Master of Sanctity Read online

  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.

  PART ONE

  PISCINA

  Retribution

  An angel lay fallen and broken.

  Sapphon, High Interrogator of the Dark Angels, Finder of Secrets, Master of Sanctity, looked at the chipped, weathered faced of the statue and grimaced. It was not a good omen.

  Clad in the black power armour associated with his calling, Sapphon was a darker figure amongst the shadows of the desecrated shrine building. His helm was masked with the visage of a skull, his chestplate adorned with the Imperial aquila, against which rested a large pendant formed as a winged skull; a conversion field generator known as a rosarius gifted to him by the arch-cardinal of Canoptary Prime as a symbol of unity with the Ecclesiarchy. Auspex scans had indicated no threat within the crumbling temple but the Chaplain carried his weapons ready, bolt pistol in his right hand, his eagle-headed mace – a crozius arcanum – in the left.

  The continuous smoke of fighting and wildfires blotted the night sky outside the broken walls and the depths of the nave were pitch-black. Despite this, Sapphon was able to easily navigate around the toppled statue with the assistance of his suit’s auto-senses, his already superior vision and hearing boosted to a preternatural level. Audio pick-ups conveyed the crunch of rubble pulverised under armoured boots, echoing through the ruined nave of the basilica as five warriors of the Deathwing spread out around their leader.

  The elite of the Chapter wore Tactical Dreadnought armour, known amongst the brethren as Terminators, painted in the ivory of the First Company. Each Terminator suit was an artificer-created technical marvel larger even than standard Adeptus Astartes power armour, combining the mobility of an infantryman with the protection and firepower of a vehicle. Millennia of upkeep and adaption made each suit unique, whether it was the added armour banding around the greaves of Brother Decemius’s armour, or the reinforcing studs that strengthened the left pauldron of Brother Fidellus‘s battleplate. On the left shoulder each of them bore the Crux Terminatus, an honour held by only a tenth of all the Space Marines across the Imperium; a symbol of devotion and courage so lauded it was worn where normally the Chapter symbol would take pride of place. This insignia, the winged sword of the Dark Angels – the blade enigmatically broken in the case of the Deathwing for reasons lost to antiquity – was worn on the right shoulder instead, bright red against the pale bone colour.

  Two, brothers Namnos and Decemius, were armed with immense power fists, capable of punching through solid ferrocrete, ripping apart tank armour and pulping flesh and bone, paired with twin-barrelled storm bolters that could lay down a hail of explosive bolts in devastating bursts. Their leader, Sergeant Caulderain, bore a power sword as a mark of his rank as well as his storm bolter. Brother Fidellus was designated squad guardian, his thunder hammer and storm shield dedicated to close combat, while Brother Satrael carried the heavy weapon; for this mission a six-barrelled assault cannon that could lay down a curtain of fire so intense it would obliterate anything caught in the fusillade.

  They were the elite by training too, each of them a veteran of many battles. To them had been given the honour of pushing into the ork-held city blocks that surrounded the old Chapter buildings at the heart of the capital of Piscina IV, Kadillus Harbour.

  The basilica had once been the pinnacle of the Dark Angels presence in the city. Now it was a near-empty shell, stained glass windows shattered, tapestries and statues exposed to the elements. Everything was marked with soot from flamer sweeps used to incinerate ork spores. Other than this routine cleansing everything else had been left as it had been at the end of the last war for Piscina; a memorial to those that had fought and died to protect the worlds from the brutal horde of the beast Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka and the equally terrible ork warlord Nazdreg.

  The noise of rubble shifting on the storey above drew the Chaplain’s attention. His bodyguard responded too, beams from armour lamps shining up through the ravaged floor. There was a flash of movement to Sapphon’s right – something pale. Definitely not an ork. Another flicker to the left betrayed someone ducking behind the pedestal of an ancient bust depicting Chapter Master Ezerius. Sapphon glimpsed a woman’s face, middle-aged, camouflaged with haphazardly applied grime. There was a glint of silver; possibly an old goblet or salver half-tucked under her cloak.

  ‘Looters,’ snarled Sergeant Caulderain. ‘No mercy!’

  ‘Do not fire!’ snapped Sapphon as four storm bolters and an assault cannon were lifted towards their targets.

  ‘Brother-Chaplain, our orders were exact,’ said Caulderain. His storm bolter continued to track along the upper storey as the rag-clad woman pushed herself further along into the shadows of the alcove. ‘Supreme Grand Master Azrael has assumed martial command of the Piscina system. Curfew is to be enforced with ultimate sanction.’

  ‘And I am here, at your side, and I tell you not to fire, brother-sergeant,’ Sapphon said calmly. ‘Look at them. They are starving. If they can exchange detritus of the past for a few loaves, we should not punish them for trying.’

  ‘They despoil a mausoleum of the Chapter, Brother Sapphon.’

  ‘The ghosts of our dead do not need silver and gold to feast any longer, sergeant,’ Sapphon replied, still keeping his temper in check. ‘If you are eager to fire your weapon, let us push into the east quadrant where there will be sufficient orks upon which you can unleash your wrath to duty’s contentment. Move on, there is nothing for us here.’

  ‘As you command, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Caulderain. He lowered his weapon and the Deathwing squad followed suit.

  They crossed the nave and exited through the remains of the east transept, passing through smashed doors to descend a flight of time-worn, bullet-pitted steps to the cratered street outside. Five more Deathwing – Squad Daeron – waited fifty metres to the north at a junction with the east-west arterial route leading into the ork-held sections of the city. Behind them loomed the massive bulk of a Crusader-pattern Land Raider painted in the livery of the First Company, its sponsons laden with the multiple barrels of hurricane bolters, twin assault cannons jutting above the assault ramp at the front.

  The surrounding b
uildings showed obvious signs of ork infestation. Windows and rooftops were augmented with jagged metal plate barricades, firing holes had been smashed through the walls and every flat surface was daubed with pictograph graffiti. Mouldering piles of effluent, oil slicks, scraps of bone and other detritus stained the rubble strewn across the road. Smoke residue marked doorways and window frames, charred remnants of bonfires heaped amongst scattered rubbish. Fungal lobes and fronds of various bright colours splayed from cracked walls and crevices in the ferrocrete roadway, some taller than Sapphon, others diaphanous webs that trailed in the wind.

  Trenches and turrets, slant-walled towers and pillbox fortifications cut off many of the side streets and alleys leading from the main thoroughfare, while gantries and ladders criss-crossed the roofs far above, allowing the orks to swiftly redeploy from one area to the next. No doubt they had similar rat runs in the sewers beneath the city; Grand Master Belial was leading the rest of his First Company on a subterranean cleansing sweep.

  Yet for all their barbarous conversion, these city blocks were empty, abandoned overnight it seemed. The orks had thwarted yesterday’s assault by elements of the Fourth, Seventh and Tenth Companies and Sapphon concluded that the aliens had drawn back in anticipation of a more devastating attack to follow. They were cunning, in a feral kind of way. He had never believed orks to be the unthinking brutes portrayed in a lot of Imperial propaganda and reports of their activities across Kadillus Island had reinforced the Interrogator-Chaplain’s opinions. He remembered the last time the Chapter had come to this world in force; long days and nights in the wilderness and abandoned mines outside the city conducting search-and-destroy operations for ork lairs and fortresses. Now, after years of believing Kadillus purged, the Dark Angels had been called back to find the world aflame once more. Most of the Chapter was out in the East Barrens and scouring Koth Ridge again; due to political weakness and instability cleansing patrols by the local defence militia had faltered and allowed the orks to grow in size and numbers in the absence of the Space Marines.

  The East Quadrant of Kadillus Harbour was the last hiding place of the greenskins within the city walls but it was proving a tough proposition for the sons of the Lion. Orbital bombardment was impossible without risking the docks, and more importantly the geothermal energy station situated there. Kadillus was nothing more than a huge volcanic mound and a missed lance strike or plasma warhead could set off a chain reaction that would destroy the entire island in one cataclysmic eruption. Only a few square kilometres, the former residential district was a warren of close-built edifices ideal for defence and ambush. Coupled with the canny and spiteful attitude of Piscina’s orks, it was a death trap.

  For ordinary Space Marines, at least. For the Deathwing, whose entire purpose on the battlefield was to venture into battle zones too deadly for their brethren, it was simply another mission.

  The Crusader led the advance, crunching across the rubble on broad tracks, turning the shattered masonry to gravel and dust. The two squads of Deathwing followed with determined strides, forming a protective semicircle ahead of Sapphon. The Interrogator-Chaplain’s command relays were coded into the sensoriums of the Terminators, giving him a real-time, three-dimensional overlay of the area across his vision. However, there was so much decaying material – the dead of both sides from yesterday’s fighting and many months of previous battles – it was impossible to get any definitive organic trace. Tattered ork banners, vermin and deliberately-erected scarecrow effigies buffeted by the wind confounded motion detectors. Smoke trails from dozens of fires betrayed the orks’ crude but effective counter-measures for thermal scanning.

  ‘Eyes and ears and instincts,’ Sapphon told the Deathwing warriors. ‘All targets are hostile. Three gunships are standing by on fire missions. Previous attacks have not neutralised air defences so they are to be a last resort only. We will establish ingress to the one kilometre mark and resupply by Thunderhawk armoury insertion. Squads from Third Company are waiting at the advance mark to secure the axis of attack at my signal.’

  ‘It would be better if we had the Ravenwing to scout for us,’ said Sergeant Daeron. He spoke with a guttural Anolian accent, further distorted by poor vox-quality – a side-effect of his truly ancient Cataphractii-mark helmet. ‘We are all but blind here.’

  ‘Trust Sammael to send word of uprising on Piscina but not remain to deal with it,’ said Brother Trateon, Squad Daeron’s heavy flamer operator. He chuckled. ‘Just a quick, “Better look at this!” and then they’re off again chasing Emperor-knows-what.’

  ‘I trust Sammael enough to know that he would not quit battle on Piscina had there not been more pressing matters,’ Sapphon said, choosing his words carefully. There had been much debate concerning the Second Company’s recent activities but Sapphon had chosen to keep his theories to himself; even amongst the Deathwing it was wise to keep mention of the Fallen to a minimum.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Sergeant Daeron. His voice dropped a fraction. ‘Perhaps they found evidence of our “eternal friends”?’

  In a Chapter that was built on concentric levels of ignorance and secrecy, euphemism and innuendo were to be expected, but Sapphon disliked some of the more flippant terms used to describe the traitors he and the Deathwing were tasked to capture. He let this incident pass but resolved to speak to Daeron in private later.

  ‘Orks, brothers,’ the Chaplain said evenly. ‘We are here to slay orks. Further speculation is simply wasted breath and wagging tongues.’

  ‘As you say, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Caulderain, his tone conveying his displeasure at the casual talk. ‘Keep eyes keen and weapons ready, these green bastards killed three battle-brothers yesterday and sent another eleven to the Apothecaries.’

  Reminded of the Chapter’s recent losses, the warriors muttered invocations and commendations to the souls of the dead and fell silent. The crunch of the Crusader’s tracks echoed back from the desolate buildings.

  A little more than one hundred metres ahead the smoke from many fires was thickening, gathering above the broken-backed tenements in an ork-made thunderhead, the glow of flames visible on its underbelly. Jury-rigged power lines criss-crossed some of the roofs, sparking and flaring – another crude attempt to outsmart the auspexes of the Space Marines. It was working, in a fashion; the sensorium display was a mess of signals.

  ‘Nothing says “find us here” as nicely as an obvious attempt to hide one’s presence,’ said Sapphon. He signalled the Land Raider. ‘Lion’s Fury, move ahead fifty metres. Draw their fire.’

  ‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied the tank’s commander.

  The ten Deathwing Terminators stopped, the two squads splitting, weapons covering the windows and roofs ahead. Sapphon followed Caulderain and his warriors to the left. Vision magnified, he scanned the piles of rubble and detritus for signs of ambush. Some orks were capable of uncharacteristic patience on occasion, hiding for hours and days at a time in order to spring their attacks. Nothing indicated any waiting enemies beneath the debris.

  ‘The eyes of the Chapter are upon us, brothers,’ he reminded his companions. ‘It is to us that they look to lead the way. We shall blaze the path for them to follow, in deeds and in thought.’

  ‘Yes, let’s show them how to kill orks,’ said Daeron. ‘It seems some of our brothers have forgotten.’

  It was a second flippant remark from the sergeant and Sapphon expected better from one of the Chapter’s senior warriors. There was almost a hint of a challenge in Daeron’s attitude, subconscious defiance perhaps.

  The chime of a private vox-channel being opened rang in Sapphon’s ear.

  ‘Brother-Chaplain, why do you remain silent?’ asked Sergeant Caulderain. ‘His attitude is unbecoming of the Deathwing.’

  ‘I will remind the brother-sergeant when the time is appropriate,’ replied Sapphon. ‘A vox-channel on the cusp of battle is not the place or time for such rem
onstration.’

  ‘I do not know what poor spirit ails my brother, but he seems to be testing you, and he is certainly testing my patience, Brother-Chaplain.’

  ‘Daeron has served the Dark Angels for three hundred years and more, and is one of the bravest and most dedicated Space Marines I have ever known.’ A flicker of movement to the Chaplain’s right made him pause. A moment later it resolved in his auto-senses into a rag caught on a coil of razor wire.

  ‘My point exactly,’ the sergeant continued. Sapphon suppressed an exasperated sigh. ‘It is out of character for Daeron to speak so lightly of his duties. I fear it is a sign of a greater malaise within the company. It is a sign of disrespect that should be dealt with immediately and firmly.’

  ‘Do not think me a Scout of the Tenth Company, to submit willingly to such instruction, brother-sergeant,’ Sapphon said sternly, his annoyance growing.

  ‘No insult was intended, Brother-Chaplain. I merely reflect that Brother Asmodai is far stricter in h–’

  ‘I am not Brother Asmodai!’ The response was uttered a little more hastily, with more vehemence than Sapphon had intended and he winced in reaction. It was simply paranoia speaking; the silent fear that Sapphon kept hidden from his brothers. Caulderain said nothing but Sapphon could imagine the reply that remained unspoken: if only you were.

  ‘Movement, balcony, sixth storey, forty metres on the right!’ snapped Brother Decemius. Sapphon felt a surge of relief, swiftly replaced with focus and purpose.

  Sapphon looked up to see three orks peering over a bullet-pitted balustrade, each carrying a basic-looking rocket tube or launcher. Their grimacing faces were highlighted a moment later by converging flares of storm bolter-rounds. The ferrocrete balcony exploded into shrapnel and dust, tumbling the wound-riddled corpses of the orks to the street.

  ‘More on the lower floors on the other side of the street,’ Sapphon said, firing his pistol at lean shapes lurking just inside shattered windows and broken doorways. ‘Lion’s Fury, engage. Make the xenos fear our retribution.’