Space Marine Legends: Azrael
Gav Thorpe
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Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
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About the Author
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Warhammer 40,000
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
‘Forget your past life. From this day on you are simply a Dark Angel – nothing else is of consequence. The Chapter is all that matters.’
Date Ident: Unknown
Blood on the snow.
He remembers it pooling crimson against the white, crystals of ice melting. The wind kept at bay by the tall cliffs, leaving calm and quiet for the drip-drip-drip of emptying life fluid to sound impossibly loud in his ears.
The head had belonged to a Borsginian, his plaited hair caked in dried blood, pierced nose flattened by the blow that had knocked him down. His throat had been parted by the axe strike that had followed.
The head sits atop the third pole of defeated foes, crowning seven others below it. He steps back, admiring the battlework of the past year since he was old enough to join the hird. Twenty-four foes, all dead by his hand. He remembers each one and smiles at the recollection. Raiders defeated, guards slain, warriors bested.
A shout from the fires at the head of the valley draws his attention back to the others. He has nearly forgotten that tonight the elders will issue a pronouncement. He is to be confirmed as successor to the leadership of their people, to become chieftain when his father dies. Twenty-four heads prove that the blood is strong, that the line of Vangar the Bloodwoven still deserve to lead the Gothra.
His name is called, almost lost as the storm strengthens. The clouds are darkening rapidly, the snows coming thicker and faster. The light of the fires starts to dim as the sun dips below the cliff tops.
There is drinking and feasting. The raid against the Borsgini brought back much-needed meat, cheese and even fresh milk.
For a moment, trudging through the old snow while fresh fall flutters down, he wonders again if there is another way. What if the Gothra gave the Borsgini iron instead of sheathing it in their bellies? And the Borsgini gave back the product of their herds in return?
His father scorned the idea of trade. Lean times, he had said, make for poor bargains. The Gothra had only their sword-arms to negotiate with, and that kept their neighbours honest enough and the store-tents full.
He is greeted by accepting smiles and nods as he enters the circle of warriors around the greatest fire. The elders are impassive. Faces carved by age and harsh weather look at him silently; their pale eyes reflect the dancing flames.
Thunder splits the sky.
Not thunder, he learns a heartbeat later when the roar continues, drawn out and increasing in temper. The others look to the skies and his gaze follows theirs. Fire burns in the clouds. Three red sparks turn slowly about the camp of the Gothra.
There is commotion about the fires. More shouting, calling the names of the others recently ascended to warriorhood, demanding they come forth from the other fires.
‘The stars have brought the war-angels again!’ cries Demetha, her voice cracking with emotion, long white hair whipping like serpents about her head. ‘Set forth our sons for their judgement!’
The youths of the Gothra race out into the darkness, following the gleam of the war-angels’ iron birds as they descend towards the proving grounds at the e
nd of the valley. The adults watch them leave, stern-faced, knowing that none will return alive, though the bodies of the weak will be found in the morning.
‘Not you.’ His father’s hand on his arm stops him as he moves to follow the other sons of Gothra. ‘You are my successor. The tribe needs you.’
‘Unhand me, father. It is my right.’
‘You are not chieftain yet,’ his father snarls. ‘I am. And my word is law. And my word is no.’
He wrenches his arm free and turns his back, taking a step after the other youths swiftly disappearing into the blizzard. He hears the creak of leather but does not turn in time to stop the blow that crashes against the back of his head. He falls, dazed, but the ice cold of the snow on his face rouses him quickly as his father’s calloused hands grab his furs.
He rolls, pulling his father down into the snow with him.
They tumble apart and both rise to a crouch. His father is between him and the proving grounds, his axe in hand, held as a club with the cover still on the blade.
‘Listen to me, boy,’ he growls. ‘Our people need you. I cannot lead forever and you are my only child.’
He moves quickly, dodging past the axe handle, his booted foot slamming into the knee of his father, snapping bone. His father topples in a fountain of snow, the axe falling from his hand as he clasps his broken leg. At any other time, the injury might not be fatal, but it is the heart of darkwinter. The tribe have to move on to the next raiding territory. There will be no stragglers; no food will be wasted on those that will only become a burden.
‘This is how I serve our people!’
He sets off down the valley and his father’s bitter words follow him.
‘Traitor! They’ll kill you!’
The youth walks into the swirling snow, the cries of his father falling on deaf ears while the lights ahead grow brighter.
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The Chapter serf’s eyes glistened and his lips quivered with suppressed shock. His whole body trembled as he waited for Grand Master Azrael’s permission to return to his position at the communications bay of the Penitent Warrior. Azrael regarded him without thought for several seconds, his mind blank, robbed of inspiration by a moment that left him shocked and numb.
‘Very well, Artisane,’ he managed to say. The serf fled back to his bench, to the comfort and shared grief of his companions.
Nobody else on the bridge had heard yet, each engrossed in their own affairs and duties. The battle-barge was poised above the world of Rhamiel and was one of many ships in escort to the Rock, its complement of First Company veterans standing ready to respond to their commanders’ next words.
His Chapter aide, Delefont, had his back to the Grand Master. The unaugmented human discussed some detail of navigation with the manoeuvres team. Sergeant Belial, second in command, was at the position of the gunnery officer, overseeing the firing solutions for their next bombardment of the renegades’ headquarters.
Azrael stood alone. He felt cocooned in silence, isolated from everything that had transpired in the last forty-two seconds since the tightband communiqué had arrived from Master Sheol. The universe had changed. Azrael’s world had shifted on its axis and what happened next would determine not only his own fate, but very likely that of the entire Chapter of the Dark Angels. Not just the thousand warriors that besieged Rhamiel, but unknown generations to come.
Into the gulf came a storm of thoughts of personal, strategic and historical import. He considered ripples from a stone being thrown into a pool, but really a boulder had been tossed into a raging torrent. To try to discern what effects that might have, and what measures might be taken to guide the course of the ripples, was pointless.
‘Focus.’
It was as though the word came from outside him, but Azrael had whispered it himself. The single utterance brought clarity. His priorities were clear, the issues to be addressed falling into place as soon as the decision was made.
He activated the Chapter-wide vox channel.
‘This is a terrible day in the history of our brotherhood,’ he began. ‘Supreme Grand Master Naberius is dead. By authority of my position as Grand Master of the Deathwing, I hereby issue notice of command and assume temporary leadership of our Order for the duration of the current campaign.’
All eyes on the bridge turned to him, surprise in some, shock and despair in others, and he could imagine such a reaction from the many Dark Angels fighting on the world below. It was imperative that tragedy did not become disaster.
It was his duty by tradition and doctrine to take over directly to ensure continuity of command, but they did not permanently grant him the highest rank of the Chapter. When the present campaign was resolved the members of the Inner Circle would convene to select one from their number to be the next Supreme Grand Master. Azrael was, by opinion of most of the Inner Circle and previously Naberius himself, the natural successor. Yet it was possible that others might put forward another name from amongst the leadership. A strong display during the Rhamiel suppression would forestall any potential for disruptive politicking amongst the Chapter’s commanders.
‘Our resolve must remain the same, to bring the traitors to the justice of the sword. All battle-doctrine remains as briefed – pursue your enemies without remorse and fight for the shade and memory of Lord Naberius.’
Belial quickly crossed the bridge, the mass of his Tactical Dreadnought armour dwarfing even the Space Marines attending the control stations, its size matched only by Azrael’s own Terminator plate.
‘How did it happen?’ asked the senior sergeant. ‘Do we have details?’
‘Few,’ replied Azrael. ‘The Supreme Grand Master’s Thunderhawk was brought down as it led the assault towards the enemy citadel. Honoured Decifael reported unusually intense anti-air fire. Traitors swarmed the wreckage, hundreds of them. Decifael was the last to fall. We just received his last transmission. Naberius was killed by enemy shelling of the crash site before cultists overran their perimeter. Too easy. The artillery was already marked on that position, the renegades poised for the following attack. This was planned and executed with precision.’
Azrael did not continue, keeping further suspicions to himself.
‘We cannot allow his remains to be taken by the enemy,’ Belial said. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Our foe is are twisted, corrupted by the Warp Powers. Who can say what dark acts they might perform on the body of a Chapter Master, what rituals such a vessel might fuel?’
Azrael did not reply, though he had already contemplated the possibility.
‘The Chapter banner lies with them,’ Belial continued.
‘But we would better honour the sacrifice of Lord Naberius with victory,’ Azrael countered. He gestured towards a hololith projection of a sphere a little larger than his head, slowly rotating to show hotspots of conflict across Rhamiel. Red icons clustered around Imperial institutions overrun in the earliest days of the rebellion, such as the Adeptus Arbites precincts, the Administratum tithe houses and the star ports. Black icons marked where significant ground defences had been eliminated, concentrated around the capital fortress known as the Iron Stalagmite and several Adeptus Mechanicus forge cities.
‘The cultists are the froth of rebellion, but they are churned by a darker, deeper force. We know there are Night Lords here, orchestrating events. From our initial contacts, it seems that the taint is restricted to the upper echelons of the ruling hierarchy plus several regiments of the planetary defence force, aided by a large number from a dissident faction of the Adeptus Mechanicus. This is a coup d’état, not a popular uprising. Naberius believed that if we can sever the command of the Night Lords and eliminate the armed resistance, the world might be restored to order in good time.’
He did not add that Naberius and the Chapter Council had also believed there was an even more sinister root to Rhamiel’s turn against the rule of the Emperor. Belial did not need to know of such discussions. A name, much cursed by pa
st leaders of the Dark Angels, had been mentioned in connection with the revolt – a name that had forced a vote on the council which Naberius had narrowly won. A vote in which Azrael had joined with those eager to bring several companies to Rhamiel in pursuit of nothing more than rumour.
Whether the Fallen were here or not, it seemed the arrival of the Dark Angels had been expected, if not desired. The speed with which the rebels had sprung their counter-attack certainly suggested the latter, and Naberius’ death may have been their intent all along.
‘I do not think the two objectives are at odds,’ said Belial. ‘A strike into the enemy command base would deprive the foe of Naberius’ remains, secure the Chapter banner and provide intelligence on the whereabouts of the traitor legion puppet masters.’
It was hard to argue with such an assessment. The Dark Angels had only scant information regarding the Night Lords and their role on Rhamiel. Even their numbers were unclear, though for them to remain hidden so well it suggested only a handful of Space Marines were operating directly on the planet. Near-orbital was littered with micro-moons and asteroid satellites, plenty of cover for a small ship to drift undetected for some time.
‘Very well, we strike at the headquarters. First Company only. The short-range teleport screen is no longer an obstacle. The renegades have foolishly left the beacon on the downed Thunderhawk operational, giving us a location fix for teleport assault direct into the compound.’ Naberius had planned to use teleport homers to support his swift assault. It was ironic that in death he had succeeded in what he had failed to do in life. ‘The remaining companies will continue with the cordon operation.’
‘Coordinates have already been obtained,’ said Belial. ‘I have checked them myself against the latest surface reports. They should deliver us into a central courtyard just outside the inner wall.’
‘We can get no closer to the citadel?’
‘Their anti-strike shield also bars teleport, Grand Master,’ said Belial. His voice carried just the tiniest hint of censure – disappointment that his commander thought there might be something Belial had overlooked.
