Angels of Caliban, Page 2

  ‘The Dark Angels,’ whispered Vioss.

  He may have been overheard or it may have been coincidence, but a second later the Dark Angels’ leader turned in his course, cutting across the colonnade to approach Typhon and his second. His thick, dark hair was cropped almost to the scalp, his lower face covered by a carefully shaped beard.

  ‘Lord Luther,’ said the Death Guard commander, nodding in respect to the leader of the First’s contingent, and then to each of the Dark Angels. ‘Brothers of noble Caliban.’

  One of them uttered a surly grunt at this remark, but his commander cut off any comment that was going to follow.

  ‘Captain Typhon, an honour to meet in person,’ replied Luther. The scars of his augmentation were obvious, along with visible bionics in the jaw, neck and behind the corneas. Despite these the Dark Angels officer was considerably smaller than his companions. Even so, he held himself in a way that meant he became the centre of attention, his noble face bearing a weight of dignity and gravitas beyond that which he gave up in physical presence. He extended a gauntleted hand with a whine of servos. ‘Let me thank you again for acting as the linebreakers through the orbital stations. A necessary but bullish task, taken on without complaint or hesitation.’

  ‘A role we will never shirk,’ replied Typhon, taken aback by the words of gratitude. It was not often that others acknowledged the sacrifices made by those who so often placed themselves at the front of any assault. The Death Guard prided themselves on their stoicism, but the commander could not help but feel a small flush of pleasure at the words of praise.

  ‘We should not keep the lord primarch waiting,’ said Luther, turning slightly.

  As easily as that, Typhon and the Dark Angel started down the colonnade, a dozen paces from Abaddon, their companions just behind. The others invited by the primarch fell into an awkward processional after them. Typhon knew then how Luther could quite easily be First Captain, or whatever Calibanites wanted to call it, without the benefits of a Space Marine physiology. He exuded leadership and confidence, borne with charisma and honed by many years of experience.

  ‘It is fascinating that we should find warriors of the Death Guard in an expedition of the Luna Wolves,’ said Luther.

  ‘An exchange of ideas,’ replied Typhon. ‘A cultural embassy, you could say. We learn of Cthonia and the battle doctrine of the Luna Wolves. We teach them of war as the Death Guard pursue it and try to avoid speaking about Barbarus.’

  He laughed at his own joke and earned himself a quizzical look from Luther.

  ‘The Administratum designated Caliban a death world, yes?’ he asked the Dark Angel.

  ‘Of a sort.’ Luther looked confused, or perhaps defensive. ‘With the Lion’s aid, we slew all the Great Beasts of the forest and instilled order and peace.’

  ‘The toxic air of Barbarus kills most humans within thirty years. At higher altitudes it will kill in seconds. The Administratum had set the bar too low on death by the time they found us.’

  Any potential reply from Luther was cut off by their arrival at the strategium. They passed beneath the great arch of the portal and out onto a massive balcony overlooking the main bridge of the Vengeful Spirit. As commander of the Terminus Est, Typhon was not awed by scale alone. What took his breath away as he stepped out into that rarefied air was the purpose to which the immense hall was dedicated – the demesne of a primarch, centre of an entire expedition fleet, throne room to one of the twenty kings-to-be of the galaxy.

  The strategium was a dedicated deck overlooking the levels of the main bridge of the battle-barge, made of plain ironwork, tier upon tier of galleries stretching into the height of the Vengeful Spirit. Looking up at the vertiginous edifice reminded Typhon of the peaks of his home world, where the cruel Overlords had ruled from summit fortresses. In this realm, the lord made his roost very much in the middle altitudes.

  In fact, if Typhon had not known better he would not have guessed that this was the realm of a demigod. It all seemed remarkably prosaic – phlegmatic, he had heard the Luna Wolves say often. No thrones, no tribunes or heralds, not even on the lauded occasion of a great victory. Where was the finery of rank? The filigree of pomp? The gold and scarlet of celebration?

  It was reassuring to Typhon that there was no such aggrandisement. He shared the aesthetics of Mortarion, inasmuch as a complete absence of them. Function trumped all other considerations. He heard a grunt of appreciation from Vioss.

  Typhon’s eye followed Abaddon at first, into the shadow beneath the overhang. Three others waited there, indistinct in the darkness.

  ‘The Mournival,’ he whispered to Luther. ‘Abaddon, Litus, Torgaddon, Janipur. The mailed fist around Horus’ velvet glove.’

  The commander’s council were nothing more than darker shapes in the shadow, deliberately withdrawn from the spectacle about to take place. Something red sparkled in the gloom – a bionic eye directed at Typhon for a few seconds. The Death Guard captain leaned closer to his companion. ‘It was Litus that adopted me when I arrived. Have you met any of the Mournival yet?’

  ‘I had the pleasure once,’ Luther replied, his tone sarcastic. ‘Abaddon thought our Legion would benefit from a stronger warrior code. He took offence when I laughed.’

  Typhon glanced at the Dark Angel, surprised by this.

  ‘You laughed at Abaddon?’

  ‘I did not intend to, but the notion was ludicrous. I was Grand Master of the Order, a military organisation that dates back long before any warrior creed being peddled through some of the other Legions.’ Luther did not look around as he asked his next question. ‘Have they tried to introduce you to a warrior lodge yet?’

  Typhon’s reply came smoothly and naturally. It was laughable that Luther thought Typhon needed to be inducted into the mysteries of the lodges. Long before any Luna Wolf had set foot on Davin he had known of the darker history of mankind. He needed no lessons about the nature of the universe, and the Other Place where the true power resided. A hellish upbringing on Barbarus and an early life spent exploring his psychic potential had taught him far more than fraternal rituals and rote-mouthed ceremonies.

  He could have spoken of his role as the Second of the Seven Pillars, embodying the undying, otherworldly will of the Plaguefather amongst the brothers of his Legion. Not even Mortarion held sway in those cloistered gatherings. For many amongst the Luna Wolves, the compliance on Davin had been the fountainhead of inter-Legion brotherhood through the fraternal alliances modelled on that world’s warrior lodges. For Typhon, and a few others, an inter-Legion understanding had existed for much longer.

  He was not a recruit, he was a recruiter. He wasn’t a messenger, he was the message.

  But he did not say this, his answer was far simpler.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  A movement drew Typhon’s eye and he realised that, miraculously, their host had been present all along. How he had not seen the primarch standing immobile on the dais was a mystery. It was as though a colossal statue had come to life. One moment the attendees had been spreading out across the ironwork balcony, marvelling at the immense structure. The next, there was a giant amongst them clad in white and burnished gold.

  Furs were heaped upon his battleplate, and honours and medals from a dozen cultures recently brought to peaceful compliance. It was as though he lit up the entire strategium, and not just with the glitter of gold.

  Horus Lupercal.

  Primarch of the Luna Wolves – Typhon’s surrogate master for the time, though it was the first occasion he had laid eyes upon the Legion commander. The experience was very different to the proximity of Mortarion, his own primarch. The leader of the Death Guard was imposing, unsettling even. His presence dominated the room no less than Horus, but with a shadow, not a sun. To come before grim-faced Mortarion, to look into eyes that had seen the worst that Barbarus could offer, was to confront the cold bleakness of death, the inevitability of ending.

  Horus was life. He smiled as his gaze roamed acro
ss the assembling crowd, lips tight, eyes meeting those of everyone. They rested on Typhon for a moment, animated and amused and fatherly all at once. The Death Guard bowed his head, shamed that he felt more for this commander than his own. The light of Horus’ gaze moved on.

  Yet that was the greater aim, was it not? Horus was life. Horus was animation. Horus was the future. A fitting lord to represent the Master of Mankind, to sweep the galaxy into a new era of bountiful and joyous rebirth.

  Like many others Typhon felt the urge to show obedience and respect and was halfway to lowering a knee to the primarch when Horus’ voice boomed out.

  ‘Don’t any of you dare bow!’ he declared with a laugh. The commander instead dipped his head in salute to the assembled warriors as he slowly turned from left to right.

  ‘My thanks,’ Horus continued, waving a hand to encompass all on the strategium. ‘My deepest, heartfelt gratitude to each of you that has come here today. And beyond, to every soldier of the Emperor that fought to avert this disaster. I owe you a debt greater than words can express. I know that for all of you the performance of duty in the cause of humanity is reward enough, but nevertheless know that you carry the appreciation of the Emperor with you.’

  So easily Horus spoke in the Emperor’s name. Authority weighted every word.

  The primarch grew sombre and turned away, his face lifting towards the largest hololithic display of the main bridge, which towered over the proceedings. The projectors flickered into life to show the world of Zaramund and the orbital space around it, dotted with runes and annotations of defences and Imperial ships.

  ‘As I give thanks to those whose ears can hear it, so I pay respect to those that will never hear words again.’ Horus tilted his face down a little, the lights of the strategium shining bright on his bald scalp. ‘They sacrificed all, for the Emperor, for Zaramund, for their brothers and sisters. Remember them, and honour them.’

  ‘Remember them, and honour them,’ Typhon chorused with the others.

  ‘Lieutenant DeBlessent!’ the primarch called out as the honour guard of the Phalanxis completed the audience. All present turned as Horus’ finger picked out the junior officer, who trembled as though struck through by a bolt. ‘This man here, and his command platoon, secured the gun batteries at Atreon. No orbital support, no Titans. Just twenty men and women with courage and a brilliant leader.’

  Applause rippled out and Typhon clapped with them, impressed by the story. Securing Atreon had allowed Horus to move his fleet into closer orbit, hastening the surrender of the rebels by several days, if not weeks.

  The young man seemed quite overwhelmed by this praise, not only from Horus but the thunderous ovation of several dozen Space Marines and his own companions. One of his soldiers put an arm around DeBlessent to steady the officer.

  ‘And what about Shield-Lieutenant Loken?’ Horus’ change of focus spared DeBlessent any further discomfort as the eyes of all swung to a Luna Wolves officer standing close to the dais. ‘A spirited boarding action against the Vagaries of Fate.’

  Loken was far more composed, accepting the plaudits with a nod of the head and raised hand. He smiled warmly as several other Luna Wolves slapped his pauldrons in appreciation.

  ‘And Captain Typhon, without whom we would all still be in orbit waiting to see who would dare the platforms’ guns first.’

  Typhon heard Vioss laugh and was then surrounded by a cacophony of cheers and applause led by the primarch. He flushed, remembering Luther’s words about a thankless task. A warmth filled Typhon, which he loved and hated in equal measure. The feeling itself, the buoyant heat of approval, washed through him like a combat-stimm. With it came a self-knowing, self-loathing reaction that he should not respond so mawkishly to simple words. Yet Typhon’s inner cynic, his melancholic shadow the Luna Wolves called it, could not resist the simple pleasure of praise from one as mighty as Horus.

  Never had such words left the lips of Mortarion.

  Others were being singled out, Horus finding each amongst the throng in an instant, their names and deeds spilling from his lips as easily as the commands that had sent them into the battle just fourteen days earlier. Typhon clapped and laughed, nodded or shook his head with sombre poise with everyone else, unable, and unwilling, to resist the air of brotherhood that united all on the strategium. From mighty Horus to the lowliest trooper of the Phalanxis, everybody present was part of the same endeavour, conjoined beneath the brilliance of their commander.

  In time the primarch withdrew to join his officers in the Mournival, and the lesser beings of the retaliatory force were left to mingle and converse. Typhon was subdued and allowed Vioss to carry most of the conversation with Luther and the Dark Angels. For their part, the warriors of Caliban seemed content to allow their leader to speak for them, only uttering a few words of clarification about the campaign or a particular action when directly addressed.

  It was a surprise when there came a familiar voice at Typhon’s shoulder.

  ‘High words from the commander, Captain Typhon.’

  The Space Marines turned to see a warrior clad in dark grey war-plate. Even amongst the fearsome warriors of the Legiones Astartes he struck an intimidating figure. His shaven head was covered with tiny script – lines of devotional text and doctrine from the Word Bearers Legion. His eyes were like sharp diamonds, piercing and bright, staring into Typhon rather than at him.

  But Typhon knew the latest arrival well and with a laugh pulled the Word Bearers legionary close, slapping him hard on the shoulder.

  ‘Erebus! There was talk that you fell during the capture of Platform Five. I am glad it was false rumour.’ Typhon turned back to the others and regained his composure. ‘Erebus of the Word Bearers, have you met Luther of Caliban?’

  ‘I have not,’ replied the First Chaplain. He extended a hand and Luther took it in a swift grip.

  ‘My council,’ said the Dark Angel, indicating each of his companions in turn. ‘Chief Librarian Israfael, and Brother Zahariel of the Librarius. Merir Astelan, Chapter Master. And the Lord Cypher, my aide.’

  ‘Greetings to you all. I would become better acquainted but I bear news for the commander.’ Erebus gave Luther an odd look and then glanced at Typhon. ‘We will speak again soon, Calas.’

  Before any more could be said, the First Chaplain had disappeared into the shadows haunted by the Mournival. Typhon could not clearly see what happened but there was much gesturing and some agitation between Erebus and Abaddon. Eventually the First Captain stepped aside and the Word Bearer approached Horus. Only a few seconds passed before the primarch stepped out into the light again. Silence emanated like a ripple and into the vacuum of noise Horus spoke quickly but confidently.

  ‘We are to be honoured,’ Horus announced.

  From his manner the casual observer might have thought that everything was as intended. Typhon knew better, and while all other eyes were on the primarch he saw the officers of the Mournival slipping away from the audience.

  ‘One of my brothers will be joining us shortly,’ the primarch continued. Despite the gravitas of the occasion, a spirited murmur of speculation broke out amongst the gathered warriors. Horus was not forthcoming with any further information and turned his attention to the consortium of Regulus’ tech-priests.

  Some minutes later the address systems of the Vengeful Spirit blared a clarion of welcome. Typhon moved to look back through the great portal of the strategium, but his view was obscured by the bulky war-plate of several Luna Wolves Terminators. He could only see an honour guard of XVI Legion veterans hastily assembling under the instruction of Captain Janipur. Another minute passed and the warriors presented bolters and reaper cannons, volkite calivers and melta-weapons in honour of the arriving primarch.

  The newcomer was clad toe to neck in black war-plate, chased with reddish gold and bright silver. His plastron was sculpted into the face of a great hunting cat, its mane forming into a ruby-clustered clasp for a cloak of white edged with black fur. Hi
s face was stern, eyes a startling green, fair shoulder-length hair swept back by an elegant iron band. At his waist hung a sword with an eagle’s claw pommel, gripping a sapphire the size of a man’s fist.

  Lion El’Jonson. The Lion of Caliban. Primarch of the Dark Angels.

  He advanced alone, no retinue or guard behind, eyes not once glancing at the honours presented to him. His jaw was set hard, hands bunched into fists. Typhon could feel anticipation turning to tension, polluting the atmosphere of the strategium.

  A mutter from Luther drew Typhon’s attention away from the Lion. The commander of the Dark Angels contingent was staring at his master as though a revenant stalked the corridor.

  The Lion burst onto the strategium with long strides and all around him warriors lowered to one knee like grass flattened by a strong wind. Typhon felt the need to obey flowing into him and he did not resist it, dropping one leg to the floor along with the others.

  Only Horus remained standing, saying nothing.

  Luther pushed himself quickly back to his feet, but before he could say anything the Lion held up a hand to silence him. The primarch spoke without looking at his subordinate.

  ‘I will deal with you momentarily.’

  Typhon shuddered. The words had not been directed at him but he felt the heat of their rebuke like the backwash from an explosion. The target of the words, Luther bowed his head and clasped his hands together at his stomach.

  ‘My brother, you have done that which none of our enemies has ever managed,’ said Horus, his tone light. ‘Taken me unawares.’

  The Lion stopped a few steps from Luther, his eyes fixed on Horus. Typhon found himself sneaking glances at the two of them, holding his head rigid as if to move might betray his presence. All around him the strategium was shrouded in stillness and silence and though he knew the main bridge beyond had to be continuing as normal it was as though a bubble encompassed them all.