Angels of Darkness

'Area is secure, follow me,' he stated and his helm trans­mitted his words to the other Space Marines still within the gunship.



As he strode down the ramp, Boreas was followed by the other members of his small command. The first was Hephaestus, his Techmarine and pilot of the Thunderhawk. His armour was almost as ornate as Boreas's, his chest plate wrought with the design of a two-headed eagle with wings spread, a cog clasped in its claws, the severe green broken only by the red of his left shoulder pad to indicate his special rank. Next came the two bat-de-brothers, Thumiel and Zaul, who marched down the ramp side-by-side in unison, carrying their boltguns casually, but the constant movement of their helmeted heads betrayed their unflinching alertness. Last of the group was Nestor, the Apothecary and guardian of their physical well-being. His white armour bulged with fitted equipment, his forearms heavy with sprouting needles and half-concealed phials, and cables that swung heavily from his bulky backpack.



The eldest of the villagers stepped forward and bowed on one knee, followed by the rest of the tribe. He was thin and wiry, but despite his advanced years, his muscles were taut and he moved with fluid grace. He wore a short sarong of thick animal hide, dyed deep red and painted with the image of leaves. His body was covered in blue tattoos across his chest and arms, and over his bald head. Each was made up of small dots and depicted blazing stars, strange nebula swirls, and oddly drawn diagrams of orbital systems and moons. Across his shoulders he wore a long cloak woven from thin vines, studded with tiny barbs that worried at his flesh, leaving his shoulders and back raw and bleeding.



After a long pause of deference, he stood again, his head reaching only as far as Boreas's chest. Gazing up into the severe, stylised skull face, the chieftain smiled, his wrinkled face creasing deeper.



'We are honoured that you visit us again,' he said with a short nod of satisfaction. It took a moment for Boreas to understand the barbarians' dialect of Imperial Gothic, but after listening for a short while his mind translated the more archaic and parochial terms used. 'Twice now in my life the warriors of the stars have visited my peo­ple, and twice now they have taken the best of our sons to fight with them.'



'External address,' Boreas sub-vocalised, his helmet amplifying his voice so that it reached across the whole village. Reaching into his memory, Boreas recalled the name of the leader of this particular tribe. 'Yes, Hebris, the sons of your people now honour us with their skills and dedication. And now we have come again to choose new warriors for the Emperor beyond the cloud. I trust that you are prepared?'



'As ever, lords,' Hebris said solemnly. 'For long years we have awaited your return, and our best hunters and war­riors have looked to the skies for a sign of your coming. A generation of our strongest have passed while your eyes were elsewhere, but the next worthy ascendants are ready to prove themselves to you.'



'That is good,' Boreas said, head tilted to look down at the tattooed scalp of the elder. 'We are ready for the trial to begin.'



'We are always ready, it is a good omen that you visit us today, the twentieth year since my father died and I was given the cloak of thorns,' Hebris said. 'This night shall be remembered by my people for many generations to come. Please, follow me.'



The group of warriors parted to form a path for their visitors. They were tall and lean, dressed in armour made from the hide of the fierce mutant beasts they hunted in the jungles. It was crudely shaped in imitation of the giant Space Marines who took their bravest young war­riors every so often - bulging chestplates, rounded shoulder pads, flared greaves around their legs. Each held a spear tipped with sharpened bone and hung with tufts of fur, feathers and claws taken from their prey.



Their bodies, like their chiefs, were heavily tattooed with stars and suns, symbols of crescent moons and long-tailed comets.



None of their people had seen these things for thou­sands of years; the night sky was a featureless sheet of cloud to them. The knowledge of their existence had been passed down from their ancestors who had first settled this world more than twenty thousand years before, ten millennia before the coming of the Emperor, in the time known as the Dark Age of Technology.



For hundreds of centuries, Piscina V had been plun­dered for its rich mineral deposits, the sky polluted with waste, the rivers sucked dry. When the Age of Strife had swept across the ancient galactic empire of mankind, Piscina V had been isolated for thousands of years and over this time the planet reclaimed itself from the human interlopers. The geothermal energy stations that had once leeched energy from the planet's core had fallen into disrepair and malfunctioned. The planet had been wracked by massive earthquakes that destroyed the mighty cities, killed the population by the million, plunging the world into a new age of barbarism.



Now Piscina V was dominated by immense volcanoes, the belching fumes from their fiery outbursts replacing the smog of a hundred thousand factories.



Hebris led Boreas and the other Space Marines between the two rows of his personal hunters and war­riors, while the other villagers crowded close in behind them to get a good look at their otherworldly visitors. They followed the old chieftain as he led them up a shal­low ramp that wound around the edge of the crater until it reached a flat platform to an opening some ten metres above the ground level of the caldera.



At the back of the platform was the largest cave open­ing in the village, flanked by two guards dressed in a similar manner to the warriors who had formed the hon­our guard, with the addition of helmets fashioned from animal skulls. Inside was a shrine, lit by hundreds of lamps made from the fat of the jungle creatures these people hunted for survival. On ornately carved tables, sacred artefacts from the prehistory of the tribesmen were kept on display, to be revered by those who would never understand their true origins or workings. They were almost as incomprehensible to Boreas as they were to the chieftain and his people, but he knew enough to recog­nise them as broken pieces of archeotech.



Most were almost unrecognisable under the thick lay­ers of rust that had gathered despite the best efforts of Hebris's priests to keep them clean. The acidic, humid air of Piscina V was the bane of all metal. Here and there, though, was a shape that Boreas recognised, crafted from long-forgotten materials resistant to the planet's harsh environment - fan blades, gears and wheels, circuitry drawn with intricate crystal layers, ceramic bottles that glowed with their own light. Boreas glanced back to see Hephaestus bending over a particular object that looked like a mechanical spider with coils of wire sheath splayed from its rusted body.



'Don't touch anything,' warned Boreas as the Techmarine reached out a hand towards the device. He stopped instantly, his helmeted head turning towards the Inter­rogator-Chaplain.



'The Adeptus Mechanicus would be very pleased for these artefacts,' Hephaestus said over the inter-squad comm-link. 'They might prove useful for bargaining with them.'



'And you have no personal interest at all, of course,' joked Zaul from behind Hephaestus.



'I am a Space Marine first and foremost, a techpriest only after that,' Hephaestus replied in a disgruntled voice.



'We are here to attend other matters, conduct yourselves with decorum,' Boreas chided them both. 'These relics belong to Hebris and his people, do not dishonour our Chapter and yourself by treating them with disrespect.'



'I understand, Brother-Chaplain, I apologise for my error in judgment,' replied Hephaestus, straightening up.



'I too am sorry for any misdeed,' added Zaul with a nod to Boreas.



'Then all is well,' Boreas told them. He noticed that the village elder was looking at the giant warriors, his face a picture of wide-eyed awe. He was, of course, oblivious to the exchange going on between the Space Marines, but Boreas realised that their body language and gestures betrayed their communication.



'External address. We were just admiring the sacred relics of your people,' Boreas remarked to Hebris, turning away from the rest of the squad.



'We found another in the jungles seven summers ago,' Hebris said proudly, his face split with a grin as he pointed at a particular misshapen lump of debris.



'External address. Your diligence does you and your peo­ple credit,' Hephaestus said laying a massive gauntleted hand on Hebris's shoulder. The old man visibly sagged under the weight and the Techmarine quickly removed his hand and crossed his arms over his chest.



'I thank you for your kind words,' Hebris replied. 'But, enough of this! Bring out the bench for our lords.'



The elder clapped his hands and four muscular war­riors ran to the back of the cave and emerged with a mighty seat hewn from a single tree trunk. Sweating and grunting under the weight, they manhandled it to the front of the platform outside the cave, where they set it down. Boreas and the others took their places and sat, the bench creaking under their combined weight but holding up under the strain.



'You may begin,' said Boreas with a nod towards Hebris. The chieftain scampered forward and called down to the villagers, who had gathered in a semi-circle below the shrine.



'My beloved sons and daughters,' Hebris cried out, his face beaming. 'Tonight is a night long-awaited! Our young braves shall fight in the trials before the eyes of the sky-warriors who serve the Emperor beyond the cloud. Those that are worthy shall go into the stars, there to fight for glory, and great honour and fortune shall they bring to our people. Let the willing ascendants come forth!'



Out of a cave at the foot of the cliff filed a group of twenty youths, in their early teenage years. They were naked except for splashes of purple and red war paint daubed in handprints over their chests and faces. In their hands, they each carried a skull or large bone, trophies from the hunts they had participated in.



They solemnly marched into the semi-circle formed by the villagers and stood in a line facing the Space Marines. Raising their prizes above their heads they shouted out in unison.



'Great lords of the Emperor,' they cried. 'We shall shed our blood today to prove our worth to you!'



The furthest to the left stepped forward, bowed to one knee and reverentially laid a viciously-fanged skull the size of his torso in front of him. Straightening, he looked up at the Space Marines.



'I have hunted for six seasons of the storm,' he called to them. 'This past year I slew a dagger-tooth with my spear, and I offer its head in tribute.'



When he stepped back, the next in the line took his place, crossing a pair of bones each as long as his arm and placing them next to the dagger-tooth skull.



'I have hunted for seven seasons of the storm,' he intoned solemnly. 'My fellow hunters wounded this tree-jaw and I finished it with my knife.'



One by one, each of the aspirants stepped forward and proclaimed how they had come by their offerings, laying them on the ground beneath the platform. Boreas sat and nodded to each of them, but said nothing.



'And now we shall show our honoured visitors the strength of our people,' Hebris declared, clapping his hands again.



From one side of the caldera, a group of five warriors emerged carrying logs of different lengths and girths, and laid them out in front of the platform in ascending size. They then stepped back and the youths trotted for­wards.



In the same order as before, each ran to the first log and grabbed it by the end. The warrior then stepped for­ward and placed his foot against the opposite end so that it would not slip and the youth hauled the log up and attempted to lever it above his head. As each stood there, arms quivering with the strain, the tribe gave out a great cheer and they gratefully dropped it back to the earth. All passed the first test with ease.



The trial was then repeated with the second tree trunk, and once more each of the aspirants was successful, though many wobbled dangerously and their legs threat­ened to buckle beneath the weight. At the third log, the first youth failed, throwing himself to one side as his straining arms faltered when it was at neck-height and the log tumbled from his grip. There was no cheer this time, but as he walked away from the group with his head hung with sadness into the arms of his family, they clapped him on the back reassuringly and ruffled his tou­sled hair affectionately.



Of the others, three more failed to lift the third log and were eliminated. It slipped from the grasp of one of them and he did not avoid its fall, catching a glancing blow to his leg which sent him sprawling. Shame-faced, he limped heavily from the contest, slapping away the hands of those who offered to support him.



After the fourth, two more had failed the task, but of those that remained, each managed to lift the fifth and final log, to resounding cheers from the gathered tribes people. As the fifteen remaining aspirants knelt in the earth and bowed their heads to the Space Marines, the logs were dragged away.



'And now we shall show our honoured visitors the speed of our people,' Hebris announced, once more clap­ping his hands together.



The crowd parted so that a path was formed from one edge of the village to the other, stretching out from the audience platform. At the far end, six warriors stood holding bright red cloths, and six more fell into line at the foot of the platform. The aspirants lined up ready for the race to begin.



As one, the warriors dropped the rags and the boys set off at a sprint. A small, red-haired lad soon streaked into the lead, gaining several metres on his competitors after only a dozen strides. The crowd clapped and roared as the boys ran between them, nudging and elbowing each other as they jostled for position.



The first boy reached the far end quickly and snatched up one of the rags and spun to begin the return leg. A few seconds later, the others were also halfway and those with the fastest hands managed to grab the five remain­ing rags. They all hurtled back towards the Space Marines, and it was here that some began to tire, lagging behind the others as the group slowly stretched out. Just fifty metres from the end, the youth in the lead slowed rapidly, his gait becoming awkward as cramp gripped his legs. Teeth gritted, he hobbled on as the others ran past him, clawing at each other to get in front and claim the remaining qualification places.



One tripped and fell and was stepped on by the boy behind him, eliciting a laugh from the onlookers. Dust­ing himself down, he rose to his feet and gamely sprinted on, one arm nursing his bruised back. In the final dash for the finish, a tall, long-limbed youth surged ahead. He had obviously been saving his strength and in the last ten metres hurled himself forward and made a dive for one of the remaining cloths. The others followed in his wake and there was a desperate mad scramble of those who had not yet claimed a cloth, but eventually the twelve winners emerged.



The three others turned to leave, but the red-headed youth hobbled after them and grabbed one by the shoulder. There was a brief exchange, while the boy tried to force the other aspirant to take the cloth, as he could not carry on himself, but the other youth refused, pushing him away. Hebris's guards stepped in and separated the two as they squared up to fight, banishing them both back to the crowd with angry cuffs round the back of their heads. Once things had settled again, the eleven remaining competitors returned to their places in front of Boreas, the red cloths now tied around their waists. Hebris raised his arms into the air and his people's chattering and shouting fell silent.



'And now we shall show our honoured visitors how we can leap through the air like the lash-monkey,' he pro­claimed, clapping his hands together once.



This time, twenty warriors emerged from one of the caves, each carrying a bundle of thin sharpened stakes roughly waist-high in length. They formed a line from Boreas's left to his right at one pace intervals and crouched down, the spears held upright in front of them.



The first youth jogged to the end of the line and then turned and bowed to the Space Marines. After receiving a nod from Boreas, he ran towards the line of crouching warriors. Leaping into the air, he stepped onto the back of the first and jumped forwards onto the back of the next, over the spear tips. From one to the next to the next, he leapt nimbly along the line, using the warriors as stepping-stones over the jagged spear tips. On the twelfth he faltered and threw himself to the side and landed heavily in the dirt.



The villagers' cheer echoed off the caldera's walls as he pushed himself to his feet and stood up with arms raised.



The next youth fell after only eight jumps, scoring a bloody cut into his thigh on the spear dps as his balance failed him and he tumbled forward. He stood there on one leg, blood streaming down the other, and acknowl­edged the adulation of the crowd. The next aspirant almost made it to the end, falling only after seventeen jumps, and the roar of the appreciative tribesmen was deafening.



The other aspirants each took their turn to greater or lesser degrees of success until all had completed the trial. The tenth warrior in the row then stood up and with the hafts of the thin spears he carried, he whipped the four boys who had failed to reach him back into the mass of villagers. Now only seven remained.



They ran into one of the caves, out of sight of Boreas, and emerged again a few minutes later. Each carried a cudgel tipped with the long tooth of a giant predator, and a shield made from woven hide pulled taut in a wooden frame.



'And now that we have proven the worth of our bod­ies, let us prove the worth of our spirit!' shouted Hebris, and the crowd formed back into a semicircle facing the Space Marines, leaving the aspirants in an area roughly twenty metres across. 'Only in battle shall we know this!'



The boys began to drum their clubs onto their shields, and other drums from around the caldera took up the frantic beat. For several minutes they drummed louder and louder until the boys were sweating with the effort, their limbs trembling from exertion. Hebris looked over at Boreas, who nodded.



'Let the trial begin!' Boreas roared over the cacophony, standing up and raising his right fist above his head.



The boys broke rank and formed into a circle facing each other, their weapons and shields held ready. The other drums slowed pace, a low beat sounding out every couple of seconds as the young ascendants eyed each other warily, casting glances up at the Space Marines high above them. Without a word, Boreas dropped his hand and the ritual battle began.



A blond-haired youth to Boreas's right charged for­wards across the open space, his weapon held high as he screamed a war cry. Brave, but rash, thought Boreas as he saw the boy quickly encircled by the others and cut down. The fight quickly broke down into a scattered set of duels, except for two of the warriors, who stood back-to-back towards one side, keeping a wary eye on the progress of the fighting.



Boreas paid particular attention to them, watching as they worked together when the survivors of the individ­ual contests emerged and sought fresh enemies...



Soon only the pair remained and one other, the rest of the aspirants having thrown down their weapons and surrendered, lying unconscious from receiving a beating, or sitting in the mud bleeding heavily and unable to con­tinue. All around them, the tribes people hooted and chanted, the ever-present rumbling of the drums echoing around the amphitheatre.