Angels of Darkness

THE TALE OF ASTELAN

PART FOUR

Voices called to Astelan from the dark shadows of the cell. He thrashed feverishly within his chains, his once mighty frame now wasted and haggard. Not a scrap of flesh had been left unmarked by the Interrogator-Chaplain's cruel ministrations.

Astelan's mind felt as equally ravaged by the psychic intrusions of Samiel. His body battered, his thoughts in tatters, he struggled to maintain a fragile grip on reality.

Unable to move his head very far, his world had con­stricted to a space only a few metres across. He knew every crack and crevice above him, he could picture them in his head as clearly as a map. He knew there were thir­teen blades, three drills, five augurs, eight clamps, nine brands and two barbed hooks on the shelf. He could remember the feel of every one on his flesh, each a little different. Even when Boreas was not there wielding his vicious implements, so confused was Astelan's mind that sometimes he would wake feeling their savage touch upon him.

With creeping fingers, he had counted the links on his chains hundreds of times to keep his thoughts occupied. Every moment that he did not concentrate on some­thing, the voices returned.

He had long given up his refusal to sleep. It mattered not that he cried out when the nightmares assailed him. Awake, he was barely more lucid, the barriers between what was a dream and what was real had blurred for some time.

All this he knew, from a detached, coherent part of his mind that sometimes fought through to take control. He knew the voices were simply echoes in his head of Boreas's questioning and the psychic probing of Samiel. He knew that it was merely an illusion of his tortured senses when the shadows grew hands that reached out towards him. But those times were few, and his moments of lucidity were growing rarer and shorter.

Astelan had lost count of the number of visits he'd had from his captors. Perhaps it had been fifty, perhaps five hundred. Sometimes he argued, other times he shut him­self away, ignoring the slice of the scalpel in his flesh, the boring of the drill through his bones, the searing of his skin on the tip of a brand. Boreas came and went, Samiel came and went, and there was no pattern that Astelan could fathom. Sometimes he awoke to see Boreas stand­ing there watching him, listening to his nightmare-induced screams. Other times the Chaplain plied him with questions, examining every aspect of his answers, but did not inflict any more pain on him. Some­times there was only pain and no questions, or the insidious whispering of the psyker inside his head, call­ing him a liar and an oath-breaker.

As he lay there, tormented and delirious, he dreaded the sound of the large brass key in the lock. And then there were the times when he longed for Boreas to return, when his strained mind could no longer be contained and he had to communicate his raging thoughts. He struggled to remember why he was here, and then recol­lection would surge back, washing away the pain. Though it was a constant struggle, somehow he managed to retain a small piece of what he had been.

In his mind he pictured it as a glowing star hidden away in the centre of his brain. Shadows snatched at it, the burning red eyes of the warlock studied it, but it was safe and secure. It was his dream, his ambition. The return to the glory of the Great Crusade, the casting aside of the meaningless insdtutions and arrangements that had brought mankind low. As he concentrated on it, the glowing star would grow, fuelled by his memories, fanned into greater life by his desire.

Astelan knew that he would never see the Greater Imperium, would never again lead the armies of the Emperor across war zones amidst the crash of bolters and the crackling of flames. That was beyond him now; they had taken that from him when he had given himself up on Tharsis. If he had known, if he had truly realised what they had intended, he would have fought harder than he had ever fought before.

Regret turned to grief as he saw his plan lying in shat­tered pieces, the golden star just a hazy glow that bobbed and weaved, eluding him. For centuries he had been a protector, a leader, a warrior bred for conquest. He looked at the wreck he had become and cursed the Dark Angels, and cursed Lion El'Jonson who had set them on this path. Grief turned to anger and he raged feebly at the chains that bound him to the stone table, barely able to lift himself.

Astelan felt a familiar breeze on his check and looked at the open door, his head lolling weakly onto the slab. Through bruised and bloodshot eyes he saw Boreas enter. Inwardly, Astelan was grateful that Boreas had come alone. The Interrogator-Chaplain walked quickly to the slab, and Astelan heard the clanking of chains and the metallic scratching of a key in a lock. One by one, the chains fell away, their great weight lifting off his limbs and chest. Unencumbered by the heavy iron, Astelan tried to sit up, but found he had not the strength to do so.

'Try harder,' Boreas said softly in his ear. 'Your muscles need reminding what they are for. Try again and they will start to remember.'

Astelan croaked wordlessly, focusing every fibre of his being, summoning all the strength he had. His spine felt like it was on fire, every joint in his body ached and his muscles screamed with the exertion, but after what seemed like hours, Astelan managed to pull and push himself upright.

'Very good,' the Interrogator-Chaplain said, pacing back and forth in front of him. Boreas pointed towards the door. 'You can leave now.'

Astelan turned his head slowly between the door and Boreas, not really understanding what the Chaplain was saying. He frowned, unable for the moment to recall the words to communicate his dulled thoughts.

'Do you have a question?'

Astelan closed his eyes and concentrated. With a supreme effort of will, he stopped his mind from spin­ning. He pointed feebly at his throat.

'You require some water?

Astelan nodded, his head flopping uselessly from side to side as he did so.

'Very well,' Boreas agreed, walking out of the door. Astelan sat there, staring at the light from the guttering torches beyond. It burnt his eyes after so long in the dull shadows. All he had to do was stand and walk five paces and he would be out of the cell, but he was exhausted. He would gather his strength, and then he would walk free.

The Chaplain returned holding a jug of water and goblet.

'You wish to leave, yes?' he said, and Astelan noticed for the first time that his hands were stretched out towards the door. He dropped them back to his side.

Boreas stepped forward and poured water into the gob­let before placing the jug on the ground. He took one of Astelan's hands and wrapped the fingers around the gob­let, and then did the same with the other hand. As the Chaplain took his hands away, the cup slipped from Astelan's grasp and clattered to the ground, splashing him with water as it fell. The cold sharpened his senses immediately.

'Try again,' Boreas urged him, refilling the goblet and holding it out towards him, within easy reach. 'You man­aged to sit up, now you can manage to drink by yourself.'

Astelan's fingers clawed at the cup, but Boreas's grip was firm until he had it safely in his hands. He raised the goblet shaking to his lips and dribbled a few drops onto his tongue. Savouring the sensation, he let a few more drips into his mouth, before he could resist the urge no longer and gulped down the contents. The water refreshed him immediately, washing away some of the confusion and pain.

'I can leave?' he asked, his voice wavering.

'The door is there, all you have to do is stand up and walk out'

'No trickery?'

'I am above trickery, I am following my sacred calling.'

'You will not close the door before I reach it?'

'No, you have my oath as a Space Marine that I will not close the door before you reach it. In fact, that door is never going to be closed again while you are in this cell. You are free to leave at any time you wish.'

Astelan sat there and pondered Boreas's words for a while, his thoughts slow at first but gathering pace and clar­ity. Nodding to himself as he reached his decision, Astelan pushed himself forward onto the floor, his legs buckling, but he held himself up against the slab. Boreas stepped back out of his way and waved him towards the door.

'Very good, commander,' Boreas said with a nod. 'Just a few steps and you will be out of this cell.'

Astelan looked at him, but the Chaplain's expression was noncommital and told him nothing. Summoning his strength, he took a step forward, still leaning against the stone table. His legs barely held his weight and he cautiously pulled back his hand until he was standing free, swaying from side to side. He took a step forward, shuffling his foot along the ground, feeling his mal­treated joints grinding as he did so. Pain lanced through his knees, hips and spine, and he gritted his teeth against the agony. In front, the rectangle of light beyond the door swam in and out of focus.

'You do understand what leaving means?' Boreas said to him. Astelan ignored his taunts and took another fal­tering step forward. 'If you leave this cell, it is because you are afraid. It is because you know your convictions to be false.'

Astelan turned to look at the Chaplain. 'I do not understand,' he said.

'Your great vision, the mighty plan,' Boreas explained. 'I do not believe you. I think you are a liar and a tyrant who has never acted out of anything other than selfish desires.'

'That is not true,' Astelan argued. 'I did it for the Emperor, it was for mankind.'

'I am not convinced. But, you are leaving, are you not? It is immaterial whether I believe you or not. Of course, you are dying, even a Space Marine cannot endure what I have subjected you to. For all your superhuman organs and unnatural strength, they have failed you now and without medical assistance you will soon die. You have lasted long, your gene-seed is very strong. Perhaps the Apothecaries will study it after you have passed on. But you will die peacefully'

'I do not live for a peaceful death!' Astelan's voice was little more than a rasp.

'What do you live for then?' asked Boreas.

'Death in battle, to build the Imperium of Man, to serve the Emperor,' croaked Astelan weakly.

'And you do that by walking out of that door and lying down to die in some forgotten chamber, do you?' Boreas's mocking tone lashed at Astelan, sending his thoughts spinning into turmoil again. 'Are you running from the fight, Chapter commander? Are you afraid that perhaps your convictions are not as strong as you thought, that perhaps your lies are beginning to unravel? But, leave! Leave and die with the knowledge that you did not have to face that ultimate test, that you aban­doned the chance to tell me more of your vision, to convince me of your worth. Leave and you will save your­self much misery and pain, and I will know that you die as a heretic because it will prove to me that you are weak. That you are the type of man that could break his oaths, that could turn and attack his masters, and wage bloody war against those he once served. Leave!'

'No!' Astelan took a step towards Boreas, a sudden surge of strength welled up within him, fuelled by his anger. 'I am right! I tread the true path, it is you who have wandered.'

'Then stay and prove it,' offered Boreas. 'How much pain is the Emperor's true will worth? The pain you feel now? The same amount again? Thrice as much? How much pain will you endure to stay true to the Emperor?'

'All the pain in the galaxy, if it proves to you that what I say is true,' Astelan replied.

'Do you believe me now that I could keep you alive for a hundred days?' Boreas asked.

'Yes, yes I believe it,' Astelan said, his head nodding against his chest.

'And yet you have only endured my attention for fif­teen days,' the Chaplain told him with a grim smile.

'Fifteen days? That is not possible.' The strength that Astelan had felt leeched from his body. Could it possibly be true? Had he undergone only fifteen days of this tor­ment?

'I do not lie, what would be the purpose?' Boreas said, crossing his arms. 'You were brought here only fifteen days ago. That torment, that pain, is the work of a mere fifteen days. You can end it all. Just three steps and you will have left this cell, left the agony behind.'

Astelan looked at the glow beyond the door, which beckoned and taunted him with equal strength. He took two steps forward, up to the door itself, and stopped there to ease his protesting body.

'A single step, just a single step from peace,' Boreas goaded him.

Astelan leant on the door, and turned his head to look at the Interrogator-Chaplain over his shoulder. Swinging his arm, he slammed the door shut, the clang reverberat­ing around the cell. For an instant, just a fraction of a moment, Boreas's studied expression changed, a glim­mer of approval that quickly faded back to the Chaplain's normal blank demeanour.

Astelan straightened himself and walked purposefully back to the slab and lay down upon it, and stared at Boreas. The Interrogator-Chaplain walked over and leaned over his prisoner.

'Very well, you have made your choice,' he said. 'But there is still another way. A way without chains, without pain, without Brother Samiel.'

'I wish to hear no more of your tricks,' Astelan replied, turning his head away.

'There is no need for this. I can put away the blades and hooks, and we will just speak, as one Space Marine to another,' Boreas said, his voice quiet and soothing. 'All I ask is that you open your mind and your heart. Examine your feelings, probe your motives. Look with eyes untainted by centuries of hate, years of isolation and misunderstanding. Scrutinise your ambitions and see if they are pure.'

'I know that they are,' Astelan said defiantly.

'For now,' Boreas argued, leaning forward on the slab. 'But we will just talk, and you will listen to me as I will listen to you, and you will learn that your arguments have no weight.'

'I think not,' snorted Astelan.

'Then if you have nothing to hide from, speak freely, tell me your story, open your thoughts to me and we shall see,' Boreas said insistently.

Astelan sat up and looked directly at Boreas, but he could read nothing in the Interrogator-Chaplain's expres­sion.

'What do you wish to know?' Astelan asked.

'Tell me of Caliban, your homeworld,' Boreas said.

'You talk of speaking openly and with truth, and yet your first question is based upon ignorance,' Astelan started to laugh but it turned to a choke that made him retch.

'What do you mean?' Boreas's brow was creased with a frown of confusion.

'Caliban is not my homeworld, it never was,' Astelan told him, lying back against the slab and pausing until his ragged breathing had eased. 'I was of the old Legion, of the Dark Angels before the coming of Lion El'Jonson. I was born on Terra, from a family whose forefathers had freed the ancient birthplace of humanity from the evil grip of the Age of Strife. Since the Emperor revealed him­self and his purpose, my people have fought alongside him. When first he began to breed a new type of super­human warrior, it was from my people that he took his first test subjects. With their aid, the Emperor recon­quered Terra and humanity was on the brink of launching into a golden age, the Age of the Imperium. So it is not strange that when he perfected his techniques for the creation of the Space Marines, many of my people were chosen to lead the Great Crusade, myself amongst them. That is why you speak in lies, because Terra was the world of my birth.'

'So you cared nothing for Caliban?' suggested Boreas.

'That is not true either,' Astelan said, closing his eyes, feeling the sweat from his exertions rolling down his face. 'As the Legions conquered the galaxy, rediscovered human worlds and freed them from aliens and their own self-destructive ignorance, we came across the primarchs. It had been a version of the gene-seed that the Emperor had used to create us, so each of the primogenitors, the Legions, in part were bound to the fate of their primarch. When the Emperor found Lion El'Jonson on Caliban, we all celebrated. The Emperor told us that the Dark Angels had a new home and we were filled with joy, for we were now far from Terra.'

'So what happened next? What started you on that dark path to treachery?' Boreas's voice was flat, emotion­less.

'We adopted Caliban as our own, and when El'Jonson was given the command of the Legion, we thought it fit­ting,' Astelan answered slowly, having to gather his thoughts before every sentence, ignoring the accusations of treachery. He no longer had the strength to argue every barbed comment made by Boreas. 'It was good that new Chapters of Dark Angels would be raised from Caliban's people, for it gave them identity and focus, something that was precious in those tumultuous times. I did not know then that our new primarch would betray us, would destroy everything that we had created.'

'Tell me of the fighting on Caliban. How did it begin?' asked Boreas.

'Our glorious primarch, in his supposed wisdom, had abandoned us there. He had turned from those who had come before him, who had welcomed him as a lost father and taken his homeworld as their own.' A chill swept over Astelan's body as he thought of the events that had led to his defiance of the primarch. He looked at Boreas. 'It had been a grave mistake, but we had sworn oaths of loyalty and we would not break them. We hoped that our primarch would see the error he had made. I sent deputations to him to reconsider his decision, but they were all returned without a reply. Not even a reply! From afar, El'Jonson was pouring scorn on us with his silence.'

'And that is how Luther bent you to his evil ways?' Boreas asked, his voice now becoming more insistent.

'Luther? Ha!' Astelan's exclamation dissolved into another painful cough and it was several seconds before he could speak again. 'Your histories demonise him, blame him for all that has befallen the Dark Angels, and yet you know so little of the truth. It is convenient for your legends to show him as the arch-villain, the viper within the nest while the great Lion conquered the galaxy, but El'Jonson's betrayal of Luther was the greatest of all! Without me, Luther would have been left ranting and shouting from his tower to no avail.'