Apocalypse - No Pity+++TRANSMISSIONBEGINS+++ Author: High Marshal Helbrecht Well met, Marshal. Enclosed within this transmission are
details of the plan to invade the Chaos world of Daizann on the fringe of the
Moldion Crusade’s area of operation and, for that matter, the internal fringe
of Imperial space. The loss of the Absolution has been one we all find
difficult to bear. However, the ship’s distress call did inform us of the rise
of a Chaos power in the sector. Thanks to the efforts of Inquisitor Carravar, we
know now the location of the assembling Black Crusade and the steps he has taken
to ensure its defeat. We believe that the Chaos force he has located is far
stronger than anything the Chapter has faced in the last thousand years, and as
the new Marshal of the Moldion Crusade (a somewhat distressing appointment, as
the Crusade has already claimed two commanders’ lives) it is your duty to
finish what he began before the intrusion of the Genestealers destroyed his
craft. As for Carravar himself, we believe him to have successfully evacuated
the Absolution – your secondary objective is Lord Carravar’s recovery. As the Ork invasion of Armageddon has rendered me unable
to respond personally, units from the Cadian 14th Imperial Guard Regiment and
the venerable Dark Angels Space Marine Chapter will aid your force. All forces
deployed on Operation Doomsday are under your express command – your actions
are responsible to you and the Almighty Emperor alone. Semper Fideles Imperator +++TRANSMISSIONENDS+++
The disposition of that
Chaos force was only now becoming apparent to Inquisitor Carravar. He had
survived the disaster that befell the Absolution, and he had also
survived the ensuing battle aboard a Chaos space hulk. But during that battle
the warpgate he had used to breach Daizann’s defences and land on the surface
had been destroyed, and he was now stuck on the Emperor-forsaken planet with
only three other loyalists for company. The little man was sitting morosely at
the foot of a crag, hooded head hanging low. Atop the crag sat the most
keen-eyed of their party, a Black Templar Neophyte called Darius, keeping watch
for any marauding Chaos troops. They were in luck – the daemonworld had, so
far, appeared deserted, largely abandoned by its Khornate legions. Darius could feel a warm breeze blowing across his face as he gazed out over the hell-world he saw before him. The landscape was that of Hades itself, a great black plain of ash spreading all around them, split only by the occasional craggy outcrop, bounded on all sides by impossibly tall spires of rock, lit by the eerie twilight of volcanic pits. In one place and one place only was there a gap in the sunken plateau, and that place was a narrow pass that was bounded by a fortress unimaginable. Walls of black stone, trimmed with brass, towered tall over the plain, dwarfed by the mountains they stood between. Rivers of blood trickled out from around the great Chaos hold; piles of skulls lined the road that traversed the plain before the lair of the beast. And atop these walls patrolled an army of darkness greater than Darius had ever seen, a force of the striding, red-armoured troops of Khastarax, the daemon prince of this world. Chaos Space Marines from every legion were welcome as long as they pledged allegiance to Khorne. The less dedicated worshippers of the Blood God were the guards, armed with boltguns and heavy weapons rather than the chainaxes and chainswords favoured by Khorne’s Bezerkers. Over a hundred of them marched along the battlements of the Chaos hold; tiny dim specks many miles away. Darius turned sharply as a grunt from behind betrayed his master climbing up the crag to join him. Gideon was a full Initiate in the Black Templars, Darius’ mentor and guide. Almost a year before they had faced Khastarax and defeated him with help from an enigmatic alien psyker – a psyker whose dying act had been to grant Gideon a vision of the landscape on which they now stood, a vision of Chaos gathering strength for a resurgence in the Long War. Gideon’s face was haggard and fatigued, but the warrior still held his head up high and attempted a brave face. ‘Just for once,’ Darius thought, ‘I’d like to see him crack.’ His wish was not granted. “Gaze not into the abyss – “ Gideon began to say. “Or the abyss will gaze into you.” Darius found himself replying automatically, the arcane verse of the Codex Astartes falling out of his memory with remarkable speed. “Very true, Darius,” said Gideon with a proud smile. “Chaos has this planet in an iron grip, thousands of foulnesses roam its soil and that maniac of an Inquisitor wants us to go further into the heart of darkness?” “We could have let him go,” said Darius sharply. “At any time. We could have left him to die on the Absolution, or thrown him to the Bezerkers on the Chaos hulk. But we didn’t, did we?” “We did not.” Gideon whispered. “Why?” “Because it was our sworn duty to protect him. And besides, he is a part of this. I can feel it in my bones that he is part of this.” “And so are we, thanks to your vision. What was the expression he used?” Darius asked rhetorically. “‘A dagger of light aimed at the heart of Chaos?’” “Jest not, brother,” said Gideon. “We are the Emperor’s mailed fist and for Him we lay down our lives. If we are to succeed here, there must be no pity, no remorse and no fear. We are in Hell, Darius, and we may never come out.” “Gloomy stuff!” laughed a voice behind them. Both Templars leapt round, weapons ready. They beheld a small, shapely female figure in black synskin, auburn hair tied up in a ponytail, left hand gripping a short glowing sword and the right bearing her neuro-shredder, a flamer-like weapon that attacked the spirit rather than the body, wrecking the mind in seconds and reducing the corporeal foe to a gibbering fleshy ruin. Mariana was her name, and she was a Callidus Assassin, the fourth member of the ‘secret weapon’. She had already made a name for herself as a powerful fighter at close range, but her temper was restrained by an impish sense of humour. “Lighten up!” she continued, sitting down alongside them. “People have escaped from daemonworlds before, I’ve been in worse situations than this.” “That’s true,” Darius agreed. “At least they’re not Genestealers or Eldar.” Gideon shook his head. He couldn’t believe Darius. After all the encounters he’d had with female companions, his tutor thought he would have learned never to trust a woman by now. Evidently not. “They are worse, Darius,” he said. “Much worse. The daemons we faced on Moldion were poor specimens, freshly materialised. Those here are in their home environment. To them, we are the intruders and they the masters.” “So in other words
we’ve made a big mistake.” Darius laughed. Gideon just nodded. Khastarax shifted uneasily on his throne of skulls. Normally he would be feeling the same complacency that he always did – he was safe here in the heart of his great army, the army gathering from all over the galaxy to attack the Imperium where it hurt the most. The fools saw Orks and Tyranids as greater threats to their stability. They were wrong. Chaos would outlive all those things, Chaos had crippled their Emperor long ago and Chaos would be the only power at the end of everything. He turned to his aide. The mysterious warrior had only recently pledged his support to the Crusade, but he had something Khastarax did not, and so for now, at least, the daemon prince had to humour his hated ally. “How much longer?” Khastarax snarled. “How much longer must I tolerate your presence here?” “Chaos alone knows, lord. But I am here and I shall do my level best to support your efforts,” said the hooded man next to the throne. “And you expect me to trust you?” the daemon grinned. “I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw you!” “Nonetheless you must learn to trust me,” said the aide. “Otherwise victory will be denied you, and the Imperium will triumph. Behold!” he shouted, voice suddenly raised. A globe of white light appeared before the hellish diorama that was Khastarax’s throne. Within the globe hovered the image of the crag and the four humans gathered about an Imperial flame-flare. “Your senses deceived you not, lord. The Imperium has evidently sent an advance force to intersect with you. They must be crushed without fail!” “Normally I
would concur,” Khastarax rumbled, “but why would the Imperium
send four warriors against thousands? There’s something devious afoot here,
and it isn’t you. Khorne can wait for blood a little while, until we find out
more about these mortals.” His fanged maw contorted into a smile of
sorts and the aide shivered. The only thing more disturbing than a Khorne daemon
was a Khorne daemon trying to scheme. There was something devious there, a lack
of integrity. The four followers of the Emperor were gathered around their pathetic fire, trying to grasp a few precious hours of sleep out on the hellish plains of Daizann. Gideon slept fitfully, his single eye closed tight against the daemonic landscape. Carravar tossed and turned nervously as the fading light from the volcanoes flickered over his cloaked shape. Mariana was supposedly keeping watch atop the highest peak of the crag; her form slumped in slumber against the rock. But Darius was awake, or at least he thought he was. He stood on the edge of the outcrop, unable to hold or control his thoughts, which squirreled around his head. The Chaos world seemed even more terrifying at night, the faded red light illuminating only the enormous mountains around the horizon in a dull twilight glow. Darius felt a cold wind blowing about him as he sat down on the very edge of the crag. His whole body was filled with an unpleasant sensation, as if somebody had walked across his grave, a cold fear that strangled his courage and determination. He felt himself slipping toward the edge, but then a heady heat began to throb about his heart. He slipped a hand inside his robe and drew out the Eldar spirit stone he’d been carrying since Moldion. The stone glowed with a pale blue light, the single rune it carried a darker shade. He sensed the stone growing in his mind until it filled the whole universe around him and the surface of Daizann was long gone. Looking around, he saw a familiar figure stepping out of the light. “Kryssia…” he breathed softly. “Who were you expecting?” the Howling Banshee laughed. “Khaela Mensha Khaine? The Immortal Emperor?” “Good question,” nodded Darius. “Where am I?” “In the spirit stone. You share this place with me and the Exarchs before me.” “Why?” he asked simply as she moved alongside him. “Your second choice draws nearer, Darius. We can sense a certain trend in your destiny. He should be explaining this…” “Who’s ‘he’?” “He’s me,” said Aryani. Darius leapt up and turned around, seeing nothing. “Aryani?” he gasped. “How’d you get here?” “I’m not actually here, Darius,” intoned the Farseer. “I’m an incarnation of Aryani from Kryssia’s memory. She remembers me as I died – broken and destroyed, so that’s what I am.” The Farseer stepped out of the shadows. He was in no better shape than he had been when he died. His armour was smashed open at the chest, blood trickling over the ornate wraithbone. The singing spear in his right hand was splintering in many places and broken off at the base, crackling faintly with the death-glow that surrounded him. “I can explain everything, but my time is limited. The Stone is dying, Darius. It doesn’t like being here on Daizann. It needs to be replaced in the Infinity Circuit on Biel-Tan before it dies altogether. The other Exarchs are channelling all their power into projecting me from Kryssia’s memory and keeping her personality intact.” “The Infinity Circuit?” Darius asked. “What’s that?” “The collective memory of our Craftworld,” said Aryani. “It would take too long to explain here, and time is the one thing I do not have. Your destiny, Darius, is among the most convoluted I have ever seen. You and Gideon are destined to be the end of Khastarax. The path will be hard and fraught with death and pain, and you can only win by making the greatest sacrifice of all.” His outline began to flicker. “No! There is too much at stake - ” and then he faded out altogether. Darius pounded the air where he had stood. Suddenly he realised that the coldness in his mind was gone. Aryani had left a little piece of himself behind, a core of hope that Darius had never thought to see. Kryssia laid one slender hand on his shoulder. “We can help you, Darius, but you have to do something for us,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Anything.” “Return us to Biel-Tan when this is over. In return we can invest in you a portion of our power. The Banshees of ten thousand lifetimes are assembled here, and they will aid you when you need them most. But every time you use our aid, time grows shorter. Every time we help you, many of us will die.” “You’re willing to die for me?” said Darius. “Think of it as investment. If some are sacrificed then some will live. If Khastarax steals us then we will all die.” “That’s inhuman!” he snapped. Kryssia smiled. “So are we.” Late that night, or possibly early the next morning, the four began their trek across the wasteland of Daizann. Carravar led them, force axe ready for any daemonic presence that might attack them. Mariana followed, neuro-shredder primed. Gideon and Darius were side by side at the rear, both engrossed in their own thoughts. Darius turned to his mentor. “Master?” said he. “What ails you, brother?” asked the older Marine. “I had another really strange dream last night.” Darius began to say. “Another dream about the Eldar on Moldion. I saw Kryssia again, and Aryani.” “Don’t speak of that!” said Gideon with a snarl. “I’d prefer not to be reminded of my own vision.” “Speaking of which…” Darius began to say. “It happened again last night, but – well, more so.” Gideon shook his head. “You know? More detailed, more intimidating.” “That is only to be expected,” said Inquisitor Carravar, traipsing back to join them. “We come close to the heart of the Black Crusade and it is only to be expected that your visions will grow more perilous. Trust in the Emperor. I feel certain that He would not abandon us here. There is hope.” “Oh really?” asked Darius sardonically. “May I ask where from?” “From the Imperium!” Carravar frowned at him. “Before we left the Absolution I set up a homing beacon. They’ll have found the ruin by now and they’ll be able to trace us from there, with any luck. That’s not counting the transmissions I made en route to the Inquisition. No, there will be aid from the Imperium yet, so stop worrying!” The robed Inquisitor pounded off, his spirit renewed. Gideon shook his head again. “Mad,” said the old
Templar bitterly. “Quite, quite mad.” The base of Battlefleet Ultima was huge. Dwarfing the moon of Kar Duniash that it was anchored to, the immense space station was a quarter the size of a Terran-size planet, and it showed. Vast spacedocks, capable of holding twenty cruisers each, surrounded the central tower that was the control complex for the Imperium’s strongest bastion in this turbulent sector of space. Immense weapon arrays sprang out of the starfort at key points, overshadowing the spacedocks, the vulnerable fuel pipelines and the gigantic column of metal that held it fast to the surface of the small planetoid. Often the great mass caused a solar eclipse on the green planet that hung in space nearby, its own shadow added to that of Kar Duniash’s moon. Not that the citizens minded. They were all Imperial Navy personnel, a whole planetary population dedicated to the organisation of the sector’s space fleet. And they were on battle footing. Lined up in their racks were the cruisers, two hundred in all, while frigates darted about amidst them and the twelve battleships of the fleet hung menacingly over the station in their own, much larger docking areas. The whole grand structure was ablaze with activity, Navy clerks and ciphers dashing about its manifold corridors preparing the battlefleet for launch. The crews were being shipped aboard their vessels and the captains granted their instructions. And in the very centre of it all, the conference chamber deep in the heart of the command tower, the twelve Fleet Admirals were gathered to hear the words of their overall commander Warmaster Jovis. Nine men and three women in the stiff high collars of the Fleet, starch-pressed trousers and gleaming medallions, caps held just so in their proud, stiff hands. The twelve were standing behind twelve seats, each marked with the insignia of their battlegroup and the name of the Admiral who commanded it. The doors whirred open and Jovis emerged. A short, stocky man with a rolling sailor’s stride and neatly trimmed grey hair crowning a wide, red face, brown eyes steady and confident as they surveyed the room. He sat down in the command chair and motioned his subordinates to do likewise, then began his briefing. “My Lords and Ladies, Admirals of the Fleet, let us begin. As you know, the entire strength of our fleet has been placed on standby due to the threat presented to the sector by the gathering barbarian Orks of Golgotha and the surrounding worlds. Now we are to make good that preparation to face a foe no less deadly and armed with the power of fear itself. Chaos. Now,” he proclaimed, his gaze moving, clocking each stunned face, “I need not tell men and women of your rank the threat that Chaos presents. We are not ignorant crewmen but enlightened commanders of the highest order, kept informed of all but the highest discoveries of the Inquisition.” He pressed a control and the conference desks split apart, his own moving some metres away from the two semi-ellipses of commanders. The floor panels glided smoothly back to reveal the hologram projector beneath them, which began to buzz as its circuits were forced into life. Jovis tapped another key and a map of the entire Segmentum, at least three-fifths of the Galaxy, burgeoned into existence. “As you can see, the recent spurt of Ork activity in the Armageddon sub-sector has drained our resources to near-breaking point, and only the presence of most of the Black Templars and Salamanders Chapters of Space Marines prevented a breach of Imperial space. As it stands, most of our forces are concentrated on Armageddon, with just the twelve battlegroups represented by you yourselves still on standby. Now, while the Orks have been contained, it has resulted in a drain on resources in a ten-thousand light year radius.” Another button pressed, a dull blue circle flickering on about the beleaguered world of Armageddon, the surrounding sector of which was coloured red. “On the northern fringes of this zone, a formidable Chaos power has been gathering strength. Already five systems have been captured and another seventeen crippled by Chaos raids, which are believed to be the precursor to a full-scale invasion on a scale unseen in this sector for a millennium.” “Pardon me for asking,” said one of the veteran commanders, “but what exactly can we do? You said yourself, my lord Warmaster, that forces are thinly stretched as it is. What precisely is the strength of these Chaos forces?” A murmur of agreement from around the room. Nothing more. “We have little information. Suffice to say they are at least half the size again of our current supply of ships, carrying an unknown number of troops.” Jovis shifted uneasily. “There is very little we could do unaided, save respond to any threat. However, it is fortunate that the High Lords of Terra have seen fit to grant us reinforcements and informed leadership in the form of troops from two Chapters of Space Marines, a full order of Adepta Sororitas and three regiments of Imperial Guard, bringing our total strength to?” He waved his adjutant forward. The commodore coughed as he spoke to the gathered Admirals. “Err… five hundred and twenty-three vessels representative of all classes, five thousand Imperial Guard troopers and associated equipment, divided into five Armoured Companies and thirteen Infantry Companies plus Auxiliaries, two hundred Sisters of Battle of the Order of the Bloody Rose and nine hundred and fifty Space Marines from the Dark Angels and Black Templars Chapters.” He stepped back into the shadows again. Jovis raised his hands in salute, turning to the door. “My lords and ladies of the Fleet, I give you our commander-in-chief for this mission, Marshal Crassus of the Black Templars!” Twelve left hands snapped salutes as the power-armoured giant strode in. Crassus was a redoubtable figure, no doubt about it. Standing eight feet tall, power-armoured and armed with the best weapons his Chapter had to offer, Crassus’ wide, moustachioed face was one that his enemies learned to fear. Dark blond hair swept back about his temples, balding on top, giving him a fervent, zealous appearance, like a militant monk, a moustachioed upper lip between a thin, tight mouth and an oft-broken nose. The rest of his face was composed of ice-paled skin – evidently the mighty Marshal hailed from a frozen Fenris-type planet. There was something cold about him, something emotionless, save for his brown eyes. They were alight with faith and hate for Chaos and all its followers. All in all, he appeared a worthy warleader for the Templars. Behind him, uninvited but tagging along nonetheless, was a Dark Angel in his own dark green armour. No less imposing for all his lesser height, Master Gorian had a stern, aquiline face, the hair invisible under the hood he wore, his eyes two glinting flinty shards of greyness. The two Space Marines halted on either side of the Warmaster’s chair, powerful and yet deferential to the human between them. Jovis got up and produced the command emblem, the skull-and-lightning symbol of the Imperial Navy. The small magnetic emblem clipped itself to the chest-plate of Crassus’ power armour with a muffled clank. The Space Marine straightened and took the command chair, Jovis sitting down on his right and Gorian on his left. Crassus spoke, and when he spoke his voice was loud and confident, inspiring and dogmatic. “My lord and lady Admirals, Warmaster Jovis, Master Gorian! The time for battle is upon us! Our scoutships have returned from the frontier with the galactic core and they inform us that Chaos is gathering its strength there. We shall strike first; with all the tools of war the Emperor has granted us, and the advantage of shock. We shall break the Black Crusade before it begins, and we shall do it in this fashion.” He pressed controls on the desk and the hologram zoomed in on the section of the Segmentum closest to the galactic core. The systems shown were shaded blue for Imperial and red for Chaos. The Imperial planets in the sector were forty – the Chaos twenty-two, Moldion and Daizann among them. “Daizann appears to be the staging post for the crusade, a planet obscured for millennia by a permanent warp-storm. The storm has begun to clear. My plan is as follows.” As he spoke he manipulated the controls and images of Imperial ships started to move about the screen. “We wait for the Crusade to reach full strength and prepare for system evacuation. As they begin to load their troops, we strike. While loading they are vulnerable, fellow commanders, they are at their weakest. Once a route to Daizann is clear, we attack the surface and destroy the Chaos Champion who controls the Crusade. Without a guiding influence, the natural hate of the Chaos forces for each other will see them fragment and split apart from their compatriots.” “Pretty high-risk strategy,” said one of the twelve Admirals. “If the Chaos forces are already loaded, or if they’ve already left the system and we meet them at full strength then we’re doomed.” “Indeed,” said
Crassus thoughtfully. “But it is our only hope. If we wait too long then they
will be ready. If we strike fast then they may not be. We have one chance. All
in favour?” Seven for, four against and one abstinent from their show of
hands. “Then it is agreed. We strike now.” The council went on
long into the night. On
the other side of the sector, dawn was breaking over the surface of Daizann. It
spilled across the landscape and illuminated the spires of rock, rivers of blood
and the mounds of skulls that adorned the plains. And it also illuminated four
figures trudging grimly across the plains, among the spires and rivers and
cairns of skulls. Gideon was pacing in an unusually dour way, head hanging low
between his broad shoulders, no longer showing the slightest interest in their
surroundings. As for Darius, he was in no position to notice this. Mentally
tormented by his visions and thoughts and senses of the landscape about him, the
Neophyte was being pushed to breaking point. Only the thought of Khastarax
pushed him onwards toward the fortress of Chaos. Only the thought of Kryssia
gave him any hope of getting back. Within the great fortress of Chaos Khastarax sat unmoving on his brass throne and stared into the image. Angrily he clenched a taloned fist and pounded on one arm of the seat. His aide materialised out of nowhere. “They grow despondent, see? They feel their quest is vain.” “But of course it is!” the hooded man whispered soothingly. “None of these weaklings has the power to best you!” “But I want them to survive. I want them to reach me! There is no honour without blood!” Khastarax pounded the armrest again, his face contorted even further than its normal snarling expression. “You want revenge for your previous defeat. That is obvious. But you need to learn patience, master,” soothed the hood. “They will not give up, their faith will not permit it. They will come for you and you will be rid of them.” “I WAS NOT DEFEATED!” the daemon prince roared. “It was a minor setback, nothing more. We must look to the present. We must look to keeping them interested.” He hauled himself up, spreading his wings and storming out of the chamber. “But of course!” the aide sniggered to himself in the empty throneroom. “The endgame will be all the sweeter for it.” He moved his hand in a strange, roundabout kind of way. An image hovered in the air, an image of a Chaos Space Marine in black power armour wrapped around in a dark blue robe similar to that worn by the aide. The Marine in the picture nodded his greetings and the aide spoke to him. “Malachi, we have a task for you at long last. Out there on the plains are a group of followers of the Emperor.” “The false god? What are his worshippers doing here?” whispered Malachi, voice distorted by the spell. “They come to – can it be?” “To attempt the destruction of our master,” said the aide. “You are to go to them and bring them to the chasm. There we shall learn their purpose, and then…” “Are you thinking of the Soulbinding?” asked Malachi, angling his helmeted head. “That I am. The truth
will out.” Malachi nodded once and his image disappeared. On the other side of the galaxy at the Kar Duniash base, the assembled fleet of the Imperial Navy, joined by the might of the Space Marines, hung in space, a vast armada of metal poised to fight. But moving among the huge cruisers and rapid fighters was an unmistakeable shape – a Dauntless class light cruiser, with modifications. Painted a glossy black, up-gunned and ridiculously well shielded, the ship’s emblem proclaimed it the property of the Inquisition’s Ordo Malleus – the Emperor’s daemon hunters. The Dauntless swung to a halt opposite the base and sent a single, bland, mechanised transmission. Broadly, it stated that the Inquisition’s role in this matter was purely one of recovery – the truth was restricted to the three Inquisitors who sat around the captain’s chair aboard the cruiser. Crassus replied by welcoming the Inquisitors into the fleet. Now all the major organisations of the Imperium were present, save one. The Assassins. Crassus thanked the Emperor they weren’t. He feared them, preferring to trust in a bolter-blazing charge than in guile and stealth. All were present now, the launch could go ahead. He opened a comm.-link channel and spoke the simple words. “For the Emperor!” ++For the Emperor!++
came the reply from half a thousand throats, the captains ready. First the
scoutships, then the cruisers, then the escorts who would bring up the rear,
powered up and formed into their battle-line. The fleet was ready. The
Emperor’s vengeance sped into the warp. Operation Doomsday had begun. Gideon scrambled down the slope and stood on the edge of the river. This was normal. What wasn’t normal was what was in the river. The river flowed red and thick, a stench of viscera in the air. It was a river of blood. Darius jumped down to land opposite him and his face contorted in disgust. “I don’t believe it!” he spat. “It’s…” “It is Chaos.” Gideon stated coldly. “It is evil and sin and immorality in congealed form. And we have to cross it.” “Cross that?” said Darius. “I’d rather die!” “You may get your chance!” laughed a voice nearby. Both Templars whirled around. Sitting a little further down the bank was a man who was unmistakeably a Space Marine. A Space Marine in archaic armour, with exposed chest cables, studded left shoulder and left greave and a hefty helmet with a pointed, brutal visor. The armour was jet-black, and on its shoulder bore the symbol of a winged sword picked out in white. The emblem of the Dark Angels Chapter! Gideon stepped forward and saluted. The Marine replied with a casual wave of his hand. “Please, brother Gideon, not so formal! Out here on the edge of the Imperium order and routine have much less meaning.” His voice was soft and carried a low susurration, but seemed affable enough. Darius craned around, trying to get a closer look. He appeared unscarred by Chaos – no horns or obvious mutations, no Mark on his armour, just long deep chainaxe scars in the plasteel. Gideon glared warily at him. “Name yourself!” he challenged. Darius nudged him in the ribs. “Master!” he whispered. “Not so aggressive! He seems harmless enough.” “He sits out here on a Chaos world, without any obvious sign of deviance, unharmed, and you say he’s harmless? The daemonic denizens of this world should be all over him by now.” Gideon replied. He raised his voice again to challenge. “Name yourself, brother Marine!” “Gladly,” replied
the black-armoured warrior. “Brother Malachi, of the Dark Angels Legion.” Gideon was staggered. The Legions were the original Space Marine organisations, of unlimited size, not like the one-thousand-strong Chapters of the forty-first millennium (a regulation which the Black Templars do not honour), and had been disbanded after the chaos of the Horus Heresy ten thousand years before. This Marine was ten thousand years old! Darius took the opportunity to question Malachi a little. “Forgive me for asking, brother Malachi, but how are you able to walk this world unassailed by Chaos?” asked the Black Templar. “My faith shields me from any devilment.” Malachi replied solemnly. Darius wasn’t surprised. He knew little of the Dark Angels, save that they were a pious Chapter and presumably had been a pious Legion. Had he known a little more history, he would have been wary. Had he been a Dark Angel, he would have attacked Malachi on sight. “How’d you wind up here?” said Darius, attempting a second question. “During a battle with the forces of Chaos I was stolen from my brothers and hurled into the void of the warp – when I came to I found myself here.” Darius stared at him. Could it be he had no idea that ten thousand years had passed, that he hailed from a time all but forgotten by the bulk of the Imperium? For his part, Malachi was cautious. He was being careful not to lie directly, instead telling his story semi-truthfully, altering the perspective. His faith did not lie with the Emperor, and his battle ‘with’ the forces of Chaos had been a closer association than the Templar would accept. And as for his twaddle about not knowing the time that had passed… Malachi had ventured out of the warp on clandestine missions for his master many times before he arrived on Daizann. Gideon turned back as Carravar and Mariana clambered down the bank and stopped short at the sight of the Marine in arcane armour. Malachi laughed again. “Sister-assassin Mariana and Lord Inquisitor Carravar! At last the little party is complete!” the Dark Angel intoned mirthfully. “And now I can explain myself. I know a little of the world on which you find yourselves. I know where the Chaos powers here are gathering their strength, and I am prepared to part with this information.” “For what price?” asked Carravar before the others could stop him. “Simply that I am approved to join your party, until I feel the time is right for me to leave.” Malachi heaved his armoured bulk upright, the bare cables humming in his chest. It was then that someone finally realised. “How do you know who we are?” Mariana asked of the mysterious Dark Angel in the obsolete armour. “I am not without sight in the invisible world. It has spoken of nought but your coming for some time now.” Again he was telling the truth, or at least a truth. Malachi’s reward from the power he served had not been a physical mark but a psychic one, the power of prescience. He only hoped the Inquisitor wouldn’t notice until it was too late. “Well, sir,” Carravar began, “it appears we are at your disposal. Join us, until you see it fit to part.” “Excellent!” the Dark Angel bellowed. Striding along the slope to join them, they realised that his chainsword and boltgun belonged to an equally archaic period of history, the curved blade of the chainsword and smooth lines on the gun betraying an old design forgotten by most of the Imperium. “We need not cross the river of filth here – further downstream is a bridge that is almost unguarded. We can make it over there, or carry on along this bank if you prefer.” “Aren’t we going to the fortress, then?” asked Mariana sweetly. Malachi grasped for a lie. “There’s no need. The Crusade is being co-ordinated from those mountains, over there.” He waved an arm vaguely upstream. “You seem knowledgeable about the ways of sin.” Gideon accused, moving between Malachi and Mariana. “There is little else for me to learn in this place,” retorted Malachi. “Perhaps it is you who does not know enough?” “You don’t like him, do you?” Darius asked of his master as they made their slow way along the bank, keeping low to avoid any Chaos patrol. “No. It’s more distrust,” said Gideon. “I fear a single warrior with the knowledge and seeming strength of three, and I wonder at his survival.” “Do you really think he’s been here for ten thousand years and doesn’t know it?” asked Darius. “If that’s true, I’m an Ork.” Gideon said with a smile. “I think we should watch ‘brother’ Malachi, that’s all I’m saying.” “I agree. But he knows where we’re headed, which is more than we do. We’ll stick with him.” Carravar had joined the conversation now and was making his contribution. “But keep your weapons ready, brother Templars. Trust in the Emperor.” “Trust in Him, and
not in the benevolence of darkness,” responded the Black Templars together. Four
more days passed, four long and terrible days, and still no sign of any Chaos
presence. Darius was puzzled at this – surely here of all places Chaos would
be everywhere? Gideon’s attitude was more dogmatic. If no heretics were to be
found, then all the better, since they needed to travel undiscovered. Carravar
just didn’t care, and Mariana had been silent since they met Malachi. She
seemed to have something on her mind concerning the Dark Angel. It was on the
night of the fourth day that everything started to go wrong. They had made camp for the night in a hollow cave in the wall of the river, the dim glow of the bloody ichor illuminating their refuge, when the sound of booted feet became apparent, vibrating through the soil. Malachi, who was on watch, appeared to have seen nothing and heard nothing until the bolter shells started flying. Gideon dragged himself upright, snarling, his powerfist charged for battle. Sticking his head up over the riverbank, he saw five black-armoured figures swathed in deep blue robes crossing the plain, all armed with boltguns that blazed away into the river. Heart sinking, he realised that Malachi was nowhere to be seen. He dropped back onto the bank and leant into the cave. “Chaos ambush!” he hissed. “Looks like they know we’re here!” “Looks that way,” agreed Mariana, swinging herself around and arming the neuro-shredder. “Ready?” “Ready.” Carravar and Darius both nodded. “Then we stand
here!” shouted Gideon, leaping back onto the riverbank and firing up over the
edge. A scream – the clank of armour falling to the floor – the harsh
chatter of boltgun fire. Darius jumped out too, drawing his combat knife and
pulling out a frag grenade. Biting out the pin, he hurled it over the edge. The
bang was trimmed with a muffled cry – he’d hit something. Then the tread of
boots grew faster and suddenly one of the enemies was there among them, an
archaic chainsword buzzing in the night. Mariana crouched in the shadowy recess
of the cave, trying to target the falling shape. Through her enhanced
night-vision, she could see that the attacker was a Space Marine, in the same
design of ancient armour as Malachi, but more baroque and decorated with
flame-like Chaos symbols. The chainsword rose, ready to strike Gideon’s head,
while the free hand gripped his throat. Mariana fired. The Chaos Space Marine
screamed, his eyepieces shining silver in the red light, his mind being torn
apart by the dread power of the weapon. But before he’d hit the ground his
body disappeared from sight in a hail of black shadow, like an explosion of
darkness, the corpse tearing itself apart and scattering the pieces to the
winds. Darius was crouched
beneath the bank edge, scrabbling in his pouch for a bolt pistol clip, too
sleepy to react properly to his master’s struggle with the Chaos Marine
who’d grabbed him from behind. His head rose over the edge. Curiously, the
other foes were not firing. Five of them still stood near the riverbank –
three with chainswords, two with boltguns. The three leapt in unison, landing in
a rough triangle around Gideon, their weapons rising and falling as the old
Templar laid about him with his fists. The other two halted on the edge of the
river, each pulling out a photon flash flare, the distinctive bulky
stun-grenades obvious even in this light. Darius’ combat knife spun up through
the air, inexpertly thrown. It clanged off a helmet, serving only to attract
attention to him. One of the Chaos followers turned toward him and raised its
boltgun, firing a well-aimed headshot that exploded not in his body, but
immediately above it, stunning him with the noise and the shrapnel. His last
vision was of more armoured shapes moving out of the darkness, and then his
vision blurred and he could see nothing. When
he came to, he was alone and in total darkness. He stretched out his hands to
left and right – they felt only damp stone. Standing up, he found himself to
be in a tiny stone chamber, probably about eight feet high but only four square
on the floor. He squatted despondently in the minute chamber, feeling for his
weapons. None. Alone, disarmed and lost. Not a bad start to his crusade against
Chaos. Darius squatted there and bewailed his lot silently in his mind, over and
over, passing away the timeless eternity. Then the light came – a door opening to reveal a grim twilight world, lit in a strange blue-grey colour. Standing in the doorway was a menacing robed silhouette, obscure in the sudden light. Although not bright, after the-Emperor-knew how many hours of darkness it was blinding. Blinking, Darius was aware of armoured limbs grabbing him and hauling him along, throwing him into another, much larger room. The walls were stone, but that wasn’t much use since he was in the centre of the room, in a large, iron-barred cage with a hefty iron door locked from the outside. There was a gap of at least three metres between the walls and the cage, so no hope there. The door looked to Darius far too solid to breach without weaponry. Looking around this new prison, he beheld that he was sharing the chamber with Gideon and Carravar, both of whom were also disarmed and unarmoured, clad in their robes of rest and office respectively. Darius rubbed his aching arms. “What happened back there?” he muttered, almost to himself. “That Chaos patrol stunned us with their damn photon grenades,” Gideon growled, “and when we came to we found ourselves in here. No sign of Mariana, but we know she’s alive.” “How?” “Do you think they’re so stupid, or skilful enough, to attempt capture of an Assassin? Photon grenades don’t work on them. No, she’s escaped, you can count on it.” “What about Malachi? Dead?” “No chance!” Gideon spat into the corner. “Run off! He was part of the attack, I’m sure of it. They couldn’t have found us so quickly without help.” “Aye,” said Carravar hopelessly. “You were right, Gideon, and I was wrong. Malachi was a bad choice of ally, I can see that now.” He shook his head. “And now we’re probably going to be sacrificed to bring good luck to the invasion.” “Don’t talk like that!” Darius snapped at him. “If you want to die then fine, but we’ll never give up, right, master?” “Right!” said Gideon. “There’s a way out of this, we just need to find out how.” “You won’t have the chance!” laughed a voice from the shadows. The huge door of the main chamber opened to reveal two black-armoured Chaos Marines. Both wore Dark Angels emblems as well as their Chaos decorations. Darius gazed at them bemusedly. “They’re Dark Angels…” “And Chaos followers too!” Gideon finished for him. “How I don’t know, but this whole place is guarded by them. Not a Bezerker in sight.” “What is this place?” Darius continued. “The Chasm of Lost
Souls.” Darius listened in shock to Gideon’s description of the battle, the terrible leaping shapes of the Chaos Marines surrounding and downing him while the photon grenades had rendered him blind. And all this while they were herded, disarmed, down the corridors of the vile pit of cold, nameless fear they had been imprisoned in. The blue-grey nightlights of the stone tunnels were, in their way, even more intimidating than the red hellfire of the lands outside. On and on through the void they walked, conscious of the boltguns pointed at their undefended backs. A door appeared before them, black, cool and impossibly tall. One of the Dark Angels spoke a word of power and the door rose into the roof with a sound of stone grinding on stone. There was a cold blast of air, a smell of incense and then they were forced into a vast cavern, carved into the vague semblance of a temple. Pools of green glowing liquid stood around the chamber, casting a dim radiance into the darkness above. The rest of the room was bare, save for ancient banners hanging from the walls and the occasional statue of some robed Chaos Champion. At the very end, a raised dais stood between two of the green pools, a dais that held a book and a man, standing stock-still, facing away from them towards a great shimmering arch of energy that hovered on the far wall. Gideon moaned and twisted his head away, closing his eyes, as they fell on the shining column of Chaos. Darius squinted to see what had frightened his master. Nothing! Nothing but silent light on stone and the faint smell of a cool winter’s day intruding on the stale air of the cave. “What is it?” he whispered. “What do you see?” “Everything!” said a voice, a voice that emanated from the dais in the centre. The figure turned around. It wore black power armour and a dark blue robe, an arcane, forward-sweeping helmet and archaic versions of Imperial weaponry. And it was a familiar shape. “Malachi.” Darius hissed. “You treacherous sinner! How could you turn us over to these filth?” “I lead these filth, little man,” the Dark Angel laughed. And dozens more laughed with him. From out of the shadows came the Dark Angels, about twenty of them, all in the same implausibly old-fashioned armour as their leader. And with them came others, also power armoured but only partly, for the simple reason that they were too tall! All six of these others were about three metres tall, their long, gangling limbs clicking as they strode among their fellow traitors. They were skeletally thin, with tattered flesh and fragments of armour hanging from their bones, and unarmed – although their bony fists looked as if they could strike with all the force of Chaos itself, and they stank with the reek of death. Darius couldn’t help himself. His head spasmed forward and he vomited over the stone floor. Malachi laughed again, evidently satisfied with his discomfiture. “What’s wrong, little monk?” he cackled. “Can’t stomach facing Chaos’ chosen! Ha! You are feeble, and so are your ‘brothers’, those children that call themselves Space Marines. You have no right to the name!” “More right than you, traitor!” Darius yelled back at him. The Neophtye arched his head back and spat. His most recent implant had been the gland beneath the tongue that enabled a Marine to spit a weak but toxic acid – the last line of defence and the only weapon of a Marine disarmed. The glob of hissing spittle flew straight into Malachi’s chest, striking the winged sword emblem that was emblazoned there. The Chaos Marine looked down, disgusted. “Don’t do that
again, Darius,” he warned, scraping it off with the back of his hand. “You
may find me to be a little less hospitable next time.” He pointed toward
Darius with one hand and motioned two of the tall mutants forward. “Him first.
Then the old one, then the Inquisitor. Do it!” As the monsters stepped toward
Darius, Malachi jumped off the dais and gestured toward the wall. “Behold,
little monk, the Mirror of Souls! Composed of pure warp energy! At the moment it
shows nothing, but soon it will be powered and charged with your innermost
thoughts and emotions! A simple ritual is all it takes, Darius, to consume your
soul and expose it to the scrutiny of Chaos! And what the mirror knows, I know.
I’ll soon know what brought you to this place and I’ll know what you intend
to do here.” The two fiends grasped his arms and hoisted his feet off the
ground, their charnel stench filling his nostrils and causing him to retch
again. They carried him across the chamber and laid him on the dais almost
reverentially, their skull-like faces turned toward the Mirror. Darius was
forced to his knees and to bow his head as if in prayer, his head forced down by
a huge gaunt claw. The fingers dug deep into his neck. Malachi raised his hands
and prostrated himself before the Mirror, beginning to chant in a low
susurration that echoed around the chamber. The other Angels of Chaos caught up
the twisted sound, resonant and grotesque, their own voices added to the tumult
of noise. The giant mutants began a horrible keening cry, swaying their bony
heads from side to side in time with the incantation Malachi uttered. The talons
about Darius’ neck pulled his head up again, forcing him to stare into the
glowing mirror. The green light in the pools intensified, casting their sharp
illumination across the scene. Within the mirror an image began to form, blurry,
but recognisable as the planet Mira on which Darius’ life had begun eighteen
years before. The mutants released his arms, and he clutched them to his heart
as if grasping for some hope, some possibility of freedom. They scrabbled at his
clothing as he prayed madly for salvation and then they tightened around the
spirit stone. And suddenly Darius wasn’t on his knees before the Mirror, but exploding upwards in a shower of red light. From his outstretched hands sprang two blades formed of the fire that raced through his spirit, restoring his vitality and redoubling his strength. An aura of the same flickering redness shone about him, the mutants’ hands snapping apart as the fire burned at their corrupted flesh. Darius landed opposite the creatures and crouched, swords held low. For a moment all was silent, then the two possessed shambled toward him, their hands raised to crush his skull. The swords flickered and flew out of his hands, two shining lights speeding into the monstrous beings that advanced on him. Fire flickered about their heads and they staggered and died. A glowing figure seemed to materialise within Darius, within and yet without, clearly visible, a slender figure with two swords that matched exactly his movements. The blades reappeared in his hands. Malachi stared at him from the other side of the pools, his eyes wide and frightened. Then they narrowed and he cried harshly. “Slay him, my
guardians! Crush him!” The other four
Possessed Marines began their dreadful advance, intent on butchering Darius. The
circle closed around him, but he wasn’t there! Instead he was already behind
them, the twin swords lashing into a spine and hacking away Chaos-eroded flesh,
flooring the first. The blazing aura burst into flames again as his foot lashed
into the knee of another, breaking away bone and knocking the beast down. The
other two mutants backed off, their limbs waving wildly as they changed
direction. Malachi was by now vertical and chanting, his hands moving rapidly as
he weaved some vile Chaos magic. The pools flashed bright green, there was a
sound like thunder and suddenly the two giants were each wielding a great
scimitar that glowed faintly in the dim light. The first awkward shape hoisted
its weapon up, bringing it around for a swing. Darius jumped up, barrelling into
the monster and smashing its armoured torso open. As he fell again in a shower
of bones the second sword fell, embedding itself in his back. Darius screamed
and the flames around him died, his weapons fading away into nothing. The insane
laughter of Malachi filled the room as his creation lurched over the prone
Neophyte. Darius grinned. Pushing himself up on one hand, he whirled around,
both feet impacting into the beast’s leg together. It screamed and fell to the
floor, wildly waving its bony legs in the hope of catching its attacker. Blue
light coruscated around it and a shape of flame shot out into the chamber roof
and was gone. The beast was slain. Malachi stood motionless, in shock that his
guards were defeated. But his fellow Chaos followers were not so distracted.
They advanced on Darius, unarmed but well armoured and strong enough to break
bones in a single blow. Three of them were marching confidently across the floor
when a fourth suddenly exploded into action, a knife of pure white light
springing from its hand and scything through them one by one. Her disguise
dropped, Mariana crouched, drawing a bead on those holding Gideon. She fired the
neuro-shredder and the Chaos Marines dropped. With a cry of rage the old Marine
leapt upright, grabbing a boltgun from a fallen foe and opening up into the
small groups of Chaos Marines. Carravar too was moved into action. Hands
together, he whispered some arcane words, then spread his arms wide. Cleansing
flame jetted out from between them into a group of Chaos Space Marines, who
screamed and died as the psychic power burnt out their bodies and souls.
Chanting praise to the Emperor, the Inquisitor charged into one of the enemy,
his lips already forming the words of the Iron Arm prayer-spell. His limbs
glowed with righteous strength, his fists were two balls of incandescence.
Mariana crouched in the shadows, switching on a remote control at her belt.
Pressing a key, she was rewarded with a vast explosion as the frag grenades
she’d planted earlier went off simultaneously, blasting open the pools of
ichor in great towers of plasma. Chaos Marines screamed as the discharge hit
them, vaporising armour and flesh alike. Darius crouched by the body of one of the mutants, shocked at the results of his prayer. The Exarchs had done what they could and made him strong enough to break the grip of the mutants. Now he had to finish this on his own. He scrabbled in the monsters’ armour and pulled out a krak grenade. He bit out the pin and hurled it over the dais at Malachi. There was a huge crack as the explosive detonated and he heard the sorcerer fall. Grinning madly, Darius dived over the dais and pounded down to where the Chaos Marine lay. He wrenched Malachi’s helmet open and glared at the hideous, pallid, dead-looking face inside, the dark, deranged eyes and the scaled scalp. Malachi stared into the eyes of death, knowing that his god’s gift had failed him at the last. He raised a hand and moved his lips, a wordless cry for mercy spilling from them. Darius drew back his fist and narrowed his eyes, then let it fall. Malachi smiled – and then he snarled. His hand flew to his belt and pulled out the small, bulky shape of a hand flamer. The gout of flame roared out over Darius’ unprotected body, a monstrous heat overwhelming him, driving him back. His burning robes only encumbered him and he could feel the fire flaying off his skin as he rolled to the floor. Malachi jumped, landing with a foot on either side of the prone Neophyte, face scowling in rage, chainsword up and powered. “Weakling!” the Chaos sorcerer spat at him. “I shall be your death!” That hateful, dead visage contorted in triumph – and then exploded red, splattering blood over Darius. The power-armoured body fell on him, extinguishing the last of the flames. Gazing up, Darius saw his master and mentor standing over him. Gideon hoisted him out and up onto his shoulder and he heard the older Templar whisper softly. “No pity, no remorse, no fear. You forgot the rules, Darius, and you have paid the price.”
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