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Master of Sanctity - Extract

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Retribution

An angel lay fallen and broken.

Sapphon, High Interrogator of the Dark Angels, Finder of Secrets, Master of Sanctity, looked at the chipped, weathered faced of the statue and grimaced. It was not a good omen.

Clad in the black power armour associated with his calling, Sapphon was a darker figure amongst the shadows of the desecrated shrine building. His helm was masked with the visage of a skull, his chestplate adorned with the Imperial aquila, against which rested a large pendant formed as a winged skull; a conversion field generator known as a rosarius gifted to him by the arch-cardinal of Canoptary Prime as a symbol of unity with the Ecclesiarchy. Auspex scans had indicated no threat within the crumbling temple but the Chaplain carried his weapons ready, bolt pistol in his right hand, his eagle-headed mace – a crozius arcanum – in the left.

The continuous smoke of fighting and wildfires blotted the night sky outside the broken walls and the depths of the nave were pitch-black. Despite this, Sapphon was able to easily navigate around the toppled statue with the assistance of his suit’s auto-senses, his already superior vision and hearing boosted to a preternatural level. Audio pick-ups conveyed the crunch of rubble pulverised under armoured boots, echoing through the ruined nave of the basilica as five warriors of the Deathwing spread out around their leader.

The elite of the Chapter wore Tactical Dreadnought armour, known amongst the brethren as Terminators, painted in the ivory of the First Company. Each Terminator suit was an artificer-created technical marvel larger even than standard Adeptus Astartes power armour, combining the mobility of an infantryman with the protection and firepower of a vehicle. Millennia of upkeep and adaption made each suit unique, whether it was the added armour banding around the greaves of Brother Decemius’s armour, or the reinforcing studs that strengthened the left pauldron of Brother Fidellus‘s battleplate. On the left shoulder each of them bore the Crux Terminatus, an honour held by only a tenth of all the Space Marines across the Imperium; a symbol of devotion and courage so lauded it was worn where normally the Chapter symbol would take pride of place. This insignia, the winged sword of the Dark Angels – the blade enigmatically broken in the case of the Deathwing for reasons lost to antiquity – was worn on the right shoulder instead, bright red against the pale bone colour.

Two, brothers Namnos and Decemius, were armed with immense power fists, capable of punching through solid ferrocrete, ripping apart tank armour and pulping flesh and bone, paired with twin-barrelled storm bolters that could lay down a hail of explosive bolts in devastating bursts. Their leader, Sergeant Caulderain, bore a power sword as a mark of his rank as well as his storm bolter. Brother Fidellus was designated squad guardian, his thunder hammer and storm shield dedicated to close combat, while Brother Satrael carried the heavy weapon; for this mission a six-barrelled assault cannon that could lay down a curtain of fire so intense it would obliterate anything caught in the fusillade.

They were the elite by training too, each of them a veteran of many battles. To them had been given the honour of pushing into the ork-held city blocks that surrounded the old Chapter buildings at the heart of the capital of Piscina IV, Kadillus Harbour.

The basilica had once been the pinnacle of the Dark Angels presence in the city. Now it was a near-empty shell, stained glass windows shattered, tapestries and statues exposed to the elements. Everything was marked with soot from flamer sweeps used to incinerate ork spores. Other than this routine cleansing everything else had been left as it had been at the end of the last war for Piscina; a memorial to those that had fought and died to protect the worlds from the brutal horde of the beast Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka and the equally terrible ork warlord Nazdreg.

The noise of rubble shifting on the storey above drew the Chaplain’s attention. His bodyguard responded too, beams from armour lamps shining up through the ravaged floor. There was a flash of movement to Sapphon’s right – something pale. Definitely not an ork. Another flicker to the left betrayed someone ducking behind the pedestal of an ancient bust depicting Chapter Master Ezerius. Sapphon glimpsed a woman’s face, middle-aged, camouflaged with haphazardly applied grime. There was a glint of silver; possibly an old goblet or salver half-tucked under her cloak.

‘Looters,’ snarled Sergeant Caulderain. ‘No mercy!’

‘Do not fire!’ snapped Sapphon as four storm bolters and an assault cannon were lifted towards their targets.

‘Brother-Chaplain, our orders were exact,’ said Caulderain. His storm bolter continued to track along the upper storey as the rag-clad woman pushed herself further along into the shadows of the alcove. ‘Supreme Grand Master Azrael has assumed martial command of the Piscina system. Curfew is to be enforced with ultimate sanction.’

‘And I am here, at your side, and I tell you not to fire, brother-sergeant,’ Sapphon said calmly. ‘Look at them. They are starving. If they can exchange detritus of the past for a few loaves, we should not punish them for trying.’

‘They despoil a mausoleum of the Chapter, Brother Sapphon.’

‘The ghosts of our dead do not need silver and gold to feast any longer, sergeant,’ Sapphon replied, still keeping his temper in check. ‘If you are eager to fire your weapon, let us push into the east quadrant where there will be sufficient orks upon which you can unleash your wrath to duty’s contentment. Move on, there is nothing for us here.’

‘As you command, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Caulderain. He lowered his weapon and the Deathwing squad followed suit.

They crossed the nave and exited through the remains of the east transept, passing through smashed doors to descend a flight of time-worn, bullet-pitted steps to the cratered street outside. Five more Deathwing – Squad Daeron – waited fifty metres to the north at a junction with the east-west arterial route leading into the ork-held sections of the city. Behind them loomed the massive bulk of a Crusader-pattern Land Raider painted in the livery of the First Company, its sponsons laden with the multiple barrels of hurricane bolters, twin assault cannons jutting above the assault ramp at the front.

The surrounding buildings showed obvious signs of ork infestation. Windows and rooftops were augmented with jagged metal plate barricades, firing holes had been smashed through the walls and every flat surface was daubed with pictograph graffiti. Mouldering piles of effluent, oil slicks, scraps of bone and other detritus stained the rubble strewn across the road. Smoke residue marked doorways and window frames, charred remnants of bonfires heaped amongst scattered rubbish. Fungal lobes and fronds of various bright colours splayed from cracked walls and crevices in the ferrocrete roadway, some taller than Sapphon, others diaphanous webs that trailed in the wind.

Trenches and turrets, slant-walled towers and pillbox fortifications cut off many of the side streets and alleys leading from the main thoroughfare, while gantries and ladders criss-crossed the roofs far above, allowing the orks to swiftly redeploy from one area to the next. No doubt they had similar rat runs in the sewers beneath the city; Grand Master Belial was leading the rest of his First Company on a subterranean cleansing sweep.

Yet for all their barbarous conversion, these city blocks were empty, abandoned overnight it seemed. The orks had thwarted yesterday’s assault by elements of the Fourth, Seventh and Tenth Companies and Sapphon concluded that the aliens had drawn back in anticipation of a more devastating attack to follow. They were cunning, in a feral kind of way. He had never believed orks to be the unthinking brutes portrayed in a lot of Imperial propaganda and reports of their activities across Kadillus Island had reinforced the Interrogator-Chaplain’s opinions. He remembered the last time the Chapter had come to this world in force; long days and nights in the wilderness and abandoned mines outside the city conducting search-and-destroy operations for ork lairs and fortresses. Now, after years of believing Kadillus purged, the Dark Angels had been called back to find the world aflame once more. Most of the Chapter was out in the East Barrens and scouring Koth Ridge again; due to political weakness and instability cleansing patrols by the local defence militia had faltered and allowed the orks to grow in size and numbers in the absence of the Space Marines.

The East Quadrant of Kadillus Harbour was the last hiding place of the greenskins within the city walls but it was proving a tough proposition for the sons of the Lion. Orbital bombardment was impossible without risking the docks, and more importantly the geothermal energy station situated there. Kadillus was nothing more than a huge volcanic mound and a missed lance strike or plasma warhead could set off a chain reaction that would destroy the entire island in one cataclysmic eruption. Only a few square kilometres, the former residential district was a warren of close-built edifices ideal for defence and ambush. Coupled with the canny and spiteful attitude of Piscina’s orks, it was a death trap.

For ordinary Space Marines, at least. For the Deathwing, whose entire purpose on the battlefield was to venture into battle zones too deadly for their brethren, it was simply another mission.

The Crusader led the advance, crunching across the rubble on broad tracks, turning the shattered masonry to gravel and dust. The two squads of Deathwing followed with determined strides, forming a protective semicircle ahead of Sapphon. The Interrogator-Chaplain’s command relays were coded into the sensoriums of the Terminators, giving him a real-time, three-dimensional overlay of the area across his vision. However, there was so much decaying material – the dead of both sides from yesterday’s fighting and many months of previous battles – it was impossible to get any definitive organic trace. Tattered ork banners, vermin and deliberately-erected scarecrow effigies buffeted by the wind confounded motion detectors. Smoke trails from dozens of fires betrayed the orks’ crude but effective counter-measures for thermal scanning.

‘Eyes and ears and instincts,’ Sapphon told the Deathwing warriors. ‘All targets are hostile. Three gunships are standing by on fire missions. Previous attacks have not neutralised air defences so they are to be a last resort only. We will establish ingress to the one kilometre mark and resupply by Thunderhawk armoury insertion. Squads from Third Company are waiting at the advance mark to secure the axis of attack at my signal.’

‘It would be better if we had the Ravenwing to scout for us,’ said Sergeant Daeron. He spoke with a guttural Anolian accent, further distorted by poor vox-quality – a side-effect of his truly ancient Cataphractii-mark helmet. ‘We are all but blind here.’

‘Trust Sammael to send word of uprising on Piscina but not remain to deal with it,’ said Brother Trateon, Squad Daeron’s heavy flamer operator. He chuckled. ‘Just a quick, “Better look at this!” and then they’re off again chasing Emperor-knows-what.’

‘I trust Sammael enough to know that he would not quit battle on Piscina had there not been more pressing matters,’ Sapphon said, choosing his words carefully. There had been much debate concerning the Second Company’s recent activities but Sapphon had chosen to keep his theories to himself; even amongst the Deathwing it was wise to keep mention of the Fallen to a minimum.

‘Is that so?’ said Sergeant Daeron. His voice dropped a fraction. ‘Perhaps they found evidence of our “eternal friends”?’

In a Chapter that was built on concentric levels of ignorance and secrecy, euphemism and innuendo were to be expected, but Sapphon disliked some of the more flippant terms used to describe the traitors he and the Deathwing were tasked to capture. He let this incident pass but resolved to speak to Daeron in private later.

‘Orks, brothers,’ the Chaplain said evenly. ‘We are here to slay orks. Further speculation is simply wasted breath and wagging tongues.’

‘As you say, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Caulderain, his tone conveying his displeasure at the casual talk. ‘Keep eyes keen and weapons ready, these green bastards killed three battle-brothers yesterday and sent another eleven to the Apothecaries.’

Reminded of the Chapter’s recent losses, the warriors muttered invocations and commendations to the souls of the dead and fell silent. The crunch of the Crusader’s tracks echoed back from the desolate buildings.

A little more than one hundred metres ahead the smoke from many fires was thickening, gathering above the broken-backed tenements in an ork-made thunderhead, the glow of flames visible on its underbelly. Jury-rigged power lines criss-crossed some of the roofs, sparking and flaring – another crude attempt to outsmart the auspexes of the Space Marines. It was working, in a fashion; the sensorium display was a mess of signals.

‘Nothing says “find us here” as nicely as an obvious attempt to hide one’s presence,’ said Sapphon. He signalled the Land Raider. ‘Lion’s Fury, move ahead fifty metres. Draw their fire.’

‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied the tank’s commander.

The ten Deathwing Terminators stopped, the two squads splitting, weapons covering the windows and roofs ahead. Sapphon followed Caulderain and his warriors to the left. Vision magnified, he scanned the piles of rubble and detritus for signs of ambush. Some orks were capable of uncharacteristic patience on occasion, hiding for hours and days at a time in order to spring their attacks. Nothing indicated any waiting enemies beneath the debris.

‘The eyes of the Chapter are upon us, brothers,’ he reminded his companions. ‘It is to us that they look to lead the way. We shall blaze the path for them to follow, in deeds and in thought.’

‘Yes, let’s show them how to kill orks,’ said Daeron. ‘It seems some of our brothers have forgotten.’

It was a second flippant remark from the sergeant and Sapphon expected better from one of the Chapter’s senior warriors. There was almost a hint of a challenge in Daeron’s attitude, subconscious defiance perhaps.

The chime of a private vox-channel being opened rang in Sapphon’s ear.

‘Brother-Chaplain, why do you remain silent?’ asked Sergeant Caulderain. ‘His attitude is unbecoming of the Deathwing.’

‘I will remind the brother-sergeant when the time is appropriate,’ replied Sapphon. ‘A vox-channel on the cusp of battle is not the place or time for such remonstration.’

‘I do not know what poor spirit ails my brother, but he seems to be testing you, and he is certainly testing my patience, Brother-Chaplain.’

‘Daeron has served the Dark Angels for three hundred years and more, and is one of the bravest and most dedicated Space Marines I have ever known.’ A flicker of movement to the Chaplain’s right made him pause. A moment later it resolved in his auto-senses into a rag caught on a coil of razor wire.

‘My point exactly,’ the sergeant continued. Sapphon suppressed an exasperated sigh. ‘It is out of character for Daeron to speak so lightly of his duties. I fear it is a sign of a greater malaise within the company. It is a sign of disrespect that should be dealt with immediately and firmly.’

‘Do not think me a Scout of the Tenth Company, to submit willingly to such instruction, brother-sergeant,’ Sapphon said sternly, his annoyance growing.

‘No insult was intended, Brother-Chaplain. I merely reflect that Brother Asmodai is far stricter in h–’

‘I am not Brother Asmodai!’ The response was uttered a little more hastily, with more vehemence than Sapphon had intended and he winced in reaction. It was simply paranoia speaking; the silent fear that Sapphon kept hidden from his brothers. Caulderain said nothing but Sapphon could imagine the reply that remained unspoken: if only you were.

‘Movement, balcony, sixth storey, forty metres on the right!’ snapped Brother Decemius. Sapphon felt a surge of relief, swiftly replaced with focus and purpose.

Sapphon looked up to see three orks peering over a bullet-pitted balustrade, each carrying a basic-looking rocket tube or launcher. Their grimacing faces were highlighted a moment later by converging flares of storm bolter-rounds. The ferrocrete balcony exploded into shrapnel and dust, tumbling the wound-riddled corpses of the orks to the street.

‘More on the lower floors on the other side of the street,’ Sapphon said, firing his pistol at lean shapes lurking just inside shattered windows and broken doorways. ‘Lion’s Fury, engage. Make the xenos fear our retribution.’

‘Affirmative, firing all weapon systems.’

While the Deathwing continued to pour fire into the building to their right, the Crusader’s tracks spun as it turned to the left, assault cannon and hurricane bolters elevating as it did so. An ear-piercing whine cut across the roar of storm bolters as the multi-barrelled main weapon spun into action, followed by the rippling crack of hundreds of rounds being spat forth. The hurricane bolters added their fury, filling the sky with the gleaming trace of bolt propellant as the Crusader’s fire stitched along the second and third storeys of the building, tearing ragged holes in the ferrocrete and laying waste to the aliens within.

Incoming fire whined down onto the Space Marines from further along the street; bullets and energy pulses from small arms, little to worry the Terminators. The cracked rockcrete of the road splintered and sparked from impacts as Sapphon ordered the tank and two squads to advance another fifty metres.

Something dark blurring against the clouds beyond the smoke caught Sapphon’s eye.

‘Incoming mortars and artillery. Continue the attack.’

Two seconds later the mortar bombs exploded short of their target, throwing grit and fresh rubble against the hull of the Crusader. Haphazard artillery strikes erupted around the battle group, smashing into buildings and leaving smoking craters in the road ahead and behind the Deathwing. Still firing, ork bodies slumping against windowsills and toppling into the street, the First Company veterans continued with their steady, purposeful strides.

They came to a crossroads, the two squads now flanking the Land Raider as it concentrated its fire ahead and they dealt with the survivors to each flank. Airburst shells flung fragments of shrapnel that clattered harmlessly from the thick ceramite of the Tactical Dreadnought suits. Bullets pinged and las-bolts shrieked equally ineffectually. A mortar bomb exploded right next to Sapphon. The conversion field in his rosarius activated in a millisecond, transforming the incoming mass and shockwave of the explosion into pure energy. Half a second later a blazing white halo of power enveloped the Chaplain for a moment as the energy-build up in the rosarius flared into luminescent existence.

He fired almost without thinking, picking out available targets on instinct, every bolt sent from the Chaplain’s pistol finding its mark in green alien flesh. Rockets screamed and corkscrewed down onto the advancing warriors, sputtering with smoke, warheads throwing flame and shrapnel in all directions but unable to pierce the layers of ceramite, plasteel and adamantium that protected the Dark Angels finest.

Sapphon stopped and checked behind the squad. Power armoured Space Marines were following-up the Terminator advance three hundred metres behind, clearing the buildings of any greenskins that had been missed by the devastation unleashed by the Terminators. The blossom of fire and smoke from frag grenades announced their progress into the upper storeys, while an occasional survivor was discovered and dealt with by bursts of bolter fire, almost inaudible amongst the din of the Deathwing’s and Crusader’s fusillade.

‘Resupply drop in seventy metres,’ Sapphon announced. The reticule and distance imposed over his right eye highlighted the dropsite selected by the Techmarines. The Chaplain was down to a third of his ammunition, and he knew that the Deathwing had been burning through their supplies with equal ferocity. Still, there were bolts enough to see them safely to the rendezvous.

Recalling Daeron’s earlier words, the Chaplain had to concede that the absence of the Ravenwing had caused problems for the rest of the Chapter. The Darkshrouds and Land Speeders of the Second Company would have made short, bloody work of the greenskin horde that was now boiling up onto the rooftops to fire at the advancing Dark Angels.

‘This is Chaplain Sapphon – commence supply insertion at grid point beta.’

The Chaplain barely heard the acknowledgement from the Thunderhawk pilot who had been circling overhead at a safe distance from any ork anti-air guns. Now Sapphon’s audio pick-ups detected the roar of plasma engines growing louder as the gunship came in on its subsonic run.

They were barely fifteen metres from the drop point when the Thunderhawk swooped in. Battle cannon and lascannons blazing it circled once, weapons chewing rents and craters into the sides of the buildings surrounding the drop point. Sapphon watched the hatches and assault ramp opening, but instead of hovering for the drop, the Thunderhawk landed in a billow of heat and dust.

‘What are you doing?’ Sapphon demanded as he and the Deathwing broke forward, weapons firing to cover the approaches to the settling gunship. ‘This is a combat drop!’

A Space Marine in the markings of the Third Company appeared at the top of the ramp and raised a fist to Sapphon as armourium servitors started to plod towards the street, ammunition hoppers slung over their shoulders, power packs hung on crane-like arms.

‘Sorry, Brother-Chaplain, but we have an urgent request from Master Issachar. He is having difficulties at the Imperial commander’s palace. He’s asked that we take you to him immediately.’

‘Difficulties? There is not an ork within a kilometre of the palace. Trouble with the Piscina Free Militia?’ The planetary defence force was under curfew and subject to the disarm commandment as much as any other citizens of Kadillus Harbour, but some groups had opted to resist the Dark Angels efforts to restore order.

‘Not exactly, brother.’ The Space Marine shook his head. ‘It is Brother-Chaplain Asmodai.’

The Enemy Within

‘You are making a mistake of monumental proportions.’ The words were forced through gritted teeth, laden with threat but tempered with an attempt at calm.

Asmodai looked down at the man who had spoken: Colonel Brade of the Piscinan Free Militia. His face was flushed, wrinkled features contorting between fear and anger as he struggled to contain the duelling emotions. His uniform, which was frayed on the collar and cuffs, stained with much old blood both human and ork, was soaked with sweat. A bead of perspiration ran down the tip of the man’s bulbous nose and dripped to the floor.

Asmodai could actually hear the man’s heart hammering in his chest, the quick double-thud as clear to the Chaplain as the hiss and whine of servos as he shifted his weight and his armour responded. Through olfactory filters he could smell the man’s fear, new sweat with the old, clouded by a fragrant pomade slicking the planetary defence officer’s thinning hair.

The Dark Angel’s gaze flickered for a moment to Brade’s fists, which were gripping his belt as if it were a lifesaver thrown to a drowning man. On the colonel’s right hip hung a holster in which sat a heavy pistol. Now and then Brade’s hand twitched as though subconsciously he wished to draw the weapon. Fortunately for Brade his conscious mind was winning that particular battle.

Brade’s blue eyes were mad, staring, locked to Asmodai’s, at least locked on the red lenses of the Chaplain’s skull-faced helm.

‘Your opinion is irrelevant, you have received instruction and you will obey,’ said Asmodai. He pointed an armoured finger at the colonel’s side arm. ‘You will begin by disarming. You will then surrender to my custody to await investigation into your conduct.’

‘You have no authority here.’ Brade’s voice wavered, betraying his insincerity.

‘Authority is not granted by legal writs and contracts,’ said Asmodai. ‘My authority derives from the Emperor, for I am a battle-brother of the Dark Angels, descendants of the First Legion. We are the Adeptus Astartes, his chosen warriors.’

Brade opened his mouth to argue but Asmodai cut him off, stepping forward, the closeness of his immense bulk silencing any protest. The Chaplain waved a hand to encompass the hall in which they stood. The high arched ceiling was stained in places by soot from the grand fireplace that dominated one wall. The hall had once been a banqueting suite, now turned into a command station by Brade and his subordinates. Supply crates had been turned into tables and desks, littered with maps, rations packs, heavy duty vox-casters, weapons, spare energy cells and all manner of other materiel required by a command staff. The frescoed walls were covered with more charts, communiqués, casualty lists, cracked or static-filled comms-screens, recon reports and assorted paraphernalia.

There were sixteen other men in the room; fifteen of them Brade’s support officers and the other Master Issachar of the Third Company. All were watching the confrontation.

‘Do not speak to me of authority. This building was once the demesne of Imperial Commander Sousan, was it not? Where is she now? Slain, by a mob of her own people. You, and you alone, Colonel Brade, took it upon yourself to install her successor, involving yourself in the political struggle that has seen this world fall to alien invaders and heretics. You are a traitor and will be dealt with accordingly.’

Brade’s anger burst through the dam of his terror.

‘Traitor?’ The commander screamed the word. ‘You call me traitor? It was your warriors that came here and attacked us! It was your glorious Chapter that capitalised on the ork resurgence to murder lawful, faithful citizens of Piscina. It was not I that instigated rebellion, Chaplain Asmodai, it was you. And you dare call me traitor?’

The colonel’s claims that a force of Dark Angels had killed a large number of civilians, though as yet uncorroborated, were known to Asmodai. Brade’s incarceration would facilitate a more thorough inquiry into the events that had plunged Piscina into madness, and would also serve to stifle the rumours still running rampant across Kadillus Harbour – rumours that Asmodai and the other members of the Inner Circle were working hard to keep from the ears of the battle-brethren.

‘From your own lips you are condemned,’ said Asmodai. He wagged an armoured finger at Brade. The colonel retreated but Asmodai gave him no space, following up with long strides. ‘It is only in deference to your efforts against the orks that you are still alive. Treachery such as yours, the wanton defiance of your Imperial commander appointed from Holy Terra, makes you an enemy of the Imperium. Few such foes have opportunity to speak in their defence when confronted by the Dark Angels.’

Brade turned to Issachar, opening his arms as he implored the Dark Angels captain.

‘You must see that this is madness? The orks are still active within the city and there are many of our people too afraid of the Adeptus Astartes to ever surrender to the Dark Angels. If you depose me they will only see further injustice and fight all the harder.’

‘His opinion is also irrelevant,’ Asmodai snapped before Issachar could offer a reply. ‘The rebels will be killed if they continue to resist, and the orks will be cleansed. These are not matters for debate. I would no more allow a potential traitor to continue to command military forces in this city than I would invite the orks to a parley aboard the Rock. Hand over your weapon and relinquish command before I take sterner action.’

‘My opinion is irrelevant?’ Issachar said the words slowly, as though he was only just catching up with events. ‘I am commander of the Third Company, tasked with securing these palaces. Brother, you overstep your remit if you think you can remove one of my allies from his duties.’

‘Do not take false umbrage at my curt manner, Master Issachar,’ answered Asmodai, irritated by the captain’s defiant tone. ‘Our orders are direct from the Supreme Grand Master. I am well within my authority to have Colonel Brade removed from power and to subject him to questioning. The palace grounds have been secured for several days. I do not understand your tardiness in prosecuting further attacks against the rebels and greenskins.’

There was a buzz as the command channel activated. Issachar strode across the hall to confront Asmodai, his manner making his intent clear even though his words were for the Chaplain alone.

‘Do not seek to teach me my duty, Asmodai.’ Issachar growled, amplified by the vox-net to sound like an attacking cudbear.

‘This is no matter for a simple Company Master,’ said Asmodai, seeking to make sense of Issachar’s objections. ‘While I bow to your judgement on purely military decisions, the acts of Colonel Brade and his men are treasonous, and that is a poison that can infect the minds of others, making it my responsibility. The Piscinan Free Militia are a tarnished, spent force of no strategic value. I do not understand your concerns.’

‘And that is your problem, Asmodai.’ Issachar shook his head and his tone was sad. ‘We have enough enemies to fight without you creating more. Brade is correct – he is best placed to negotiate surrender from the remaining Free Militia still fighting against us.’

‘There will be no negotiations. Those who oppose us will be crushed. You allow clear judgement to be clouded by indecent camaraderie with these defence forces. You are mistaken to place any trust in their loyalty or ability, brother-captain.’

‘But this is my decision, not yours, Asmodai, and I will not have you undermine my command.’

Asmodai was stunned by Issachar’s hypocrisy, actually lost for words by the arrogance of his battle-brother. His silence lasted only moments though, as outrage at the Company Master’s accusation brought forth fresh words.

‘Do you think it is acceptable to defy me in front of outsiders?’ Asmodai’s anger bubbled up like blood from a wound, giving his words even greater vehemence. ‘I am the Master of Repentance! None is more loyal to the Chapter and the ideals of the Lion than I. It is not you that stands judgement over others, it is I! I was willing to forgive your disrespect as a momentary lapse, but this insubordination will be punished. I have made my will known – it is your duty to enact it.’

A loud bang had both Space Marines spinning towards the near end of the hall, their weapons ready. The great double doors swung in, revealing Chaplain Sapphon, his robes and armour dirtied by blood and grime from recent battle. The Master of Sanctity strode into the room and headed directly for Asmodai. For a split-second the Master of Repentance thought his superior would strike him, but instead Sapphon laid a hand on Asmodai’s arm, gesturing for him to lower his crozius.

‘Master Issachar, forgive this intrusion,’ said Sapphon over the command link, glancing at the captain before fixing his look on Asmodai. ‘If you would excuse my brother and I, there is urgent news to discuss. Brother Asmodai, accompany me to the antechamber.’

Asmodai took in a long, deep breath, agitated by the interruption.

‘This matter will be raised with the Supreme Grand Master, Issachar,’ Asmodai warned.

Issachar said nothing. The captain stalked away, waving for Brade to join him at a crackling hololith vid unit showing the western half of the city.

‘Brother Sapphon, why are you here?’ Asmodai asked, genuinely confused. ‘I heard no report that the Deathwing assault had been concluded. Have we secured victory?’

Sapphon said nothing in reply, but simply pointed back through the doors. Bemused, Asmodai followed his superior out of the hall.

Misplaced Zeal

‘Walk with me, brother,’ said Sapphon. He released his helm with a hiss of escaping air and turned his head to look at Asmodai beside him. Warriors from the Third Company kept watch at the corridors and archways leading from the passage ahead, while messenger boys of the Free Militia scurried back and forth bringing reports for Brade and carrying orders to the defence forces still operating across Kadillus Harbour.

Sapphon spied a disused room ahead, its shattered window poorly boarded, the remnants of table and chairs piled to one side. There was no door but the chamber was secluded enough for Sapphon’s purpose.

‘Remove your helmet, brother, and let me look at your face while we speak.’

Asmodai did has he was bade, revealing features almost as skeletal as those on the mask he removed – sharp cheek bones, sunken eyes and a shaven head. His skin was much darker than bone, save for scar tissue that carved pale streaks on his forehead and left cheek. Dark eyes stared at Sapphon without hint of shame or circumspection.

‘Why did you come to the Imperial commander’s palace, brother?’ Sapphon asked, placing his helm on the cracked mantel above an ash-choked fireplace. ‘Specifically, why are you not with the Ninth Company as I ordered?’

‘My greater duty was here, when I heard that Brade had returned to the scene of his treachery,’ said Asmodai.

‘Your greater duty was to lead the Ninth in battle against the orks at Koth Ridge and the East Barrens. Perhaps you felt that task beneath one of your station?’

A snarl curled Asmodai’s lip.

‘Do not suspect me of arrogance, brother. And do not confuse humility with meekness.’

Sapphon ignored the rebuke.

‘I know you, Asmodai, so show me the respect due to my position by not trying to coerce me. You use anger to get at the truth. You rile your subjects until they speak in haste or betray themselves with unconscious twitch or tic.’ Sapphon dropped his voice, so low that even a Space Marine like Asmodai would be forced to concentrate to hear it, demanding attention. ‘I am not in the wrong here.’

‘If you have accusation, brother, make it plainly.’

‘For the remainder of this conversation you will refer to me by my rank, not as brother,’ Sapphon said sternly. Asmodai’s brow furrowed, but Sapphon gave him no opportunity to voice dissent – another favoured tactic of the Chaplain was to browbeat his victims with a continuous tirade. Seventeen hours without pause was, according to Chapter rumour and illicit wagers, Asmodai’s longest rant to date. Sapphon continued effortlessly, his words slow and measured. ‘You will address me as “master”, and you will restrict your answers to a simple affirmative or negative. You will remain silent on all other concerns until I give you permission to speak of other matters. Am I clear?’

‘Yes, Master Sapphon,’ replied Asmodai, lips and jaw barely moving to form the words.

‘Colonel Brade’s actions will be scrutinised in due course. It is not the place of the Adeptus Astartes to form trial and jury of members of planetary defence forces.’

‘I spoke of no trial, master. Only tha–’

‘Must I make you swear an oath of silence?’ Sapphon asked quietly. He had caught the rebuke and lowered his tone before it left his lips, refusing to rise to Asmodai’s bait. Any amount of shouting and remonstration would have no effect on the thick-skinned Chaplain. Sapphon was determined that, just for once, Asmodai would think about his actions from some other perspective than through the warped prism of his zealotry.

‘No, master.’ Asmodai stood stock still, hands clasped at his chest, eyes following Sapphon like a hawk watching its prey as the Master of Sanctity started to pace in front of the fireplace. The Chaplain’s immobility was in direct opposition to Sapphon’s need for movement.

‘Your uncompromising nature is lauded by the Supreme Grand Master, and in battle there are none that would not fight beside you. Your efforts against the oldest foe are remarkable and your dedication exemplary. However, why must you seek confrontation so readily? Are there not foes enough in the galaxy for us to fight?’

Sapphon could see Asmodai was straining to speak, to defend himself, not realising the questions were rhetorical. The Master of Sanctity did not care; it made a change that Asmodai was the one feeling discomfort. He continued, head bowed, not looking at his subordinate.

‘For all your accomplishments, and your seniority, the Inner Circle chose me to succeed as Master of Sanctity.’ Sapphon looked at the other Chaplain. ‘You are unstable, Asmodai. Worse, you are destabilising. You are a catalyst for dissent, and the harder you react against the infractions of others the more they will resent you for your lack of fraternal understanding.’

The other Chaplain looked as though he was going to explode, the blood vessels in his neck pulsing with the twin beats of his hearts, a particular scar above his right eye almost pure white against reddening flesh. Still Sapphon would not allow Asmodai to speak.

‘There are two places where you are of use, Asmodai. The first is in the interrogation cell. The second is on the battlefield.’ Sapphon strode to the door and looked left and right theatrically before turning back to Asmodai. The Chaplain’s eyes were narrowed, jaw twitching with indignity. There was no verbal or physical abuse that Sapphon could employ that would make his companion repent of his actions, so only the threat of further humiliation remained. ‘I see neither, and yet here you are. I ask again, why are you not with the Ninth?’

With no specific charge to defend himself against, Asmodai was confronted by the truth behind the question. He answered as if the words were being dragged out of him under pain of death. His fingers flexed into fists and splayed out again in a slow rhythm.

‘Because I disobeyed your orders, master.’

‘Yes, brother,’ said Sapphon. It pleased the Master of Sanctity to see Asmodai flinch at the use of the more familiar term. ‘When confronted with this fact, does it matter the reason for disobedience? How would you deal with such insubordination? The same insubordination of which you have just accused Master Issachar, I might add.’

Asmodai swallowed hard and finally – finally! – looked away, casting his gaze at the ground for a moment, the first sign of shame he had shown since Sapphon’s arrival. He did not speak, and Sapphon took this as a good sign.

‘You make me appear weak, brother,’ Sapphon admitted. Asmodai looked shocked at the revelation. ‘And, compared to you, in some ways I am. The brethren take liberties in front of me that would not enter their minds in your presence. They speak out of turn. They are flippant. But, they never disobey orders. Only you dare to go that far. Do you think I am weak, Brother Asmodai?’

‘Yes,’ said the Chaplain. ‘Punishment cleanses the soul and restores discipline. You are too tolerant. Your indulgences spoil the battle-brothers and engender further disobedience. It is also this attitude that sees you fail in the interrogation cells.’

Sapphon smiled grimly. Whatever personality defects affected Asmodai, dishonesty was not amongst them.

‘And you consider my elevation to my role as a mistake by the Inner Circle?’

‘I made my opposition clear at the time. The Grand Masters chose to promote you against my objections.’

‘And did you swear to abide by their decision?’

Again Asmodai looked uncomfortable for a moment, realising he had been manoeuvred into a difficult admission.

‘Yes, master,’ is all he said, offering no defence.

‘And so will you now carry out the orders as I lay them out?’

‘Yes, master,’ said Asmodai. ‘I will join the Ninth as soon as transport is available.’

‘Leave me. Penance will be evaluated after the planet is secure.’

Asmodai fitted his helmet, the white skull with its shining red eyes a relief to Sapphon after the intensity of the Chaplain’s unmasked appearance.

‘For the Lion!’ barked Asmodai,

‘For the Emperor!’ replied Sapphon.

The Master of Sanctity watched his companion leave. He shook his head in disbelief and took up his helmet. He was about to depart when Master Issachar appeared at the doorway.

‘Why does the Supreme Grand Master tolerate him?’ asked the company captain, looking back into the corridor though Asmodai was no longer in sight. ‘He is disruptive, antagonistic and volatile. On the one hand Brother Asmodai will seek penance for any misdemeanour whilst on the other blatantly flaunting the demands of his superiors. He is blind to his own arrogance and hypocrisy.’

‘He has his uses. Sometimes we must be reminded that moderation and mercy are choices, not necessities. Brother Asmodai answers to a far higher authority and sterner code than the rest of us.’

‘Really? You think he fears the Emperor’s judgement?’

Sapphon laughed. ‘The Emperor’s… Of course not. The Emperor loves His sons, and it was this love that the traitors exploited. No, there is a far harsher judge that Asmodai fears. One that holds no love for any creature. Himself.’

As they headed back towards the temporary headquarters in the hall, Sapphon considered Asmodai’s peculiar brand of paranoia. His methods were as subtle as a bolt-round to the face, but often his motives were not wrong. Colonel Brade had indeed witnessed first-hand a possible incident involving the Fallen. It was not wise that he be allowed to remain at large. And following the overthrow of Imperial Commander Sousan it would not be long before the Inquisition started taking an interest in what had transpired in the Piscina system. It would be up to the Supreme Grand Master to decide what to do with the Piscinans that had come into contact with the traitors, but the time had come to start limiting any possible damage.

‘Have Colonel Brade join me in the Imperial commander’s chambers, please,’ he told Issachar. Even though ranked a Company Master, Issachar was not a member of the Inner Circle. There was no need to have him involved in anything more than he already was. ‘I should make peace.’

Some things were better done without noise and fuss. That was why the Inner Circle had chosen Sapphon over Asmodai.

Penitent Warriors

High above Piscina the bulk of the Dark Angels fleet lay in orbit. Amongst rapid strike vessels, strike cruisers, battle-barges, scout ships and resupply tenders sat the Rock, fortress-monastery of the Chapter. Protected by vast banks of void shields, surrounded by a constellation of smaller asteroids and defence platforms, the Rock dwarfed everything around it. Launch bays and weapon batteries were dug into the kilometres-thick base, which had once been bedrock from honoured, destroyed Caliban. Upon this immense fragment sat the edifice known as the Tower of Angels, spire after spire, hall and gallery heaped upon each other, piercing the firmament. Thousands of lights twinkled from arched windows. Stained glass dappled pitted stone and ferrocrete with many colours. Once renowned as Aldurukh, citadel of the Order that raised the Dark Angels primarch, it was now home to the warriors who carried the gene-seed of the Lion.

Another vessel, a strike cruiser two kilometres long, moved into the shadow cast by the Rock. A Thunderhawk gunship emerged from one of the flight bays of the Penitent Warrior, a tiny spark soon swallowed by the bulk of the fortress-monastery.

On board sat brothers Telemenus, Menthius and Daellon. Telemenus and Daellon were in full armour, while Menthius was still clad in robes, his hideous burns not quite healed. The latter’s face and bared arms were a mess of scar tissue, exposed flesh contorted with strange whorls left by the traitor’s psychic attack on Thyestes. His nose was nothing more than shaped metal plate installed by the Apothecaries, while breathing tubes jutted from his throat and down past the collar of his robe. His wheezing was accompanied by a dull ticking of some machine hidden inside the remains of his lungs.

With them was Veteran Sergeant Seraphiel, who regarded them sternly, his helm cradled in his lap.

‘It will take time for you to adjust,’ said Seraphiel, stroking an armoured finger across the fleur-de-lys painted on the side of his helm in dark red. Telemenus was not sure what the badge signified, but assumed it was some honour the veteran sergeant had earned whilst he had fought in the First Company. ‘To be a warrior in the Deathwing is different to everything else you have experienced. Even these last two months of confinement, segregated from your brothers to protect their innocence, will seem as nothing compared to the strain of being one of the Chapter’s elite.’

Telemenus allowed his gaze to wander, looking out of the armoured port beside the veteran sergeant. A row of hooded warriors carved a hundred metres high in dark marble sped past as the Thunderhawk banked alongside the Rock, their grim faces lit by red navigational lamps. They moved out of view when the gunship levelled and started its descent towards one of the lower flight bays.

‘Telemenus!’ Seraphiel’s sharp tone tore back the Space Marine’s attention. ‘Do not think for one moment that your elevation to the First Company signifies an end to your drills and regular duties. What you will learn next will change your whole view of the universe.’

The sergeant’s voice drifted away momentarily, caught up in some memory or other. His tone was soft, sad when he spoke next.

‘Everything you believe to be of value will be questioned. Every truth to which you cling will be tested. What you are about to face is a sterner challenge than any you have yet overcome.’ Seraphiel leaned forward, straining the harness that held him to the bench. ‘You think that you gave up everything when you became a Dark Angel? Your childhood? Your name? Your family and past? Perhaps you believe that there is nothing more you can sacrifice for the Lion and the Emperor. You are wrong. Nothing will prepare you for what you are about to learn.’

Telemenus was not so sure of this truth. He did not know by what circumstance Seraphiel had been elevated to the Deathwing, would probably never know, but the change it had wrought on his psyche was writ clear across his tormented expression. The former Fifth Company marksman, on the other hand, had some suspicion of what was to come. He remembered clearly the last events of Thyestes.

The psyker drew a long blade, its edges glimmering balefully with a sickening yellow light. Unperturbed by the bolts shrieking around him, he strode towards the squad. Telemenus could see that his skin was pale like a corpse, the bones of his cheeks showing through torn flesh, eyes red with thick veins.

‘Brave but foolish, brothers,’ the traitor declared in a rasping voice. His words were accompanied by a gust of air that carried the stench of effluent and rotting meat. ‘Your masters have betrayed you.’

Giving up all thoughts of taking the warrior alive, Telemenus emptied his magazine at the ghastly apparition. As before, the bolts did not hit. Nemeon steadied himself again for another missile shot, but was too slow. The psyker thrust his sword in the Space Marine’s direction, a blast of churning warp energy flying from its tip to smash Nemeon from his feet. His armour crumbled, turning to dust in moments, exposed flesh wrinkling and decaying beneath.

Apollon fell next, sent spinning to the ground by a fresh wave of psychic lightning that surrounded him with a cloud of energy. Telemenus skirted to his right, glancing at his battle-brother’s twitching body.

‘It is folly to oppose me, brothers,’ the psyker spoke without malice, blood trickling from split lips as he uttered the words. ‘Your sacrifice will go unremembered, your glory unrewarded.’

‘I am no brother of yours,’ snarled Daellon. A swirl of burning promethium engulfed the enemy warrior, setting fire to his cloak and hair. The psyker staggered to the left and raised his empty hand against the inferno. More sickly yellow light spilled from his open palm, pushing back against the gout of flames.

Fingers curling into a fist, the psyker seemed to grab hold of the streaming promethium, lashing it like a whip back at Daellon. The Dark Angel flung the flamer away and dived to the ground as its fuel canister exploded, showering the defile with burning liquid.

‘You are all my brothers,’ the psyker continued. ‘If your blind masters had half the honour you possess, they would tell you the truth. I was once like you.’

‘I know you, traitor,’ said Telemenus. ‘You have shunned the Emperor and have no honour. You have the filthy heart of a traitor even if you were once a Space Marine.’

The psyker grinned, bearing a few rotted, pointed teeth, even as flecks of promethium continued to burn through the flesh of his face and flickered on his armour.

‘Not just a Space Marine, brother. A Dark Angel.’

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

Cover illustration by Fares Maese.

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