Angels of Darkness

'You attacked Tharsis because of the ravings of a mad­man?' Astelan said, his voice full of derision.



'No, Commander Astelan, we did not' Boreas said slowly, taking measured paces towards him as he spoke, until he filled Astelan's vision, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the brazier. 'The memories of the Dark Angels go back a long time, back ten thousand years when those like you turned on their brethren and betrayed them. Little is now known about that time of anarchy, and few records of what transpired are left, but there is a list, a list kept by the Grand Master of Chaplains in a sacred box in the main chapel. For ten times a thousand years we have hunted the Fallen Angels that almost destroyed the Lion and his Legion, wher­ever they might be. We do not know how many of you there are, or where we might find you. But we have that list, and it contains the names of the hundred and thirty-six Space Marines who first swore allegiance to Luther when he rose against our primarch. Your name, Commander Astelan, is at the top of that list. We have been hunting you for a very long time, and now we shall learn the truth from you.'



Boreas turned and opened the door. There, swathed in robes, stood Samiel. The Librarian walked softly into the room and stood beside Astelan's head. He reached down and the former Chapter commander tried to move his head aside, but his restraints did not allow him room. The psyker's cold hands rested on his forehead, and Astelan felt a voice whispering at the back of his mind.



You have deluded yourself for too long, it sighed. Now is the time when we strip away the lies. Now we strip away your delusions, until all that is left is the stark truth of your actions. You have hidden from the guilt at the core of your soul, but we will not allow you to hide any longer. You will know the shame and pain you have brought us, and you will repent of your evil ways.



'I have done no wrong!' rasped Astelan, trying to shake his head free.



'Liar!' roared Boreas, and pain beyond anything he had ever endured before lanced through Astelan's head.



'Now we will begin again,' the Interrogator-Chaplain told his prisoner. 'Tell me of Tharsis.'



THE TALE OF BOREAS



PART TWO



It was four days after the clash with the orks, and Boreas knelt in silent meditation in the outpost chapel. He was clad only in his white robe, a mark of his position within the elite warriors of the Chapter - the Deathwing. What the others did not realise was that it was also a mark of his membership within the secretive Inner Circle of the Chapter. Lifting the robe slightly, he knelt before an altar of dark stone inlaid with gold and platinum. The altar was at one end of the chapel, which itself was situated at the top of the five-storey Dark Angels' keep in Kadillus Harbour, capital of Piscina IV. The chamber was not large, for space was at a premium in the small tower, big enough only for fifty people to attend the dawn and dusk masses that Boreas held every day.



Three of the keep's many non-Space Marine attendants were at work renewing the murals that covered the chapel's interior, failed aspirants who had nonetheless survived their trials. Two were busy reapplying gilding to a portrait of the Dark Angels' primarch, Lion El'lonson, which towered some three metres in height above the altar.



Boreas tried to block out the occasional creak and squeak of the painters' wooden scaffolding. The other was renovating a scene added after the Dark Angels' last defence of Piscina, when the ork warlords Ghazghkull and Nazdreg had combined forces and fallen upon the planet like two thunderbolts of destruction. For Boreas, that particular picture brought both pride and a little consternation. It depicted the defence of the Dark Angels' basilica which had once served as their outpost in the capital. It was here that Boreas himself had led the fight­ing against the vicious alien horde on numerous occasions, as possession of the strategically vital strong-point had changed hands back and forth for the whole campaign. It was during the battle for the basilica that Boreas had lost his right eye to an ork powerfist, which had nearly crushed his head. Though eventually the orks had been driven out of the basilica, and the planet saved by an epic battle at Koth Ridge, so intense had been the fighting at the blood-soaked chapter house that after the orks had been defeated, the Dark Angels had been forced to abandon the fortified administration building and construct a new keep. The ruins themselves still stood a kilometre or so from where Boreas now knelt, a testa­ment to the protection the Dark Angels had provided for countless millennia.



Reminded of the valiant battle-brothers whose dying words he had heard in those shattered rooms and corri­dors, and mindful of the great sacrifices that his fellow Space Marines had made, both the Dark Angels and those of the Harbingers Chapter, Boreas felt a dghtness in his chest. Had the basilica really been that important, he asked himself yet again? Perhaps it had just been pride that had driven Master Belial to command Boreas to defend the building at all costs? In the end, the fighting in the dark cathedral had been but a sideshow of the campaign, the relative merits of the engagement incon­clusive compared to the slaughter at Koth Ridge.



With a terse command, Boreas dismissed the serfs, their presence breaking his concentration as he was try­ing to focus on the oath of fealty he had pledged when he had joined the Inner Circle. They did not give him a second glance as they quietly picked up their tools and left, for which he was thankful. Despite the doubts he felt, he still had a duty as the Dark Angels commander in Piscina to show strong leadership and set an example to the others. If he showed weakness for a moment, it could cause unknown damage, not only to himself but also to those who looked to his wisdom and guidance with absolute trust. If that trust were to be broken, then only Boreas truly knew what acts of anarchy and corruption might follow.



Realising that it was not the presence of the serfs that was disturbing his meditation, but his own dark thoughts, Boreas decided that he would not quiet his troubled soul in isolation. Perhaps he might find more solace in the company of the five Space Marines under his command, he thought, and resolved to leave. Glancing only briefly at the half-gilded primarch in front of him, he turned and strode from the chapel, his bare feet padding loudly on the flagstones. Passing through the double doors that opened out of the sanc­tum, he turned and closed them behind him, the boom of the heavy wooden doors loud in the stillness of the keep. Turning left in the corridor, he crossed the tower to the armoury, where he hoped to find Hep­haestus.



Boreas was proved correct as he stepped into the work­shop of the Techmarine. Like most of the keep, the chamber was square and functional, the plain rockcrete of the walls unadorned. There, amongst the racks of weapons and worktables, accompanied by his five atten­dants, Hephaestus was seated at a workbench, working on Boreas's power armour. He had the chest plastron in a vice and was busily filing away at the scores cut into the breastplate during the battle against the orks. From beside him, one of his attendants occasionally dipped a ladle into a grail of sacred water and poured the contents over the mechanical file.



On Boreas's left were cases of bolters and crates of ammunition, all stacked neatly and marked with the brand of the Imperial eagle and the winged sword sym­bol of the Dark Angels. Next to them various swords and axes hung on the wall, amongst them chainswords, power swords and Boreas's crozius. They glistened in the light from the glowing strips in the ceiling, a tribute to the attention paid by Hephaestus, who lovingly cleaned them every night with blessed oils.



'And what brings you into my chamber, Brother-Chaplain?' Hephaestus asked, as Boreas realised he had been staring transfixed at the sheen on his crozius. The Techmarine was looking over his shoulder at Boreas.



'You were late for mass last night,' Boreas said, know­ing he wasn't quite sure why he had come here.



'Come, come,' said Hephaestus, wiping his meaty hands on a white cloth and standing up from his bench. 'You know that I had to attend to my duties here, as I have every night since the fight at Vartoth.'



'Of course,' agreed Boreas, knowing full well that a Techmarine had dispensation from prayers if his atten­dance would interfere in the repair or upkeep of the Space Marines' wargear. 'I did not realise that our encounter had left you such a long task.'



'I would rather spend twenty hours repairing a bolter, than think for a moment that my battle-brothers had not committed fully to the fight in wayward consideration of my labours,' Hephaestus smiled. 'And I am paying particular attention to your armour, Interrogator-Chaplain, as it deserves.'



'Yes, I know of your love for the works of the artificer Mandeus,' Boreas said, allowing himself a rare smile. 'Did you not once say to me that you would die content if you could one day fashion a suit of armour half as great as the one that I inherited?'



'I might well have said that,' agreed Hephaestus, 'but in error. These days, having worked with your armour so much, I have learnt much of Mandeus's techniques, and now I will only be content if I make a suit as good as this one!'



'Would you not prefer to better Mandeus's work?' Boreas asked, walking to the bench and looking at the scattered pieces of servos and artificial muscle-fibres that Hephaestus had removed from the breastplate.



'If I can emulate his skill with the tools I have here and the time I have, then I will judge myself the better arti­san,' Hephaestus said quietly. Boreas gave him a questioning look and the Techmarine continued. 'The great artificers Mandeus, Geneon, Aster and their like all worked in the Tower of Angels, amongst the brethren, with acolytes to perform many of the duties that fill my days. You have seen the great armorium of our Chapter. It dwarfs the entirety of this keep!'



'You feel burdened by your post here?' Boreas asked quietly, knowing that he too felt the same constriction on his soul, the same chafing to be free of Piscina and its confines. 'You feel you could better serve the Emperor in the armorium with your fellow Techmarines?'



Hephaestus hesitated, his eyes gauging Boreas's expres­sion. After a momentary glance at the attendants in the room, who were busying themselves with their duties and paying little heed to their masters, or so it appeared, he answered thoughtfully.



'We all have fought here, shed our blood on these vol­canic islands to protect Piscina from the orks,' he said, his voice low as he bent close to the Interrogator-Chaplain. 'I stand ready to do so again, and will labour in this place until such time as the Grand Master of the Armorium sees fit to send another in my stead.'



'Yet you have not answered the question,' Boreas per­sisted with a sad smile. 'I do not seek to judge you, for have you not been raised to glory by your works? I can­not hold you to account for longing to tread in the steps of your great predecessors. You are a magnificent artificer, and your patience is a tribute to our Chapter. I cannot speak the minds of the Grand Masters, but when the Tower of Angels returns to us again, they shall know of your dedication and skill.'



'I sought not for praise, Brother-Chaplain,' Hephaestus said quickly. 'You asked me the question and I answered as honestly as I can.'



'You are worthy of the praise, all the more so because you do not seek it,' Boreas replied, placing a hand on his comrade's shoulder. 'I ask the question not from suspi­cion, but out of trust. I would not have you burdened with your thoughts and ambirion; you must feel free to speak of them freely, to me or to the others. Only in wishing to rise to greatness ourselves can we maintain the honour and pride of the Chapter.'



'In that case, might I ask you a question, Brother-Chaplain?' Hephaestus said, looking closely at the Chaplain's face.



'Yes, of course,' Boreas answered.



'It is your eye,' Hephaestus said. 'You seem troubled of late and I wondered whether it was functioning prop­erly. .. Is it causing you pain?'



'It causes me constant pain, as you know, Hephaestus,' Boreas replied, removing his hand and stepping back. 'I would not have it any other way, for it serves as a reminder against complacency.'



'I would still like to examine it for a moment, to allay my own fears,' Hephaestus insisted.



'You did a fine job with my eye,' said Boreas. 'It is good to measure yourself against your deeds, but you judge yourself too harshly.'



Seeing the determined looked in the Techmarine's eye, Boreas gave a resigned nod and sat on the bench. Hep­haestus bent over him, his fingers working deftly at the mechanism of the bionic organ, and with an audible click, the main part of its workings came free. Simultane­ously, Boreas lost the sight in his right eye. It was not worrying for him - once a year Hephaestus would remove the eye to ensure it still worked smoothly. It was odd, however, that the Techmarine had asked to do so now, though, barely two months from his last check.



Taking a complex tool from his bench, Hephaestus unlocked the casing of the eye and slid the interior free. He delicately pulled free the lenses, polishing them on his cloth and setting them to one side, before delving inside the eye's innards with fine tweezers. Boreas studied Hephaestus with his good eye as the Techmarine continued his work, watching the inten­sity on the artisan's face as he examined his own construction. If Hephaestus was becoming overly con­cerned about Boreas's well-being, then perhaps the others had noticed his change of mood as well. The Interrogator-Chaplain resolved to speak to them when he was done here, to gauge their mood and ask them some pertinent questions. The inactivity and routine, though they had trained for it, had become monoto­nous. It had been two years since the Tower of Angels had last visited and the isolation from the rest of the Chapter might well have started taking its toll on them as it had done on Boreas.



'Everything appears to be functioning as it should be,' Hephaestus reported, fitting the bionic eye back together and slotting it back into its socket. There was a brief tin­gle in Boreas's right eye and then full vision returned to him. 'However, I did notice some additional scabbing on the implant, as if the wound had opened again recently. You might ask Nestor to have a look at it.'



'Thank you, I will,' Boreas said, glad of the excuse to go and talk to the Apothecary, not that he needed to justify vis­iting those whose morale and discipline he was responsible for preserving. 'Will see you at mass this evening?'



Hephaestus paused and looked around the armoury, assessing his workload. He looked back at Boreas and nodded his head once before sitting down again at his workbench and picking up the mechanical file. The rasp­ing teeth buzzed into life behind Boreas as he walked from the chamber.



The Interrogator-Chaplain walked down the spiral stair at the centre of the keep to the level two storeys below. Here was the apothecarion, the domain of Nestor and medical centre for the outpost. When Boreas entered, there was no sign of the Apothecary. The harsh glowstrips in the ceiling reflected off shining steel sur­faces, meticulously arranged surgical tools, phials of drugs and elixirs set in rows on long shelves. The room was dominated by three operating tables in its centre. Unsure where Nestor might be if not here, Boreas walked to the comm-unit by the door and pressed the rune for general address to the keep.



'This is Boreas, Apothecary Nestor to report,' he said and released the activation stud. It was a few seconds before the response came through, the display on the comm-unit signalling an incoming transmission from the vaults set deep into the tower's foundations.