Master of Sanctity Page 2

  ‘Affirmative, firing all weapon systems.’

  While the Deathwing continued to pour fire into the building to their right, the Crusader’s tracks spun as it turned to the left, assault cannon and hurricane bolters elevating as it did so. An ear-piercing whine cut across the roar of storm bolters as the multi-barrelled main weapon spun into action, followed by the rippling crack of hundreds of rounds being spat forth. The hurricane bolters added their fury, filling the sky with the gleaming trace of bolt propellant as the Crusader’s fire stitched along the second and third storeys of the building, tearing ragged holes in the ferrocrete and laying waste to the aliens within.

  Incoming fire whined down onto the Space Marines from further along the street; bullets and energy pulses from small arms, little to worry the Terminators. The cracked rockcrete of the road splintered and sparked from impacts as Sapphon ordered the tank and two squads to advance another fifty metres.

  Something dark blurring against the clouds beyond the smoke caught Sapphon’s eye.

  ‘Incoming mortars and artillery. Continue the attack.’

  Two seconds later the mortar bombs exploded short of their target, throwing grit and fresh rubble against the hull of the Crusader. Haphazard artillery strikes erupted around the battle group, smashing into buildings and leaving smoking craters in the road ahead and behind the Deathwing. Still firing, ork bodies slumping against windowsills and toppling into the street, the First Company veterans continued with their steady, purposeful strides.

  They came to a crossroads, the two squads now flanking the Land Raider as it concentrated its fire ahead and they dealt with the survivors to each flank. Airburst shells flung fragments of shrapnel that clattered harmlessly from the thick ceramite of the Tactical Dreadnought suits. Bullets pinged and las-bolts shrieked equally ineffectually. A mortar bomb exploded right next to Sapphon. The conversion field in his rosarius activated in a millisecond, transforming the incoming mass and shockwave of the explosion into pure energy. Half a second later a blazing white halo of power enveloped the Chaplain for a moment as the energy-build up in the rosarius flared into luminescent existence.

  He fired almost without thinking, picking out available targets on instinct, every bolt sent from the Chaplain’s pistol finding its mark in green alien flesh. Rockets screamed and corkscrewed down onto the advancing warriors, sputtering with smoke, warheads throwing flame and shrapnel in all directions but unable to pierce the layers of ceramite, plasteel and adamantium that protected the Dark Angels finest.

  Sapphon stopped and checked behind the squad. Power armoured Space Marines were following-up the Terminator advance three hundred metres behind, clearing the buildings of any greenskins that had been missed by the devastation unleashed by the Terminators. The blossom of fire and smoke from frag grenades announced their progress into the upper storeys, while an occasional survivor was discovered and dealt with by bursts of bolter fire, almost inaudible amongst the din of the Deathwing’s and Crusader’s fusillade.

  ‘Resupply drop in seventy metres,’ Sapphon announced. The reticule and distance imposed over his right eye highlighted the dropsite selected by the Techmarines. The Chaplain was down to a third of his ammunition, and he knew that the Deathwing had been burning through their supplies with equal ferocity. Still, there were bolts enough to see them safely to the rendezvous.

  Recalling Daeron’s earlier words, the Chaplain had to concede that the absence of the Ravenwing had caused problems for the rest of the Chapter. The Darkshrouds and Land Speeders of the Second Company would have made short, bloody work of the greenskin horde that was now boiling up onto the rooftops to fire at the advancing Dark Angels.

  ‘This is Chaplain Sapphon – commence supply insertion at grid point beta.’

  The Chaplain barely heard the acknowledgement from the Thunderhawk pilot who had been circling overhead at a safe distance from any ork anti-air guns. Now Sapphon’s audio pick-ups detected the roar of plasma engines growing louder as the gunship came in on its subsonic run.

  They were barely fifteen metres from the drop point when the Thunderhawk swooped in. Battle cannon and lascannons blazing it circled once, weapons chewing rents and craters into the sides of the buildings surrounding the drop point. Sapphon watched the hatches and assault ramp opening, but instead of hovering for the drop, the Thunderhawk landed in a billow of heat and dust.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sapphon demanded as he and the Deathwing broke forward, weapons firing to cover the approaches to the settling gunship. ‘This is a combat drop!’

  A Space Marine in the markings of the Third Company appeared at the top of the ramp and raised a fist to Sapphon as armourium servitors started to plod towards the street, ammunition hoppers slung over their shoulders, power packs hung on crane-like arms.

  ‘Sorry, Brother-Chaplain, but we have an urgent request from Master Issachar. He is having difficulties at the Imperial commander’s palace. He’s asked that we take you to him immediately.’

  ‘Difficulties? There is not an ork within a kilometre of the palace. Trouble with the Piscina Free Militia?’ The planetary defence force was under curfew and subject to the disarm commandment as much as any other citizens of Kadillus Harbour, but some groups had opted to resist the Dark Angels efforts to restore order.

  ‘Not exactly, brother.’ The Space Marine shook his head. ‘It is Brother-Chaplain Asmodai.’

  The Enemy Within

  ‘You are making a mistake of monumental proportions.’ The words were forced through gritted teeth, laden with threat but tempered with an attempt at calm.

  Asmodai looked down at the man who had spoken: Colonel Brade of the Piscinan Free Militia. His face was flushed, wrinkled features contorting between fear and anger as he struggled to contain the duelling emotions. His uniform, which was frayed on the collar and cuffs, stained with much old blood both human and ork, was soaked with sweat. A bead of perspiration ran down the tip of the man’s bulbous nose and dripped to the floor.

  Asmodai could actually hear the man’s heart hammering in his chest, the quick double-thud as clear to the Chaplain as the hiss and whine of servos as he shifted his weight and his armour responded. Through olfactory filters he could smell the man’s fear, new sweat with the old, clouded by a fragrant pomade slicking the planetary defence officer’s thinning hair.

  The Dark Angel’s gaze flickered for a moment to Brade’s fists, which were gripping his belt as if it were a lifesaver thrown to a drowning man. On the colonel’s right hip hung a holster in which sat a heavy pistol. Now and then Brade’s hand twitched as though subconsciously he wished to draw the weapon. Fortunately for Brade his conscious mind was winning that particular battle.

  Brade’s blue eyes were mad, staring, locked to Asmodai’s, at least locked on the red lenses of the Chaplain’s skull-faced helm.

  ‘Your opinion is irrelevant, you have received instruction and you will obey,’ said Asmodai. He pointed an armoured finger at the colonel’s side arm. ‘You will begin by disarming. You will then surrender to my custody to await investigation into your conduct.’

  ‘You have no authority here.’ Brade’s voice wavered, betraying his insincerity.

  ‘Authority is not granted by legal writs and contracts,’ said Asmodai. ‘My authority derives from the Emperor, for I am a battle-brother of the Dark Angels, descendants of the First Legion. We are the Adeptus Astartes, his chosen warriors.’

  Brade opened his mouth to argue but Asmodai cut him off, stepping forward, the closeness of his immense bulk silencing any protest. The Chaplain waved a hand to encompass the hall in which they stood. The high arched ceiling was stained in places by soot from the grand fireplace that dominated one wall. The hall had once been a banqueting suite, now turned into a command station by Brade and his subordinates. Supply crates had been turned into tables and desks, littered with maps, rations packs, heavy duty vox-casters, weapons, spa
re energy cells and all manner of other materiel required by a command staff. The frescoed walls were covered with more charts, communiqués, casualty lists, cracked or static-filled comms-screens, recon reports and assorted paraphernalia.

  There were sixteen other men in the room; fifteen of them Brade’s support officers and the other Master Issachar of the Third Company. All were watching the confrontation.

  ‘Do not speak to me of authority. This building was once the demesne of Imperial Commander Sousan, was it not? Where is she now? Slain, by a mob of her own people. You, and you alone, Colonel Brade, took it upon yourself to install her successor, involving yourself in the political struggle that has seen this world fall to alien invaders and heretics. You are a traitor and will be dealt with accordingly.’

  Brade’s anger burst through the dam of his terror.

  ‘Traitor?’ The commander screamed the word. ‘You call me traitor? It was your warriors that came here and attacked us! It was your glorious Chapter that capitalised on the ork resurgence to murder lawful, faithful citizens of Piscina. It was not I that instigated rebellion, Chaplain Asmodai, it was you. And you dare call me traitor?’

  The colonel’s claims that a force of Dark Angels had killed a large number of civilians, though as yet uncorroborated, were known to Asmodai. Brade’s incarceration would facilitate a more thorough inquiry into the events that had plunged Piscina into madness, and would also serve to stifle the rumours still running rampant across Kadillus Harbour – rumours that Asmodai and the other members of the Inner Circle were working hard to keep from the ears of the battle-brethren.

  ‘From your own lips you are condemned,’ said Asmodai. He wagged an armoured finger at Brade. The colonel retreated but Asmodai gave him no space, following up with long strides. ‘It is only in deference to your efforts against the orks that you are still alive. Treachery such as yours, the wanton defiance of your Imperial commander appointed from Holy Terra, makes you an enemy of the Imperium. Few such foes have opportunity to speak in their defence when confronted by the Dark Angels.’

  Brade turned to Issachar, opening his arms as he implored the Dark Angels captain.

  ‘You must see that this is madness? The orks are still active within the city and there are many of our people too afraid of the Adeptus Astartes to ever surrender to the Dark Angels. If you depose me they will only see further injustice and fight all the harder.’

  ‘His opinion is also irrelevant,’ Asmodai snapped before Issachar could offer a reply. ‘The rebels will be killed if they continue to resist, and the orks will be cleansed. These are not matters for debate. I would no more allow a potential traitor to continue to command military forces in this city than I would invite the orks to a parley aboard the Rock. Hand over your weapon and relinquish command before I take sterner action.’

  ‘My opinion is irrelevant?’ Issachar said the words slowly, as though he was only just catching up with events. ‘I am commander of the Third Company, tasked with securing these palaces. Brother, you overstep your remit if you think you can remove one of my allies from his duties.’

  ‘Do not take false umbrage at my curt manner, Master Issachar,’ answered Asmodai, irritated by the captain’s defiant tone. ‘Our orders are direct from the Supreme Grand Master. I am well within my authority to have Colonel Brade removed from power and to subject him to questioning. The palace grounds have been secured for several days. I do not understand your tardiness in prosecuting further attacks against the rebels and greenskins.’

  There was a buzz as the command channel activated. Issachar strode across the hall to confront Asmodai, his manner making his intent clear even though his words were for the Chaplain alone.

  ‘Do not seek to teach me my duty, Asmodai.’ Issachar growled, amplified by the vox-net to sound like an attacking cudbear.

  ‘This is no matter for a simple Company Master,’ said Asmodai, seeking to make sense of Issachar’s objections. ‘While I bow to your judgement on purely military decisions, the acts of Colonel Brade and his men are treasonous, and that is a poison that can infect the minds of others, making it my responsibility. The Piscinan Free Militia are a tarnished, spent force of no strategic value. I do not understand your concerns.’

  ‘And that is your problem, Asmodai.’ Issachar shook his head and his tone was sad. ‘We have enough enemies to fight without you creating more. Brade is correct – he is best placed to negotiate surrender from the remaining Free Militia still fighting against us.’

  ‘There will be no negotiations. Those who oppose us will be crushed. You allow clear judgement to be clouded by indecent camaraderie with these defence forces. You are mistaken to place any trust in their loyalty or ability, brother-captain.’

  ‘But this is my decision, not yours, Asmodai, and I will not have you undermine my command.’

  Asmodai was stunned by Issachar’s hypocrisy, actually lost for words by the arrogance of his battle-brother. His silence lasted only moments though, as outrage at the Company Master’s accusation brought forth fresh words.

  ‘Do you think it is acceptable to defy me in front of outsiders?’ Asmodai’s anger bubbled up like blood from a wound, giving his words even greater vehemence. ‘I am the Master of Repentance! None is more loyal to the Chapter and the ideals of the Lion than I. It is not you that stands judgement over others, it is I! I was willing to forgive your disrespect as a momentary lapse, but this insubordination will be punished. I have made my will known – it is your duty to enact it.’

  A loud bang had both Space Marines spinning towards the near end of the hall, their weapons ready. The great double doors swung in, revealing Chaplain Sapphon, his robes and armour dirtied by blood and grime from recent battle. The Master of Sanctity strode into the room and headed directly for Asmodai. For a split-second the Master of Repentance thought his superior would strike him, but instead Sapphon laid a hand on Asmodai’s arm, gesturing for him to lower his crozius.

  ‘Master Issachar, forgive this intrusion,’ said Sapphon over the command link, glancing at the captain before fixing his look on Asmodai. ‘If you would excuse my brother and I, there is urgent news to discuss. Brother Asmodai, accompany me to the antechamber.’

  Asmodai took in a long, deep breath, agitated by the interruption.

  ‘This matter will be raised with the Supreme Grand Master, Issachar,’ Asmodai warned.

  Issachar said nothing. The captain stalked away, waving for Brade to join him at a crackling hololith vid unit showing the western half of the city.

  ‘Brother Sapphon, why are you here?’ Asmodai asked, genuinely confused. ‘I heard no report that the Deathwing assault had been concluded. Have we secured victory?’

  Sapphon said nothing in reply, but simply pointed back through the doors. Bemused, Asmodai followed his superior out of the hall.

  Misplaced Zeal

  ‘Walk with me, brother,’ said Sapphon. He released his helm with a hiss of escaping air and turned his head to look at Asmodai beside him. Warriors from the Third Company kept watch at the corridors and archways leading from the passage ahead, while messenger boys of the Free Militia scurried back and forth bringing reports for Brade and carrying orders to the defence forces still operating across Kadillus Harbour.

  Sapphon spied a disused room ahead, its shattered window poorly boarded, the remnants of table and chairs piled to one side. There was no door but the chamber was secluded enough for Sapphon’s purpose.

  ‘Remove your helmet, brother, and let me look at your face while we speak.’

  Asmodai did has he was bade, revealing features almost as skeletal as those on the mask he removed – sharp cheek bones, sunken eyes and a shaven head. His skin was much darker than bone, save for scar tissue that carved pale streaks on his forehead and left cheek. Dark eyes stared at Sapphon without hint of shame or circumspection.

  ‘Why did you come to the Imperial commander’s p
alace, brother?’ Sapphon asked, placing his helm on the cracked mantel above an ash-choked fireplace. ‘Specifically, why are you not with the Ninth Company as I ordered?’

  ‘My greater duty was here, when I heard that Brade had returned to the scene of his treachery,’ said Asmodai.

  ‘Your greater duty was to lead the Ninth in battle against the orks at Koth Ridge and the East Barrens. Perhaps you felt that task beneath one of your station?’

  A snarl curled Asmodai’s lip.

  ‘Do not suspect me of arrogance, brother. And do not confuse humility with meekness.’

  Sapphon ignored the rebuke.

  ‘I know you, Asmodai, so show me the respect due to my position by not trying to coerce me. You use anger to get at the truth. You rile your subjects until they speak in haste or betray themselves with unconscious twitch or tic.’ Sapphon dropped his voice, so low that even a Space Marine like Asmodai would be forced to concentrate to hear it, demanding attention. ‘I am not in the wrong here.’

  ‘If you have accusation, brother, make it plainly.’

  ‘For the remainder of this conversation you will refer to me by my rank, not as brother,’ Sapphon said sternly. Asmodai’s brow furrowed, but Sapphon gave him no opportunity to voice dissent – another favoured tactic of the Chaplain was to browbeat his victims with a continuous tirade. Seventeen hours without pause was, according to Chapter rumour and illicit wagers, Asmodai’s longest rant to date. Sapphon continued effortlessly, his words slow and measured. ‘You will address me as “master”, and you will restrict your answers to a simple affirmative or negative. You will remain silent on all other concerns until I give you permission to speak of other matters. Am I clear?’

  ‘Yes, Master Sapphon,’ replied Asmodai, lips and jaw barely moving to form the words.