'That cannot be so,' protested Astelan, trying to sit up but raising his head only a little against the strength of the chains. 'I saw nothing of Caliban when we approached. 'This cannot be our fortress. Why do you mock me?'

'There is no mockery,' Samiel said quietly. 'This fortress is all that is left of our homeworld of Caliban.'

'Lies!' Astelan declared, trying to sit up, his muscles bulging as he fought against the chains. This is just a trick!'

'You know we speak the truth,' Boreas said, forcing Astelan down again with a hand on his chest. His eyes bored into Astelan's as he spoke his next words: 'This is all that remains of Caliban, our homeworld that your treachery destroyed.'

No one spoke for several minutes as Astelan absorbed this information. A chill began to seep into his flesh from the stone slab he lay on. Astelan watched his breath coalescing into a faint mist in the air as he breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling quickly. In all the years he had sought out information of his former masters, he had never heard of such a cata­strophic event taking place. Perhaps it was a trick to weaken his resolve? He fast dismissed the notion though, as he considered the evidence he had wit­nessed since his arrival.

He was indeed in the catacombs below what had once been the glorious fortress of the Dark Angels Chapter, now somehow ripped from the planet and sent into space. It was this thought that prompted him to speak.

'Is this why you attacked me, unprovoked, on Tharsis?' Astelan asked, 'Was it misplaced revenge for the loss you have suffered, to destroy my new home?'

'Your new home?' Boreas repeated scornfully. 'A world full of soldiers and slaves, all sworn to be loyal to you. Can you not admit the heresy of your actions?'

'Has it now become heresy to rule a world in the Emperor's name? Is it wrong of me to command an army again, as I once did?' Astelan said, looking first at Boreas, and then quickly at Samiel.

'We were created to serve mankind, not to rule them,' Boreas rasped, leaning forward and wiping a bead of sweat from Astelan's brow with his thumb.

'You deny that we ruled Caliban?' laughed Astelan. 'You forget that a million serfs toiled in the fields of our homeworld to keep us clothed and fed, and in the forges and machine shops to arm us, and on our ships and in the factories.'

'A world does not exist to be enslaved to a single Space Marine,' Boreas said.

'We are all slaves of a kind, some of us willingly serve the Emperor, and some must be forced to,' Astelan told him.

'And which are you?' Samiel asked suddenly, stepping forward. 'Was it not you and your kind who refused to serve, taking it upon yourselves to usurp the Lion and betray the Dark Angels?'

'Never!' spat Astelan, thrashing at his bonds. 'It is the rest of mankind who betrayed us! I watched you fight on Tharsis, and I was appalled. My armies were great, worthy to be led by the Emperor himself, and trained well, but against the might of the Dark Angels that I fought alongside, the battle would have been swiftly lost. Now, they have pulled your teeth, scat­tered you across the stars. This I have learnt these last two hundred years.'

'You are wrong,' argued Boreas, pacing back and forth, his eyes locked on Astelan's like a predator. 'The Legions were broken up so that no single man could wield that kind of power again.'

'An act done by weak-willed men who were jealous of us, and afraid of what we were,' said Astelan, moving his head to keep Boreas in sight. 'I commanded a thousand Space Marines, just one of many Dark Angels Chapter commanders, and whole worlds fell before our wrath. I would have taken Tharsis in a single day, but you waged war upon me for ten times as long.'

'The power you wielded has corrupted you, as it has corrupted many others,' Boreas said, turning away. 'It was that temptation that could not be allowed to exist.'

'Corrupt? You call me corrupt?' Astelan was shouting now, his voice ringing around the small cell. 'It is you who have become corrupted, hiding out in this dark cell, slinking in the shadows, afraid of the power you possess. I remember this place as one of celebration and victory. A hundred banners flew from the towers, and the great festivals lit these rooms with fires by the thousand as we revelled in our glories. I remember when the Dark Angels cut across the galaxy as the Emperor's own sword. We were the first and greatest, never forget that! We never once knew defeat as we fol­lowed the Emperor, and even when we were given Caliban and El'Jonson became our leader, we were still the lords of battle. It was that time of glory that we should be living in again. We exist for battle, and I forged an army to continue the Great Crusade.'

'The Great Crusade ended ten thousand years ago, when you and others like you turned on the Emperor and tried to destroy all that he had built,' Samiel said. Boreas still looked away, brooding silently.

'I do not accept your accusations,' replied Astelan. Again the cell was silent for a while, until Boreas turned and loomed over the slab, arms crossed over his bulky chest, his biceps straining the cloth of his robe. 'If you are not a traitor, then explain why you commanded your army to resist us on Tharsis,' the Interrogator-Chaplain asked calmly.

'You left me little choice,' Astelan replied bitterly. 'I had reports from my ships and outposts of a vessel breaking from the warp, and I sent them to investigate. Your strike vessel opened fire without replying to their hails, destroy­ing one of my ships. It is only natural that others in the patrol should attack, when assaulted without provoca­tion. You showed no mercy, killing nearly a thousand of my men!'

'And yet, when the battle-brothers landed and you saw that it was the Dark Angels you faced, you did not sur­render, nor order your army to give us free passage,' Boreas continued.

'I told them to resist at all costs!' spat Astelan.

'It was your guilt that commanded them!' roared Boreas. 'Fear of facing justice for your evil deeds!'

'I did it to preserve what I had created,' Astelan replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'Once before, the mis­guided had turned their guns upon our great works. I would not allow it to happen again.'

'What great works?' sneered Boreas. 'A world that laboured for your pride? Ten million souls in chains to fuel your ambition? Indentured workers, conscript sol­diers, all the fettered minions of your greed.'

'I have learnt that the realm of the Emperor stretches over more than a million worlds,' explained Astelan, as he pictured the vast factory-cities of Tharsis. 'The num­bers of humanity are beyond counting, millions of billions of them teeming across star systems, in space ports and on ships. Crammed atop each other in the hive cities, scattered beneath the rocks of the mining worlds, imprisoned in floating reformatories. I say again that we are all slaves to the will of the Emperor.'

'To the Emperor perhaps, but not to you,' countered Boreas. 'You were created to serve, not to rule. You are a warrior, not a governor. It is your duty to obey and to fight, nothing more.'

'I am an instrument of the Emperor's will, his weapon and his symbol,' Astelan replied, looking again at his interrogator. 'How can you not see the hypocrisy in your own words? You accuse me of resisting you. How could I not, when your gunships razed the fields that fed my people, when your cannons destroyed their farms and towns, when your battle-brothers slaughtered them like livestock at the cull?'

'We did what your actions forced us to do,' Boreas said, pointing an accusing finger at Astelan. 'It was your arro­gance that brought misery and destruction upon the servants of the Emperor. It was you that sent them against us. It was you that condemned them to death, sacrificing their lives to protect yourself. You are a traitor, you have destroyed everything you have come across. Your sins have cursed you so that death and blood follow in your wake.'

'My army fought bravely to the end, as I had trained them to,' Astelan said, closing his eyes. He could picture his troops parading through the capital, thousands of them in rank after rank, banners held high, the martial drumbeat accompanied by the crash of booted feet. He remembered their last stand at the command bunker, as they threw themselves at the enemies outside, swamping them with their bodies. Not one had spoken of surren­der, not one of them had baulked at their duty. 'It was their love for the Emperor that drove them to such acts of desperation. It was their fear of what you represent that gave them the strength to continue, to thwart your para­sitic plans.'

'You call us parasites! Who lived in luxury while the people of your world starved and your soldiers fought over scraps?' Boreas shook his head as he spoke. 'You are an abomination, an abhorrent travesty of a Space Marine. Where you see strength, I see cruelty. Where you profess to greatness, I see despotism of the worst kind. Your heresies are beyond comprehension. Just admit to your sins, cleanse your soul of their burden, and you shall be free.'

'You call this freedom?' Astelan laughed bitterly, nod­ding to the instruments of torture on the shelves. 'You call this the Emperor's works? The Dark Angels were the first, the proudest Legion. We carved a path of light across the stars in the Emperor's name, and now you surround yourself with shadows and deceit. Your mighty warriors ravage a planet for a single man, whilst star systems fall to the alien and the unclean.'

'You dare to accuse me!' Boreas spat the words. 'I swear by the Lion and the Emperor, you will admit your crimes and repent your sins. I will learn everything you have done, every wrong deed, every evil act you have committed.'

'I shall tell you nothing!' Astelan insisted.

'You are lying,' Samiel said, staring into Astelan's eyes. 'You are afraid. There are secrets locked inside your mind, knowledge you would try to keep from us.'

'Get thee behind me, warlock!' Astelan roared, the chains biting deep into his flesh as he tried to lunge at the psyker. 'Do not pollute my soul with your magic'

'Your soul is already polluted,' Boreas said, pushing Astelan's head back against the sweat-covered stone of the slab and holding him there. 'You have but one chance to save it, and I offer you that chance. Repent of your Lutherite ways, beg forgiveness from the Lion and the Emperor. Your life is forfeit, but your soul can still be saved. Confess your wickedness and salvation shall be yours without pain, without regret. Resist and I shall be forced to save you from yourself.'

'Do your worst, torturer,' Astelan said slowly, closing his eyes and turning away from Boreas.

'It is Interrogator-Chaplain, and I do not need your fear, only your compliance,' Boreas said, turning away and crossing the cell to the shelves.

He picked up a brand, its head shaped as the double-headed Imperial eagle. He walked slowly to the brazier and held the brand in the flames, turning it occasionally to heat it evenly. Lifting it, he blew softly on the head, the dull glow burning brighter, wisps of smoke dissipating into the air. He held the brand hovering over Astelan's right arm, and he could feel the heat from it prickling his skin.

'Have Space Marines become so weak over the cold millennia that they fear fire, that mere burning will cause them pain?' Astelan sneered.

'There will be little pain to start with,' Boreas explained. 'But even you, physically perfect and yet spiri­tually corrupt, will begin to feel the touch of the flame, the caress of the blade, after the hundredth day, the thou­sandth day. Time is inconsequential. The purification of the soul is not an instant and rash process. It is a long, arduous road, and you and I shall travel it together.'

Astelan gritted his teeth as the brand burned into his shoulder, filling his nostrils with the stench of charring flesh.

THE TALE OF BOREAS

PART ONE

The flames from the immense fire leapt high into the night sky, bathing the natural amphitheatre in a warm red glow. The circular wall of rock rose over a hundred metres into the sky, an ancient volcanic caldera several hundred metres across that was pock-marked with dozens of cave dwellings accessed by an intricate web of rope ladders and bridges.

The constant pounding of drums echoed off the sur­rounding cliffs, resonating with the howling chants of the gathered villagers dancing and leaping around the central fire. Strange six- and eight-legged beasts turned on long spits over the many fire pits dug into the arena's floor, the smell of roasting flesh mixing with the aro­matic smoke of the ritual pyre.

From the rim of the caldera the jungle spread out for many kilometres. As the noise and light of the barbaric celebrations dissipated with distance, they were replaced by the hisses and growls of nocturnal predators, the alarmed shrieks of their prey and the constant stirring of the wind through the thick dark jungle canopy. Above the treetops, the night sky spread across the heavens, lay­ered with thick clouds of sulphurous smoke from Piscina V's many volcanoes. The underbelly of the clouds was lit with a constant red hue from the glow of the planet's countless volcanoes, as rivers of molten rock poured con­tinuously over the world, sweeping away tracts of jungle in fiery outbursts of the planet's inner turmoil.

A tiny pinprick of light appeared in the gloomy heav­ens, bright yellow and moving fast. It swiftly blossomed into a crisp glow as it neared, and the roaring of the gunship's engines barked out over the sound of the wind. Plasma engines trailing fire, the Thunderhawk dived steeply towards the jungle, vaporous whirls trailing from the tips of its stubby wings, its blunt, faceted prow cleav­ing forcefully through the dense atmosphere.

Alert to any possible danger, multi-barrelled weapons tracked back and forth beneath the gunship's wings as it pulled up from the screaming dive and levelled out barely ten metres above the tops of the trees. The Thun­derhawk raced over the heaving sea of flat leaves, its backwash shuddering the upper branches of the jungle as it passed.

The engine roar slowed to a whining growl as the air­craft fiercely braked, the glow of plasma from its main engines dimming, to be replaced by the blue glare of landing thrusters. Descending on azure pillars of flame, the Thunderhawk dropped into the caldera, scattering the terrified tribesmen beneath it as it dropped down from the night sky close to the central fire.

For a moment, panic gripped the villagers who frantically ran to and fro to avoid the burning jets, until their leaders called out, telling them not to be afraid. By the time the gunship settled heavily on its landing feet, sinking deep into the soil that covered the floor of the crater, the chieftain and his best warriors had assembled a welcoming party close to the landing craft. The engines cut out and left a still, tense silence for a few seconds before the front ramp lowered with a grinding of hydraulics.

The ramp reverberated with a clang of heavy booted feet as Boreas stepped out of the Thunderhawk. Clad in his black power armour, he was an imposing sight. Thick plates of dense alloys covered with ablative ceramite pro­tected his entire body. Beneath the crushing weight of the armour, bundles of muscle-like fibres expanded and con­tracted in response to his every moment, allowing him to move as swiftly as if unencumbered. His skull-helmeted head was flanked by two immense shoulder pads, mounted on actuators that constantly changed their position, allowing him free movement and all-round vis­ibility, but providing a near-impenetrable shield against attack from the flank. All of this was powered by the backpack plugged into the spine of his armour, linked directly into his own nervous system so that he could reg­ulate the power to his suit as effortlessly as he controlled the beating of his twin hearts or the combat stimulants his armour could pump into his bloodstream at a moment's notice.

Even without the strength-boosting properties of his armour, Boreas's genetically enhanced physiology made him many times stronger and faster than a normal human. Armoured for battle he could crush a man's skull in his fist and punch through the armour of a tank. Hun­dreds of relays within the armour bolstered his already acute senses, feeding him a constant stream of informa­tion from extra senses, his specially developed brain assessing them all subconsciously as a normal man might look with his eyes and hear with his ears.

Boreas paused for a second and looked at the villagers who were gathering close by, the auto-senses of his skull helm casting a red tinge on the proceedings. Olfactory fil­ters allowed him to identify the contents of the atmosphere - mostly oxygen and nitrogen, but with heavy traces of sulphur, carbon from the fires, the sweat of the villagers; all of this he took in without conscious effort.

'Terrorsight,' Boreas muttered, his armour's audio pick­up detecting the sub-vocal command. His view blurred and changed. The people of the village now stood out as stark outlines, and he could see their organs and their veins pulsing with life beneath their skin. It took a moment for Boreas's straining eyes to discern the over­lapping shapes and colours, until he could make sense of his surroundings again. To the villagers who stared open-mouthed at him, the eyes of his helmet turned from a dull red to a blaze of energy and an awed murmur rip­pled over the settlement.

Boreas calmly looked around the caldera, his enhanced vision passing through the rock to gaze at the people concealed within the caves, at their crude bedding and furniture all picked out as a maze of grey and green lines. There were few, infants mostly. Satisfied that all was as expected, and that no unseen threat lurked within the tribal settlement, he whispered another command that returned his sight to normal.

Boreas blinked inside his helmet to dear his vision. Even such a short spell of super-enhanced sight had left vague after-images dancing on the edges of his vision. When he had first been gifted with his armour, more finely crafted and filled with auxiliary systems than even standard power armour, he had thought the terrorsight a miracle. However, he had soon learned that to use it for too long could lead to severe disorientation and nausea, despite the many months of training and his centuries of experience.