Master of sanctity, p.5
Master of Sanctity, page 5
This last statement sent a flush of anxiety through Annael; a momentary doubt he had never experienced before. What was service to the Emperor, in the name of the Lion and the Chapter, if not done with honour? He was willing to die in an instant to protect his brothers, to fulfil a mission and protect the Emperor’s realm. But to sacrifice his good name? To risk being struck from the rolls of honour, to be expunged from the annals of the Dark Angels in shame?
He looked up at Malcifer past Tybalain and the Chaplain noticed the glance. So too did the Huntmaster, whose hard stare had been fixed on Sabrael but now passed to Annael. The battle-brother felt that gaze fall upon him as if he’d been struck, a scrutiny that bore into him, shredding all defence, piercing the walls of duty, honour and dedication that had armoured his soul against doubt, fear and treachery. All was laid bare in that moment as Tybalain knew exactly what Annael dreaded the most and was contemptuous of his fellow Space Marine’s weakness.
Annael wanted to blurt out an apology to the Huntmaster and Chaplain; wanted to abase himself and offer atonement for every moment of doubt he had endured since being chosen as an aspirant of the Lion.
For all that the urge swamped him, every instinct crying ‘They know, they know,’ and a harder, sterner part of Annael kept his gaze level, matching Tybalain’s accusation with defiance. Deep in the core of his soul, beneath any momentary worries and concerns, Annael was a Dark Angel Space Marine. He lived and died at the behest of the Chapter, for the service of the Emperor. If his honour, if his name and legacy, was the price required to defend mankind against unimaginable threat, he would be ready to offer it, as willingly as the blood that was surging through his veins.
Tybalain gave the barest hint of a nod, the corners of his lips twitching into a satisfied smile for a microsecond before his stern demeanour returned.
‘Yes, brothers, everything you fear and more may come to pass,’ said Malcifer. ‘Liar, heretic, traitor.’ Annael flinched at each word as though they were the striking of bullets in his flesh. ‘These things and others you may be called, in life or in death. By your brothers. By those you have sworn to protect. By those you serve, so that their honour can be maintained at the expense of yours. When you became Dark Angels you left your pasts behind. As you become Black Knights you must forfeit your futures. Are you ready?’
‘I am ready.’
The words had left Annael’s lips before he had registered Malcifer’s question. His voice conveyed his utter conviction. Beside him, Sabrael echoed the sentiment.
‘Take up your hammers and your rightful place amongst the Black Knights of the Ravenwing, chosen of Sammael.’
Annael took the weapon proffered by Nerean while Sabrael received the hammer brought in by Calatus. The two Black Knights bowed and received the gesture in return as Annael and Sabrael stood up to join the line at a motion from Tybalain.
‘So oath is made and accepted, sworn in secrecy, upheld in silence. Know then, the truth of the Seventh Rite of the Raven.’ Malcifer drew back his hood and lifted away his mask, revealing an almost paternal look. ‘As Ravenwing you have hunted traitors at the behest of the Supreme Grand Master. As Black Knights you must know the full nature of the creatures we bring to justice.
‘During the war some call the Horus Heresy, the traitor warmaster drew Space Marines to his rebel cause. This you know. Now you must learn of the shame we all share, for the Dark Angels were not immune to the thrice-cursed traitor’s entreaties. Fair Caliban, the birthplace of the Lion, home world of the Legion, was destroyed not by Horus, but by Dark Angels corrupted by their own ambition, who used forbidden warp-tech in an attempt to overthrow the rightful rule of the Lion.’
Malcifer paused while Annael and Sabrael silently absorbed this revelation. Confused, Annael glanced at his companion and saw Sabrael’s brow knotted, jaw clenched. The words sank in and Annael started to comprehend what the Chaplain was telling them. Perhaps sensing Annael’s instinctual refusal to accept this truth and all that it engendered, Malcifer made it clear.
‘The Space Marines we hunt as Ravenwing were once Dark Angels. Their existence has been kept secret for ten thousand years and they are the greatest threat to the Chapter and all who share the gene-seed of the Lion. We call them the Fallen and until the last has been hunted down and brought to account for their sins, there can be no rest.’
The enormity of it welled up inside Annael. He had suspected something – on entering the Ravenwing the notion that there were levels of knowledge to which he was not privy could not be avoided – but he had never in his wildest moments of doubt envisioned something so catastrophic. For ten millennia the Dark Angels had harboured the secret that members of the Lion’s own Legion, the First, Sons of Caliban, had betrayed the Emperor.
With that realisation came something else: hate. At that moment Annael hated the Fallen more than any foe he had ever faced. Their weakness at a time when they had needed to be at their strongest made a mockery of ten thousand years of strife and struggle. Every achievement, every victory and battle honour won by the Dark Angels was meaningless compared to that ancient shame. Every battle-brother who had died in the Emperor’s service was vain sacrifice to the ambition of the Fallen. Thinking of those that had died in blessed ignorance he envied them for a moment, for they had believed themselves inheritors of a pure, noble tradition. Then anger returned, for their belief had been a falsehood, rendered iniquitous by the actions of a selfish few at the dawn of the Imperium.
He understood with pinpoint clarity the importance of the Hunt now. Until that stain was expunged, until there were no more traitorous Dark Angels drawing breath, there was no honour. One of the Chapter mottos sprang to mind, more potent than ever before, and he gave voice to it, hands tightening around the haft of his hammer.
‘Never forget.’ He raised the hammer, head pointing towards the Chapter sigil on the altar. ‘Never forgive!’
The Prisoner
With the whine of the gunship’s engines dying behind him, Annael stood on the landing apron looking at the large, ornate gates in front of him. They were wrought from black metal in the design of a winged sword that was mirrored on each side.
In the dark, cavernous room beyond, he could see ten giant figures swathed in thick white robes. They were standing in the shadows between the guttering circles of flame cast by tall candles set around the chamber’s walls. Each figure bore a two-handed sword, held upright across chest and face, the sharp edges of the weapons glinting in the erratic light. The ruddy glow flickered off thousands of skulls adorning the walls and ceiling of the vast sepulchre, gleaming in eyeless sockets and shining off polished lipless grins. Many were human, but most were not: a mix of subtle, elongated features; brutal, bucket-jawed aliens; eyeless monstrosities; horned, twisted creatures and many other contorted, inhuman stares looked down upon the assembled Dark Angels.
Alongside Annael was Tybalain, and on the opposite side of the Thunderhawk’s ramp waited the other Black Knights. This was the first time they had come together since undergoing the Seventh Rite and Annael was still getting used to the ivory-coloured trim on his black Ravenwing robes, and seeing Sabrael in the same.
Footsteps at the top of the gunship’s ramp drew his attention to the prisoner.
Annael did not know his name, and details surrounding his capture were sketchy. All Annael really knew was that the warrior was one of the Fallen, a former Librarian of the Dark Angels Legion who had been run to ground during the assault on the Death Guard camp at Thyestes; as far as he could tell the other Black Knights thought the same and there was no reason to suspect there was anything more to be known.
The prisoner was naked save for a grey loincloth, his body a disgusting mass of scars, sores, open wounds and bruised flesh. Annael wondered what manner of torture or infection could inflict such wounds, but he knew better than to ask there and then. Such queries would be dealt with by Malcifer after the ceremony of presentation was complete. Thick chains bound the man’s arms and wrists, his ankles equally shackled. Annael could see tiny runes etched into the links of the black iron, filled with silver that glittered in a way that did not match the candlelight. His head was bound in a metal hood, inscribed with more runes, pierced with lorelai crystal shards that suppressed his psychic talent.
Behind the prisoner came Malcifer and Harahel, fully armoured, as was Grand Master Sammael following them. Gripping the captured warrior by the shoulders the Chaplain and Librarian forced him down the ramp. The stench from his rotting injuries was almost overwhelming. Annael remembered a similar stink from the encampment and warriors of the Death Guard; decay run rampant, a foetid aura that permeated everything. The captive reminded Annael of the filthy Traitor legionnaires, his scab-encrusted body and lesion-marked flesh perhaps an indication of what lay beneath the corroded armour of the Death Guard.
The solitary toll of a bell brought the assembled guard to attention, both Ravenwing and Deathwing. The great gates in front of the prisoner opened inwards, another clanging of the bell drowning out the hiss of hydraulics and creak of ancient hinges. The prisoner took a few steps forward. The Fallen stopped and looked over his shoulder, heavily bloodshot eyes visible through the slit of his iron hood. The glance was met by the unblinking stare of Malcifer’s skull mask. The Chaplain pointed through the gates and shoved the prisoner another step.
‘Where are you taking me?’ the prisoner demanded, pulling loose from Malcifer’s grip.
Harahel was upon him in an instant, sweeping his legs from underneath with the haft of his force axe. As the Fallen crashed to the ground the Dark Angels Librarian pressed the flat of the blade against the Space Marine’s bared chest. Light and heat flared, eliciting a howl of pain from the captive warrior. Annael suppressed a wince – he had never heard a Space Marine utter such a noise and could not imagine the agony that brief flow of psychic energy had imparted.
Cowed, the prisoner did not struggle as Malcifer pulled him upright and dragged him through the gate.
‘Guard, dismiss,’ muttered Sammael. The Grand Master seemed distasteful of the whole ceremony and was quick to head back to the gunship. At a word from Tybalain the Black Knights followed.
As he strode up the ramp, Annael looked back to see Malcifer and Harahel returning to the Thunderhawk. Behind them the gate swung shut as the robed Deathwing closed around the Fallen; he was their responsibility now. At the last moment, he saw a glimpse of bone-white from a Chaplain’s helm and then the group was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the tunnel.
‘Better not to know,’ said Tybalain, following Annael’s gaze.
Judged
‘Methelas, damned by deed and word.’
As he spoke this judgement Chaplain Malcifer almost threw the Fallen warrior into the hands of Brother Asmodai. The Master of Repentance stepped back as if recoiling from the plague-ridden creature thrust towards him, beckoning for the First Company to take hold of the prisoner. Telemenus suppressed his anxiety and disgust as he stepped forward to seize the captive’s arm, Brother Laestus taking the other side. The representatives of the Ravenwing were already hastening away, their burden passed to the Deathwing.
Five of the Space Marines turned and took up position in front of Asmodai, while the others fell in behind the prisoner. Telemenus and Daellon had been counted amongst the guard for no other reason than as many Terminator-trained warriors as possible were needed for the war on the planet below. The newest inductees to the First Company could not serve on the field of battle and so their initiation began with this first encounter with the Fallen. As he felt his fingers sinking into corrupted flesh he wished his introduction had started with something less repulsive. He had seen many grievous wounds and deaths by blade, bolt and blast but the visceral nature of Methelas’s condition was hard to stomach at such close range. It was difficult to reconcile the mutated creature with the dauntless armoured warrior he had so thoughtlessly confronted on Thyestes.
At another command from the Chaplain, they started a slow march. The Dark Angels led the Fallen further and further into the bowels of the Rock. Their journey was lit by torches that burned with smokeless flame, held in sconces at regular intervals along the walls.
Other corridors branched left and right. Telemenus knew from recent tuition that they were passing through the tombs of the ancient rulers of Caliban. And yet he could not reconcile the thought of this once being part of the home world of the Dark Angels, torn asunder by the machinations of the Fallen and their diabolic attempt to usurp the Lion. He knew he was on an armoured fortress hanging in space but to hear the testimony of Brothers Asmodai and Sapphon one could be mistaken for thinking that this was still the sacred ground of that ancient world, forever remembered in secret Chapter legend.
They turned left and right on occasion, weaving through the labyrinth of tunnels, surrounded by tablets proclaiming the names of Dark Angels who had died in heroic combat. They seemed to go on forever in all directions. Underfoot, the dust was thick save for a narrow path, having lain undisturbed for many years, perhaps decades or centuries. Small alcoves set into the walls held relics of the past – ornately decorated shoulder pads, the hilt and half the blade of a broken power sword, engraved skulls, a tarnished gauntlet, glass-fronted ossuaries displaying the bones of those who had fallen in battle, a plaque beneath declaring who they were in life. He felt draughts, chill breezes on his face emanating from side chambers, and occasionally heard a distant sigh, or the clank of a chain, all of which added to the macabre aura of the crypt, which did little to ease Telemenus’s unsettled mind.
He felt the prisoner recoiling in his grasp and tightened his grip, fearing his charge would attempt to bolt. The slick, oily sensation of psychic energy leaked from the suppressor helm, tainting Telemenus’s thoughts, and despite every precaution he kept getting glimpses inside the former Librarian’s mind; visions of Caliban as it had once been, debased ceremonies of destruction and obedience to entreat vastly indifferent yet overwhelmingly powerful entities.
‘Bear it no mind,’ snapped Asmodai, breaking the vague connection with his harsh words. ‘The glorified hallucinations of a madman.’
Telemenus concentrated on the task at hand, focusing all of his thoughts into a shield of hatred; it was easy enough when one looked at the depraved creature the Space Marine had become. His soul was as tarnished as his flesh, and the knowledge that the prisoner had once sworn oaths of allegiance to the Lion and the Emperor and then turned on both fuelled Telemenus’s disdain.
Turning right at one particular junction, a peripheral movement caught Telemenus’s keen eye and he glanced to his left. In the shadows he saw a diminutive being, no higher than his waist, almost hidden in the darkness. It was little more than a small robe, but from the depths of the black hood two eyes glittered with a cold, blue light as the strange creature regarded the small contingent, a gust of icy breeze passed over them. As suddenly as he had spotted it, the Watcher in the Dark faded back into the shadows and was gone.
Distracted by this encounter – and the lack of reaction from the others – Telemenus almost missed the command to halt. They were in a circular hallway roughly two dozen metres across, its circumference lined with windowless iron doors. All of the doors were closed except one. Through the doorway Telemenus glimpsed the interior of the cell, barely five metres square, lit by a brazier in the far corner. A stone slab dominated the centre of the room, pierced by iron rings from which hung heavy chains, and to one side a row of shelves was stacked with various metal implements that menacingly caught the light of glowing coals. There were two more robed Space Marines awaiting them, their faces hidden by heavy hoods, their hands concealed beneath studded metal gauntlets. As one took a step forward, Telemenus caught a glimpse of a white skull face under his hood.
Without any further word from Asmodai the other Dark Angels started to file out by the way they had entered. Telemenus followed after a moment’s pause, the last to turn away as Asmodai grabbed the prisoner and with a snarl hauled him into the cell. The crash of the door closing echoed along the corridors, louder and more sinister than the tolling of the bells had been.
Righteousness
The thing chained to the interrogation slab was not a Dark Angel. It was not even a Space Marine; not even human. It was a grotesque parody of a person. It had two arms, two legs and a head, but the outward appearance, the flesh that clothed it, was nothing but a masquerade.
It called itself Methelas but it deserved no name.
It was a traitor.
This was the simple truth that kept running through Asmodai’s thoughts as he paced around the cell, his stare locked on the creature brought in by the Ravenwing.
It was a traitor. It deserved no pity, no mercy, and no remorse.
Asmodai was barely aware of anything else; the sterile stink of the interrogator’s implements on the silver trolley against one wall; the breathing of Brother Ezekiel as he stood in the shadows cast by the brazier, his psychic effort concentrated on prying open the traitor’s mind. The sweat of the captive was rank, oozing pus-like from the wide pores of his pallid skin. Bile and other fluids dribbled from corrupted wounds.
Asmodai thought of what the thing on the slab represented; ten thousand years of utter shame. It was the antithesis of everything he held to be good and pure. It was the flesh-and-blood incarnation of a malaise that had brought the Imperium crashing down into ruin even as it should have risen to the heights of power across the galaxy.
Traitor, I name thee.
Four words, uttered as a curse so dire there was nothing more filthy or vile in the universe.
