and fro, some of them at their posts, others caught out as they had been preparing their breakfast. ‘We need at least two minutes, Ravenwing-Six.’

  ‘Confirm, brother. Attack delayed for two minutes.’

  Boreas took his place at the centre of the line, behind a crude wall of broken rock and dirt-filled rations crates. Just in front, a worried-looking Piscinan lieutenant was shrieking orders at his command squad as they set up their autocannon. The squad already inside the emplacement were reluctant to leave their cover, leaving no room for the anti-tank gun. The officer’s high-pitched entreaties were only adding to the confusion. Boreas stepped up next to the frantic officer, the Space Marine’s shadow falling over the men manhandling the heavy weapon onto its tripod.

  ‘You will have more success if you site your weapon on the flatter ground over there,’ Boreas cut across the troopers’ chatter. He pointed to an emplacement a dozen metres to the right which was as yet unmanned. ‘Do not allow haste to detract from your preparations, you have plenty of time.’

  The officer bobbed his head nervously and signalled to his men to move to the empty position. Boreas grabbed the man by the arm as he set off after his squad, taking care not to hurt the officer.

  ‘I expect you to show calmness and discipline, lieutenant,’ Boreas said. ‘Remember that your men will look to you for leadership. I know that you are afraid, but you must not show it. You are an officer representing the Emperor, never forget that.’

  The lieutenant said nothing as he nodded again and took a deep breath. Boreas held the man back for a few seconds more until he was convinced that he was calmer. Looking across to the next emplacement, he saw that the autocannon was already set up, ready for the ork vehicles.

  ‘Join your men and fight with courage and honour,’ said Boreas, giving the lieutenant a light shove to send him on his way.

  ‘This is Ravenwing-Six. Two warbikes destroyed, Brother-Chaplain,’ Methaniel reported over the comm. ‘Heavy bolter destroyed, gunner dead. Orders, brother.’

  ‘Continue to delay the enemy,’ Boreas replied. ‘Sacrifice if necessary. Confirm.’

  ‘Confirm, Brother-Chaplain,’ the land speeder pilot answered without hesitation.

  Boreas examined the deployment of his small force. Many of them were too far back, lingering within the protection of the power plant rather than at the front line. They had all but surrendered the outer buildings of the mine-workings with their hesitancy but it was too late to move them forwards.

  The Chaplain contacted Zaltys.

  ‘The orks are likely to gain the outer perimeter of the compound, brother-sergeant. Stay free of engagement until the moment is right to counter-attack. If the enemy force a position into those buildings you will have to drive them out; I fear our allies are incapable of such offensive action.’

  ‘Confirm, Brother-Chaplain. We will allow the Piscinans to blunt the attack and then assault when enemy momentum is wavering.’

  The comm crackled as another transmission came in from the Ravenwing land speeder.

  ‘This is Ravenwing-Six. Revise upwards enemy force estimate. Five hundred infantry minimum. I can see heavily armoured leaders approaching up the gorge. Must conclude that Koth Ridge is not the enemy obj–’

  The comm cut and an explosion echoed up the valley. Boreas increased the magnification of his autosenses and saw a blossom of red fire about half a kilometre away. Smoke trails from the ork bikes and light half-tracks were not much further away.

  The Chaplain switched his comm to universal address.

  ‘This is your commander, Chaplain Boreas of the Dark Angels. Today will test your resolve like no other. You do not fight to protect an abandoned mine, but to halt the orks that have come to destroy your world. An enemy has come here to kill and enslave your loved ones. Our foes are many but we have a far superior position. Today each of you has the opportunity to be a hero of the Emperor. Count only the dead of the enemy and pay no heed to the fears that whisper. Every ork you kill is one less that will fall upon your homes and families. Share the rage of the Dark Angels and slay these loathsome creatures. Sanctorius via mortis majorus. Kill without relent and taste the sweetness of victory!’

  Zaltys and his Assault Marines gave a roar of approval, though the reaction from the Piscinans was more muted. Most of the troopers were staring along their lasgun sights, worriedly awaiting the approach of the greenskins. A nervous quiet descended on the force and the rumble of the engines reverberated up the gorge towards Boreas. He could see a thick pall of smoke, presumably from the destroyed land speeder, and the paler exhaust fumes
of the orks’ warbikes.

  As the bikes roared into view, heavy weapons teams to the Chaplain’s right opened fire with lascannons and autocannons, filling the gorge with a hail of shells and blue bursts of energy. One of the bikes exploded immediately, struck in the engine by a lascannon bolt. Two more bikers jinked their half-track vehicles between the storms of splintering rock and ravening blasts of laser energy.

  The warbikes were even larger than the combat bikes of the Ravenwing, each laden with rapid-firing cannons that spewed bullets up the gorge. They both had a churning track instead of a rear wheel, which threw up huge fountains of dirt and grit in their wake.

  Their ork riders wore thick-rimmed goggles to protect their eyes and their fanged mouths were hidden behind brightly patterned scarves, a crude defence against the choking dust and smoke. The orks’ thick jackets were daubed with stripes of red to match the paintwork of their machines. A pennant with a flaming skull fluttered from a pole behind one rider, who wore a spiked helmet painted with a similar design. The other biker’s head was protected by a black leather cap studded with small spikes. As the rider’s scarf fell away, Boreas could see that the ork frothed at the mouth, driven to a delirium by the speed of his machine and the chatter of the guns.

  Boreas was not the least concerned by the rapidly approaching bikes. He had studied the reports from the assault on Koth Ridge and it appeared the orks were repeating their mistakes. In their enthusiasm to get to grips with the enemy, the bikers were far ahead of the ork infantry and would be easy prey for the heavy weapons teams.

  A few seconds after the bikes had emerged from behind a ruined shack half a kilometre down the ravine, a second exploded into a rising fireball of red as the autocannon gunners found their range. Debris rained down onto the rocks to either side of the valley and a thick pall of smoke wafted up around the Piscinans, the grey tinged with green fuel vapours.