Legends of the dark ange.., p.25
Legends Of The Dark Angels, page 25
Boreas knelt on the floor of the chapel, head bowed before the altar, and begged the Emperor and his primarch for forgiveness. But he knew there would be none, because he could not forgive himself. It was that shame, the dark coil of sin that writhed inside him, that kept him locked in the shrine. How could he ever leave and face Hephaestus, who unwittingly had damned him? What could he say to Zaul, who had been the most fervent amongst them, and who thought Boreas a hero of the Chapter. And the others – Nestor, Damas and Thumiel – their accusations would be silent but no less crippling. Boreas could not face it. He had none of the answers they would need. They would look to him for strength and courage, but he had none to give.
On the tenth day, half-delirious, derided by daemons of his own creation, Boreas drew his pistol and held the muzzle against the weaker joint of his neck armour. The bolt would tear into his throat and blow out his spine, ending the pain forever. For half a day he sat, thumb through the trigger guard, imagining the blissful oblivion just a simple motion away.
His mind became still and calm. Everything dropped away from his thoughts, his emotions shrinking to a single, focussed point inside his head. The galaxy disappeared, the ship, his battle-brothers, all of them slid from conscious thought. All that remained was him and the pistol. Life and death.
At that moment, he looked up with his one good eye and saw the Chapter symbol of the Dark Angels on the wall in front of him. It was beautifully crafted, the sword at its centre shaped from pure gold and silver, the dark wings to either side delicately chiselled from black marble. Boreas stood, the bolt pistol dropping from his fingers. He stretched out his hand towards the embodiment of everything he had lived for, everything he had been created to uphold. He took a couple of faltering steps forward and then strode more purposefully around the altar and laid his hand against the sword. Removing his scarred and battered helmet and tossing it to one side, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the hilt of the sword, feeling the pulse and hub of the ship vibrate through his torn face. Closing his eyes, he bent lower and delicately kissed the blade in thanks.
‘Praise the Lion,’ he whispered. ‘Praise the Lion for his strength, wisdom and fortitude. His blood runs in my veins. His spirit lives on in my soul. Praise the Emperor for his courage, his guidance and his purpose. By his hand, I was made. By his will, I live. There is no peace, no respite. There is only war.’
Boreas found the others gathered in the reclusium, seated in silent meditation, dressed in their robes. It was Zaul who looked up first, his expression of surprise quickly turning to joy.
‘Brother Boreas!’ he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. The others broke out of their trances and stood, their reactions a mixture of curiosity and relief. Only Hephaestus remained seated, staring at the ground.
‘Brother Hephaestus?’ Boreas said, walking over to stand in front of the Techmarine. He saw that his hands were cut and bruised, and there were stark weals across his chest and shoulders. There was a haunted look in his eye as he raised his gaze to the Interrogator-Chaplain. Boreas offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, the Techmarine grasped it firmly and pulled himself to his feet, a faint smile playing on his lips.
‘Nestor was correct,’ Boreas said, turning to address them all. ‘Now is not the time to judge, or for recriminations. Now, more than ever, we must be united. They want to divide us, to pit us against each other and ourselves. We shall not let them conquer us, we are stronger than they.’
Zaul hurried forward and clapped a hand onto Boreas’s left shoulder, still grinning.
‘We were vexed by your absence, Brother-Chaplain,’ Zaul said, his grin replaced by a look of consternation. ‘We were lost without your guidance, your words of wisdom.’
‘We debated much over what to do,’ explained Damas. ‘We were unsure of the best course of action.’
‘As was I,’ admitted Boreas, clasping Zaul’s shoulder in return. ‘I wandered a lonely path, but the Lion guided me back.’
‘What are your orders?’ asked Nestor. ‘I think it is paramount that we return to the citadel as soon as we arrive at Piscina IV.’
‘I agree,’ Boreas replied, stepping back, his fists balling at his side. ‘We must confirm what we have learnt. The Fallen have played a deadly game with us until now, and this may yet be another falsehood set to confound us.’
‘And if it is not?’ asked Thumiel. ‘What then?’
‘If we can, we prevent them from succeeding,’ Boreas answered quickly. ‘If we are too late, then we mourn the loss.’
‘And what of the Fallen?’ Damas inquired.
‘We shall seek justice and exact punishment, as we have done for ten thousand years,’ Boreas replied.
They stood there for a moment, this one thought joining them together. Boreas stepped up to Damas and plucked at his robe with his finger.
‘You are out of your armour, brother-sergeant,’ Boreas said with a slight smile. ‘As are you all. I do not remember announcing the crusade accomplished.’
‘As you will it, Brother Boreas,’ Zaul replied. ‘We shall arm ourselves for the continuing fight. But I suggest that while we do so, you eat heartily and refresh yourself. I smelt you before I saw you, and your face is as thin as an eldar’s. Your search for guidance must have taken you far.’
‘It was a long path,’ Boreas agreed with a nod. ‘A long and dangerous path, but one I shall not need to tread again.’
As the Thunderhawk streaked down through the upper atmosphere of Piscina IV, the comm was filled with a cacophony of transmissions. For the last two days the Blade of Caliban had attempted to make contact with the planet’s surface or the orbiting station, but there had been no reply. Boreas’s fears had increased with the continuing silence, fearing that it betrayed the extinction of life on the world, that the Fallen had activated the annihilus and wiped out everything he had sworn to protect. Now, as the Space Marines headed towards their fortress, every frequency, every transmission medium, was bursting with almost meaningless chatter, and disturbing as it was, Boreas felt relief that there was still life on the planet below.
All attempts to make contact with the surface still failed, and the Interrogator-Chaplain could not yet decide what course of action to take. As much as he tried, Hephaestus could do nothing to filter out the messages that overlaid each other, and only scattered fragments barked from the audio unit in garbled bursts.
‘…casualties at thirty-five per cent…’
‘…sporadic fire continuing, falling back…’
‘…desert us not in the hour of need, turn to the great benevolent…’
‘…west wing in ruins, fires spreading, tenders dry…’
‘…ay of the Emperor’s judgement is upon us, for the sinf…’
‘…evacuation stalled…’
‘…abandoned us. I can’t believe they abandoned us. I can’t believe…’
‘…o response to hails. It’s as if they…’
‘…Emperor protect us, there’s bodies everywhere. It’s like a slaughter house in…’
‘…why did they do this? It doesn’t make any…’
‘…casualties now at forty per cent, further advance possible…’
Boreas flicked off the comm in frustration and stared out over the blunt nose of the gunship. Thick white cloud spread out beneath them, but ahead a darker patch was spreading, polluting the sky. For a few seconds, as the Thunderhawk passed through the cloud layer, the Interrogator-Chaplain could see nothing but whiteness. Then, as the gunship broke out of the underside, he caught his first sight of Kadillus Harbour.
More than a dozen columns of smoke rose into the air from across the city, and even at this altitude, he could see massive fires raging around the docks and the starport. Turning his gaze to his left he saw more evidence of trouble, explosions blooming on the volcano’s slopes close to Barrak Mine at the north end of Koth Ridge.
‘Head straight for the outpost, we can land in the Kandal Park,’ he told Boreas, unable to tear his gaze from the scene of devastation below them.
As the Thunderhawk swooped lower over the city, Boreas could make out more evidence of heavy fighting. The ruined shells of buildings and smouldering ruins of hab-blocks sat alongside tracts of rubble, demolished factories and a mess of twisted girders and cranes.
‘What could have happened?’ Hephaestus asked. ‘It is as if the city is tearing itself apart.’
‘I think it is,’ Boreas replied, pointing at the streets below. They were filled with people, tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of them thronging the roads, setting fires, looting and fighting. They saw clusters of Imperial Guard, firing indiscriminately into the crowds. Even more disturbing, tanks rolled down the roadways, blasting at buildings and citizens with equal fury, their heavy bolters blazing, a swathe of crushed bodies left in their wake. He saw Guardsmen fighting Guardsmen, battling across rooftops, fighting street-to-street.
People on the ground began to notice the gunship overhead as it slowed and circled to land. Some threw their arms in the air, obviously pleading to the Space Marines. Bullets whined nearby as others started shooting, and lasbolts deflected ineffectually off the Thunderhawk’s heavy armour.
‘I can’t land!’ Hephaestus said. ‘There is no clear zone.’
Boreas looked ahead and saw that the open park was full of people. The carefully cultured trees and hedges, the only life inside the city that was not in the Imperial commander’s gardens, were trampled and burnt. The lawns and rock gardens were covered with people, and many bodies.
‘Just land!’ ordered Boreas, unhitching his harness and stepping into the crew compartment. Hephaestus glanced at the Chaplain’s retreating back, shook his head and then directed his attention back to the controls.
The Thunderhawk descended on pillars of blue fire. The crowds tried to scatter, but the press of the bodies meant that many were caught in the downwash of the jets, reduced to ashes instantly. The gunship settled heavily into the soft earth, crushing the charred corpses of those caught below, its metallic feet sinking a metre into the soil. The assault ramp swung down and Boreas stood at its head, bolt pistol in hand. People began to surge towards him and he fired into the air. Some stopped, others threw themselves to the ground, many turned and tried to flee, their screams filling the air.
A woman with a tangled mass of hair, her red woollen dress stained with soot, sprinted up the ramp, a carving knife in her hands. She threw herself at Boreas, the blade buckling on the armour of his breastplate. He shoved her aside, toppling her off the ramp onto the scorched earth.
‘Cease this madness!’ he bellowed, but the terrified and frenzied mob paid him no heed, stampeding forwards and backwards, trampling over those who fell, their cries of fear and pain drowned out by the shouting and shrieking.
‘We must break through, use minimal force,’ he said, stepping down the ramp. ‘We can devise a strategy once we have ascertained whether the keep is still intact.’ The others followed, looking left and right in disbelief as they descended. As the last of them stepped out, the ramp closed behind him with a loud grinding.
Boreas battered his way through the press of bodies, shoving men and women aside to get through. He grabbed an old man by the throat and hurled him away as he tried to prise Boreas’s bolt pistol from its scabbard. Others scrabbled at his knife, or battered at his chest and legs, and he drove them away with bone-crunching sweeps of his hand. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the others were making equally slow progress, the crowd surging in behind him as he ploughed forwards.
As he waded through the human morass, Boreas began to listen to their shouts. They were cursing the Dark Angels, calling them traitors and murderers. They begged the Emperor to bring his vengeance down on the Space Marines, accusing them of oath-breaking. A sick feeling grew inside Boreas as he guessed what had occurred.
The Fallen were here, or had been. The citizens of Piscina, the Imperial Guard, the security officers would have thought them loyal Space Marines. They knew little of the Horus Heresy, even less of the continuing fight against the Traitor Legions, and nothing of the treachery of the Lutherites. Boreas dared not think what atrocities they had committed, but whatever they were, it had turned the world against the Dark Angels.
‘We must get through to the outpost, whatever the cost,’ he told the squad, smashing his gauntleted fist into the chest of a thin, bearded man who swung at him with a metal bar.
Boreas drove forward with greater ferocity, crashing through the mob and scattering them left and right. He reached the high metal fence that surrounded the park, subconsciously noting the mangled bodies that lay along its length, those who had been crushed to death by the press of people. Without pausing, he tore two of the railings clear, and then two more, and again, until he had opened a hole wide enough to clamber through. The street beyond was quiet, the high buildings stretching up either side deserted.
Turning left, he broke into a run, pounding along the street in the direction of the keep. As his anger rose, his speed increased, until he was hurtling at full sprint along the road. Turning a corner, he ran into the wide, rockcrete killing ground surrounding the outpost. Scores of Guardsmen were there, fighting with citizens and each other. The blazing wrecks of two personnel carriers cast a bloody hue over the scene. Boreas slowed to a halt. Looking out over the mass of brawling people, he spied another troop transport, flying the banner of Colonel Brade. The flare of las-fire illuminated the grim scene as the carrier’s multi-laser opened fire, the energy bolts scything through Guardsmen and maddened citizens alike.
‘Clear a path. Fire to wound if possible, kill if necessary,’ the Chaplain ordered, pulling free his bolt pistol.
He fired ahead as he advanced, shooting low, the bolts fracturing thighbones, ripping through hips and shattering kneecaps, until a corridor had opened up in front of him leading towards Brade. The small turret on the APC turned in his direction, and for a moment it looked as if it was going to fire at him. Then the barrels tilted downwards before another blaze of shots tore through the hellish battle, clearing an open route for him. Boreas ran forward, the other Dark Angels close behind, and stopped next to the transport. He banged on the hull and a moment later the hatch opened and Colonel Brade stuck his head out.
‘Thank the Emperor you have returned, Lord Boreas,’ the colonel gasped, clambering out awkwardly. He stared for a moment at the Space Marines as if it was the first time he had seen them properly. It was then that Boreas realised it probably was, at least with their present appearance. Their armour was bone white, decorated with red, green and black heraldry, and festooned with purity seals that fluttered in the wind. Dents, bullet holes, las-scorches and pieces of embedded shrapnel still scarred their armour, despite Hephaestus’s best repairs in the time he had been allowed. Damas’s armour was covered head-to-toe in the neat script of the Opus Victorium, and the side of Boreas’s own skull helm was covered in a bare metal plate where it had been punctured.
‘Tell me everything,’ Boreas demanded, turning so that he could keep a careful watch on the fighting. The battle started to move away as the Guardsmen protecting the colonel forced their way to the north with fusillades of las-fire, driving the armed mob away from the keep. Bullets and las-shots still occasionally whined overhead and the air was filled with the clamour of shouting, firing and intermittent explosions.
‘I hardly know where to start–’ Brade said with a shake of his head, glancing cautiously around.
‘Tell me about the Space Marines,’ Boreas prompted, directing Thumiel and Damas to cover the other side of the vehicle with a flick of his hand. He heard the bark of their bolters now and then as they fired at rebels who had broken through the cordon of Imperial Guard.
‘How did you know–?’ Brade asked.
‘That is not important,’ Boreas waved away the colonel’s question. ‘You must tell me about the other Space Marines.’
‘No one is sure when they arrived, they certainly weren’t seen getting off any ship or shuttle that landed,’ the colonel began. ‘I simply heard from the commander’s enforcers that Space Marines had returned to the keep and I thought nothing more of it, assuming it was you and the others. Then the orks attacked again, in such numbers I haven’t seen since the invasion. They overran Vartoth in an afternoon, and we threw up a line to hold them from coming further south. They broke through early evening yesterday and now we’re desperately trying to hold on to Barrak.’
‘I saw the fighting,’ Boreas said. ‘Where are the Space Marines now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Brade replied with a shrug. He flinched as a shell detonated against the wall of a nearby building. ‘I tried to contact you at the keep, but there was no reply, so I sent a delegation to ask for an audience. That’s when they came out. I only have scattered reports, I’m not sure what happened next.’
‘Tell me what you know,’ Boreas urged him. ‘Every detail could be important.’
‘Well, the first group to emerge just ignored the messengers,’ Brade said, his brow creased in a frown of concentration. He looked about ready to collapse, his face haggard, his eyes heavy and dark. ‘There were three, maybe four of them. They were definitely Space Marines. Their armour was the same as yours, the Chapter symbol, the badges. My officers tried to speak to their leader, but they were shoved aside, and they dared not persevere for risk of offence.’
‘How did they know who their leader was?’ Boreas asked.
‘He was dressed differently,’ the colonel explained. ‘He wore long robes like a coat over his armour, and carried two bolt pistols in low slung holsters.’
‘A sword in a scabbard. Did he carry a long sword in an ornate scabbard?’ demanded Boreas, feeling an unfamiliar chill of foreboding.
‘Yes, yes, I think the survivor mentioned that,’ Brade answered, nodding slightly. ‘Do you know him?’
