Legends of the dark ange.., p.104
Legends Of The Dark Angels, page 104
‘Perhaps the Lion and the Emperor have a plan for you after all.’
The beeping of the auspex rouses me from my reminiscences. Life signs, weak but only six kilometres north of our current position. I turn to issue orders to Arias and Gethel but they are already aboard their bikes, and revving the engines.
Maintaining the high vantage point along the ridge, we gun along in single file, the lone set of tracks making it impossible for an enemy to judge our numbers should anybody be following us. Despite the rough terrain, a Space Marine bike is a hardy vehicle and even bouncing over rocks and rents in the earth is capable of near top speeds. Even at close to two hundred kilometres per hour my enhanced senses allow me to take in my surroundings with almost total recall and I filter out the greens and browns of the tree canopies far below, seeking out other colours that may give away the enemy position.
There. A flash of crimson for the briefest of moments. A pauldron or vambrace. Certainly power armour and certainly hostile.
I glance behind me and both Arias and Gethel acknowledge the sighting but none of us stop, or even slow down. The engine noise and dust cloud thrown up by the bikes mean the enemy know we’re here, but they don’t yet know we’ve spotted them and that information may yet prove crucial in the coming engagement.
COMPANY MASTER BALTHASAR
‘Master Balthasar, this is Arion. We’ve sighted the enemy. They’re in the forest about ten kilometres north-west of your position.’ The sergeant’s voice is loud in my helmet vox as he struggles to make himself heard over the sound of a bike engine at full throttle.
‘Acknowledged. Any idea of numbers? Troop types?’ I’m signalling to Raphael to ready his squad and move out. The encounter with the living undergrowth has shaken the tactical squad, nothing more, and our objective yet awaits us. I still don’t know the true nature of the Hellfire Stone but if Kranon the Relentless and the Crimson Slaughter desire it and have laid waste to half a dozen worlds to acquire it then they have to be stopped.
‘Negative. I’m going to sweep back again but don’t want to give away that we’re aware of their position. I’ll make it look like it’s a routine patrol route.’
‘Most prudent, Sergeant Arion, but don’t delay too much in getting back to us. I need you close in case we have to unleash death.’
‘Understood,’ comes his reply.
I turn to issue the order to move out but Turmiel is already heading in the exact direction Arion had told me the enemy were located.
‘Shall we just follow him?’ Raphael scoffs, though I am unsure if his derision is aimed at the aloof Librarian or me.
Raphael and Heskia take point on our march through the forest, the sergeant ensuring that if the undergrowth should come alive again then the big guns are to the fore. The rest of the tactical squad follow behind in single file while Turmiel walks beside me, though from his demeanour you cannot tell that there is anybody else within a thousand kilometres, let alone eleven of his battle-brothers alongside him.
I think it is exactly what it sounds like.+
I go to blink-click the activation rune for my helmet vox but stop when I realise that Turmiel is speaking to me telepathically.
‘What is?’ I vocalise to prove a point.
The Hellfire Stone. I believe it is literally a stone. It is Khornate in origin and followers of that particular dark god are not renowned for their subtlety or guile. The Hellfire part of the name, I’m less sure of. It could be literal but I suspect instead some pomposity went into its naming, a definite Khornate trait.+
‘And what do you think the Crimson Slaughter want with it exactly? What purpose does it serve?’ Battle-Brother Joash, marching right in front of me, turns in response but I motion sideways with my head towards Turmiel. Joash nods in acknowledgment and turns back without breaking stride.
Of that I am unsure. Almost certainly some kind of ritualistic element, yet another Khornate trait, but to what end? Perhaps I should contact Seraphicus and see if he has–+
‘I’m sure the Chaplain will let us know when he’s extracted what he needs without you having to invade his head, Librarian.’
Of course. I sometimes forget how unsettling telepathic communication can be for the non-psyker. What about precognition?+
‘What do you mean, precognition?’
Does precognition make you feel uncomfortable? Does my ability to peer through the strands of the warp and pull together the threads into cogent visions of the future unnerve you, Company Master?+
‘Not particularly, why?’
Because in approximately three seconds I suggest you duck.+
‘What?’
Turmiel draws his bolt pistol and aims it towards the tall grass that the forest has begun to thin out into. He squeezes the trigger just as a tattooed figure emerges from the undergrowth and screams: ‘Death to the lackeys of the–’
His declaration goes unfinished as Turmiel’s shot finds its mark between the cultist’s eyes and turns his head to a fine red mist. He has holstered the pistol and unsheathed his force sword before the cultist’s headless body has even hit the ground.
I did try to warn you,+ he sends before charging towards the other tattooed figures now beginning to emerge from cover.
ANARKUS,
CULTIST LEADER
I have waited my entire life for this moment.
The skeins of fate have drawn tight around this precise point in time, my entire existence channelled towards this instant. From the difficult labour that killed my mother, through the rampant alcoholism that claimed my father, and beyond the gates of the Ecclesiarchy orphanage on Gethsemane VII where I was cared for until I was old enough to work in the gas mines, the tides of fortune have carried me inexorably towards my destiny.
Today is the day I am going to slay a Space Marine.
This is no idle boast, nor crazed hyperbole. I have known ever since I was a child that I have been marked for greatness. It was obvious from the way I could run rings around the orphanage tutors on matters of the Imperial Creed, how I was always bigger and stronger than the other children of my age. It was obvious when they put my father into the cold, permafrosted ground and I didn’t even shed a tear. Obvious when I made my first kill aged only nine, my main rival for the orphanage’s sporting prize, and even the way I disposed of the body down a well to make it look like an accident was a sign of my true greatness. And when the Black Crusade came to Gethsemane VII that greatness was finally recognised.
Fire rained down from the heavens along with hundreds of thousands of cultists, mutants and even more powerful followers of the Four. The atrocities they wrought made my blood sing as villages and mining settlements fell beneath their onslaught. Banners were fashioned from the flayed skin of their victims and half-living trophies adorned their tanks and war machines. With the outlying territories razed and pillaged their attention turned to the cities and I knew that I had to do something to welcome my new masters, to commemorate my ascension into their ranks.
So I set to work.
By the time the leader of the first warband to reach the orphanage swung open the unlocked gates my tribute was ready. There, sat atop the corpses of the one hundred and seventeen souls I had butchered in the name of the Four, was I, waiting to greet them.
One of his lieutenants, a brute of a man with hooks embedded in his flesh by way of adornment, was so enraged that I had robbed them of their prize – pure, unsullied souls to dedicate to their master or put into the service of the Black Crusade – that he took aim at me with his weapon, to claim my soul by way of recompense. But my new master knew potential when he saw it and ran the lieutenant through with the great barbed sword he carried at his side.
I laughed as both halves of his severed body fell messily to the floor and my master and the rest of his warband did likewise, revelling in yet more bloodshed. The lieutenant’s corpse was picked clean by his former comrades-in-arms and his axe gifted to me by my master. Though the weapon was inelegant and brutish, it was a more effective killing tool than the kitchen blades I had used to murder my fellow orphans and tutors and in the days that followed would add greatly to my kill tally as the Black Crusade swept on.
When the fight against the Imperial forces on Gethsemane VII was over and the last of its citizens either lay dead or were in the employ of the Black Crusade, the warbands turned on each other in an attempt to sate the lingering battlelust. For days more, constant battle raged between erstwhile allies as cult after cult vied for the attentions of the Chaos Space Marines at the head of the Crusade. Our ranks swelled even more over the course of the fighting as the heads of three cults were slain by my master and their servants subsumed into the ranks of our own warband, and by the time we boarded the orbiting vessels our loyalty had been sworn to a Traitor Astartes of no small renown.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months and from battlefield to battlefield, planet to planet, I killed in the name of my masters and in dedication to the Four. The more I venerated my dark lords the higher my status rose, both among them and the gods. Changes, subtle at first but then more drastic, were wrought upon my flesh and my visage began to resemble that of my brethren, more pleasing to the eyes of the Ruinous Powers. The time between battles became like torture. My sole purpose, the path I was on and could not be swerved from, was to kill in the name of my masters and being denied the opportunity was like starving me of oxygen.
Infighting broke out amongst us during the long transits through the warp to reach the next killing ground and other like-minded souls rallied around me as new factions sprang up within the warband. One of the cults we’d previously subsumed viewed killing as an artform, as a thing of beauty and creativity, and its members found an affinity with me. With their strength to my arm my standing within the warband grew exponentially and the next time I threw myself into butchering the lackeys of the Corpse-Emperor it was at my master’s right hand. We slew like there was no tomorrow and it was glorious, so glorious that we caught the attention of a new master.
Kranon the Relentless.
The Traitor Astartes at the head of the Crusade had fallen in a personal duel with the leader of the Crimson Slaughter and Kranon had made it clear that he had his own agenda to pursue rather than assuming the mantle of leader. Those warbands that wanted to continue on the Crusade could do so freely but any that wanted to fight under his banner would be accepted with open arms. The Crimson Slaughter had a fearsome reputation as bloodthirsty butchers, constantly looking for their next kill, and that appealed to me. Sadly, my master didn’t see things the same way.
As his corpse slid from my axe head, he eyed me with such disappointment. ‘We were destined for greatness, Anarkus,’ were the final words he uttered through blood-stained teeth, but he’d already relinquished his grip on life by the time I responded.
‘I still am.’
SERGEANT RAPHAEL,
TACTICAL SQUAD RAPHAEL
With combat imminent my senses augment and the world around me slows, allowing me to take in the battlefield and make the optimum decisions for my squad and I to emerge victorious. One cultist has already fallen to Turmiel’s well-placed shot but nine more spring from the undergrowth and unleash a volley of fire towards us.
My Lyman’s ear filters out the other battlefield noise and while the shells are still mid-air I ascertain that the cultists are using autopistols and turn my shoulder towards the shots aimed at me. All three deflect harmlessly off the armour plating and, with their positions now revealed, I return fire at the enemy, my shots both measured and aimed, the plasma pistol’s heat apparent even through my armoured gauntlet. Their dark masters must be watching over them this day as only one of my shots finds its mark and a cultist falls to the ground, briefly spasming before going limp as the rest of his body realises that the right hemisphere of his brain is no longer where it should be.
More fire from the undergrowth, but sustained and accurate this time. A white-haired cultist in a storm coat is directing the fire and appears to know what he is doing.
As one, Squad Raphael sense the subtle shift in the tide of the battle and seek cover accordingly. Nine of us make it in time but Regulus goes down hard, a shotgun blast to the knee robbing him of his balance, and as he raises his head to make a retaliatory shot several well-placed autogun rounds take him through the visor of his Mark V helmet, blood gushing from the cracked lens. He relinquishes his grip on his bolter and his prone form is peppered with yet more fire from the cultists, but it is futile. His identifier rune turns from green to red on my display to indicate that Regulus is dead. Another Dark Angel fallen on the field of battle.
For the merest fraction of a second all combat activity ceases. Imperceptible to most but to a veteran Adeptus Astartes sergeant it registers as an age. ‘Avenge him!’ I yell, and my squad lay down a withering barrage of fire before advancing while the cultists cower behind cover, their tactics evolving in light of the apparent skill of their foe.
While no Space Marine actively seeks his own end, the very nature of what we do means that it is always at our shoulder. In the main, we are the dealers of death, our primary purpose to kill and to kill well; but this brings us into contact with others of like mind, though rarely of comparable skill, and although still rare, the demise of a Space Marine is something that occurs with alarming regularity in these dark times. All Space Marines are conditioned to accept death, be it their own or that of a battle-brother, and while Squad Raphael’s reaction to the slaying of one of their own is testimony to the bond between them, it was an unacceptable lapse during the heat of combat. Once we are back on board the Sword of Caliban I will have Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphicus drill them in the Litanies of Woe and Loss and remind them to channel any sense of grief into acts of violence against the foes of the Emperor.
Sensing that their position is about to be overrun, the enemy’s next move is entirely unexpected. Rather than laying down covering fire and retreating, they do the exact opposite and charge towards the onrushing power-armoured figures.
Brother Heskia wheels around with his plasma cannon and sends a gout of white-hot energy in the direction of four enemy combatants, but they are too quick and all Heskia kills is a large patch of undergrowth that smoulders and crackles as the heat vitrifies the scorched earth beneath.
The cultists continue their charge, clubs and knives raised, and Brother Selaphiel opens fire with his bolter. One of them goes down, his left arm shorn off at the shoulder, the stump spurting thick crimson gore, but three of them remain standing and barrel into the Dark Angel, dragging him to the ground and setting about him with their close-combat weapons.
Selaphiel grips one about the throat and chokes the life from him as he pathetically attempts to bludgeon the felled Space Marine, and Master Balthasar disintegrates the skull of another, but the third cultist is able to jam his serrated blade into the soft seal between Selaphiel’s helmet and chestplate. Selaphiel grips the cultist’s hooded face and pushes his fingers through the eye-slit before penetrating the Chaos worshipper’s brain cavity. In one final defiant act, the bare-chested cultist twists the knife a hundred and eighty degrees, a fountain of blood coating his naked torso.
Another identifier rune flashes from green to red.
In the half-century and more that I have served the Dark Angels as a sergeant, I have only ever lost four battle-brothers under my command and in the space of just a few seconds, I have lost half that number again.
No more.
We are Adeptus Astartes with direct lineage to the first founded Legion. We are no mere successor Chapter, nor one raised during later foundings. We are the sons of the Lion and our Chapter bears the same name as his great Legion did throughout the Great Crusade and the black days that followed. We carry his genetic legacy and with it the pride of knowing that we are the Emperor’s finest, first among equals. Two Dark Angels have laid down their lives this day and that is two too many. More blood will be shed before this battle is through but it will be us doing the shedding; more lives will end here upon this distant world but we will be death’s agents.
I will not rest until the enemy is slain and our mission is through, so swears Sergeant Constantin Raphael of the Dark Angels Fifth Company.
TETCHVAR,
CULTIST LEADER
Dark Angels. The irony is so palpable I can practically taste it.
It was them, they made me like this. Not literally, of course, I have my new masters to thank for my ‘enhancements’, but had it not been for the inaction of the Dark Angels then I wouldn’t be here today.
It was fifteen standard Terran years ago. Or was it twenty? Warp travel wreaks havoc with time perception. Regardless, I’d just finished campaigning against the greenskins in the Khapanesk Junction where I’d been responsible for the discipline of three entire regiments of Golmeynian Equinaars – bloody savages to a man but the finest beast riders I’d ever seen – when the order came down from Segmentum command that I was to ship out to somewhere called the Procel system and hook up with a newly founded regiment who were the only thing standing in the way of a full-blown arch-enemy invasion of almost a dozen worlds.
I had been expecting the worst. A freshly raised regiment made up of gas miners, petty bureaucrats and boy soldiers was far from ideal in the face of what the enemy were throwing against us but they applied themselves well and, having endured centuries of raids by ork and eldar pirates, their cities and settlements were well defended.
A little too well defended, as it happened.
As the Chaos advance stalled all across the system, more and more forces poured in on both sides and the campaign became bogged down. Siege situations arose in all of the major population centres and on the distant gas-mining moon where my regiment was stationed, it was no different. With enemy ships blockading the moon, ground forces were able to encircle us. The mining fort we’d chosen to hole up in because of its easily defensible position high upon the ridge of a crater soon became our prison, and very nearly became our tomb.
