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The Burden of Angels – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Burden of Angels

Nick Kyme

Mortals call us angels. Our wings are of fire and our wrath is terrible to behold, but there is nothing supernatural about us. We are flesh, blood and bone. Neither vaunted nor immortal. Yet, we are both awed and feared like beings of true light.

I once believed there was one amongst us, he who was descended from the deific, that could claim this mantle. Noble beyond reproach, ageless and wise, if asked I would have said he was a true angel. It was not until the day, when I saw his mask slip and then the mask beneath it also fall away, that I learned truly how angelic Dante was.

My revelation began on Hecatomb…

Rust-red sand skirled across a barren plain, obscuring the hulking silhouettes of gunships. One of those vessels belonged to us, though it was lost in our wake and the storm winds eddying down from the northern mountains.

Our footprints were gone too, swept away as if we had never walked from the high plateau to where our faltering auspex told us to find the Blood Angels.

A burst of flame soared up from a volcano amongst the high mountain peaks, presaged by a bellicose rumble. It was but child’s laughter to a Salamander, but Vulcanis appreciated the symmetry as he watched it erupt.

‘A taste of home,’ he murmured across the vox.

‘You whelp. Drygnirr spit has more ferocity,’ replied Zad’ir, argumentative as always.

Beneath my draconic faceplate, I smiled at their banter. It was right and good for Firedrakes to have some volatile spirit. It had to be instilled. I trusted this task to Praetor, my sergeant of the Firedrakes, but his mood had grown dark of late. He fought an inner war, in a crucible that would either forge him stronger or break him. Praetor would have mocked this drab world’s fury too.

Hecatomb was a much lesser version of Nocturne. By comparison, its skin-searing heat was a gentle caress, its mountains like diminutive crags to the Salamanders who had seen soaring peaks that rose and obscured the sun.

‘Your breath does, Zad’ir,’ remarked Xakkus, siding with his brother.

‘Sked-eating–’ Zad’ir began.

Ikanius interrupted. ‘Ahead,’ he said, the slate-screen of his auspex crackling with interference. ‘Two hundred metres and closing.’

Despite the static, I could see the range counter clicking down to zero.

‘Are you certain, Vanguard?’ Zad’ir asked, using his derogatory nickname for Ikanius. It reflected his eagerness to always lead the line. His tenure as a Firedrake in my retinue was shorter than the others. Soon enough he would learn he had nothing to prove. ‘I recall a desert basin some eight hundred metres back that looked nothing like our destination.’

‘The storm was fouling my instrumentation.’

‘Sure it’s not your nose for direction that is foul?’

Ikanius turned and glared at Zad’ir, but when others joined in with his laughter any unmeant insult was forgotten.

‘Are we discussing your breath again, brother?’ Ikanius replied, though he looked serious.

More laughter. I was glad to hear it. There had been precious little to laugh about since the invasion. But Nocturne had survived Nihilan and his Dragon Warrior renegades. Our Chapter and its tribes also lived, but I still carried many burdens.

‘Do not pity this world’s anger,’ I said to my warriors. ‘Bask in it. Defy it. And should it still dissatisfy you... only then turn to Zad’ir for a true test of your courage.’

The laughter grew raucous. It was a rare thing for us, though Firedrakes were known for their choleric temperament. In that way, we had much in common with the Wolves. But it was not Grimnar and his Fenrisian dogs of war I had come here to see. As the winds abated, the sand thinned to reveal ruby-red gunships and a half-sunken citadel behind them.

It was an old bastion of the Blood Angels made of smooth, pale granite, though the red sand had stained it and eroded some of the statuary clinging to its curved walls. A banner hung from a lancet arch above us, fluttering mournfully in the breeze.

A wide archway granted admittance to the bastion. It might once have been large enough to allow mighty war engines through its missing gates but it had sunk so low and awkwardly that only a warrior in power armour could pass through the archway now.

Three such warriors stood before it to greet us.

I knew Israfel. The Herald nodded to us as we approached. I saw also Cassiel, the seneschal never far from his master’s side.

Between them stood a figure as noble and imperious as I remembered him. His war-plate had been crafted to resemble unadorned muscle, albeit wrought from gilded adamantium and ceramite. Largest amongst its many gemstones was a ruby blood droplet emblazoned upon his chest, two angelic wings spreading out from it across his armoured pectorals. A gold mask hid his face from us, again made to look like the face of an unarmoured man, and he wore an exquisite looking axe at his hip. As a Salamander, I could appreciate a finely forged blade and this one had few equals.

It had been years since we last met to honour the pledge. Here, on Hecatomb at the sunken citadel, the ritual between our Chapters would finally take place again.

As we reached the angels I knelt and so did my warriors.

‘Rise, Tu’Shan, all of you,’ said Dante, his voice melodic yet strong, ‘and know you are amongst friends.’

As I arose, Dante gripped my wrist in the manner of warriors and we embraced as brothers.

‘Well met, Tu’Shan.’ He sounded pleased to see us. ‘Tell me all that has happened since we last spoke.’

‘A tale not as warm as this welcome, I am afraid.’

‘I see.’

I noted Dante’s warriors bowed respectfully but did not shake hands with my drakes. The Angels were often reserved in this way. Poised, always. I considered Dante’s efforts towards me exceptional.

The Lord of the Host went on in the same vein, clapping my shoulder guard.

‘Then let us speak inside, out of the storm. I have warm kharash all the way from Baal.’

Worn by entropy, the blood droplet above the immense arch of the sunken citadel was a reminder of whose territory this was. As we passed under it, I was reminded of something else – the vaunted history of the Angels and their taste for blood.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2014
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Jason Juta.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-198-4

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