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 institutions 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.’
‘Are you saying that it was you who was responsible for the schism of our Legion, and not Luther?’ Boreas gasped, unable to mask his disbelief. ‘That is a grand and dire claim to make!’
‘I did not say that,’ Astelan said quietly. ‘Rarely are the facts of history as convenient as written words pretend. Luther had the most to be aggrieved about, that is for certain. He had been like a father to the primarch, his closest friend and ally. He had saved El’Jonson from death in the woods. And what did El’Jonson do to repay him? He banished him to Caliban, like the rest of us. He left him to rot while he sought glory for himself.’
‘Luther was the Lion’s guardian of Caliban,’ Boreas said, starting to pace back and forth across the chamber. ‘He had been honoured by the primarch, in showing such faith and trust in him to leave the protection of his homeworld in Luther’s hands.’
‘Luther was almost as great a commander of men as Lion El’Jonson,’ argued Astelan. ‘Though our primarch was gifted beyond compare as a planner and strategist, Luther knew the hearts and minds of men well, better than El’Jonson ever did. When the Emperor had first arrived, and the Dark Angels were given to El’Jonson to lead, Luther had wept that he was too old to become a Space Marine.’
‘As did many of the knights of Caliban,’ replied Boreas, stopping his pacing and looking directly at Astelan. ‘That is why the Emperor sent his best chirurgeons and apothetechs, so that those who were too old for the primarch’s gene-seed might still be given many of the benefits of our altered bodies, living long past their natural deaths and capable of great feats of arms.’
‘And so is it not even stranger that Luther should be left on Caliban, rather than leading those warriors on the field of battle?’ asked Astelan, shifting his weight so that he could look at the Chaplain more easily. ‘I think it is. I think that El’Jonson grew to be afraid of Luther, of his popularity amongst the troops, and so left him on Caliban where his star would rise no more.’
‘These are the lies of Luther. They have polluted your mind, as they polluted the others who turned on their brethren.’ Boreas’s denial was absolute, his face set.
‘For all his skills at fiery speeches and impassioned whispers, Luther was never and could never be a Space Marine,’ Astelan pointed out. ‘There were a few who listened to him, most of them of the new Legion. My Space Marines, while having the deepest respect for Luther and his great achievements, had served under the Emperor himself and owed their loyalty to him alone.’
‘And so how did it come to pass that those supposedly loyal Dark Angels turned on their primarch and betrayed the Emperor, if they did not care for Luther’s oratory?’ Boreas asked, stalking forward.
‘Because I stood up beside him and offered him my support,’ Astelan replied in a hushed whisper. Doubt filled his mind for a moment. Had he not done that, would things have occurred differently? He dismissed the thought; the future of the Dark Angels had been set long before that moment.
‘And why did you do that?’ Boreas’s voice cut through his thoughts.
‘So that we could do what we were always meant to do – fight the Emperor’s enemies and force back the darkness that surrounded mankind,’ Astelan said.
‘Explain.’
‘The primarch was far away, continuing the Great Crusade, when we were brought word of terrible news,’ Astelan told the Chaplain. ‘Horus, greatest of the primarchs, the Emperor’s own Warmaster, had turned traitor. Accounts were fragmentary, and infrequent, but slowly we pieced together what had happened. We heard of his virus bombing at Isstvan, and the dropsite massacre. Primarchs and their Legions were turning against the Emperor, and against themselves. It became impossible to tell friend from foe. We heard on more than one occasion that the Dark Angels had turned on the Emperor, or that Lion El’Jonson had been killed. There was talk of the Space Wolves fighting against the Thousand Sons, and of battle-brother killing battle-brother across the galaxy.’
‘And so you saw the opportunity to turn traitor as well, to side with Horus,’ Boreas accused him.
‘We wanted to leave, to go and fight Horus!’ Astelan’s defiance was weak, his body failing the strength of his spirit. ‘We could be sure of nothing except that which was in our own hearts. It was Luther who first spoke of us leaving Caliban and joining the fight to defend the Emperor.’
‘Luther would have led you to Horus!’ snapped Boreas. ‘And what of the Lion’s commands? Did the stewardship of Caliban mean nothing to Luther and you?’
‘It meant much to Luther, less to me as you might understand,’ admitted Boreas. ‘But how did we know what our primarch wanted us to do? Communication was shattered, and the intent of the Lion obscured by hundreds of light years and conflicting stories. He could have been embattled on some distant planet, or have sided with Horus, or leading the Emperor’s defence, we did not know. And so we took it upon ourselves to divine our own path, for it was the only thing that we could do.’
‘So what happened then? What caused the fighting?’ Boreas stood close again, his robes and skin bathed in the red light of the brazier, giving him a half-daemonic appearance.
‘There were some among our number, newly raised battle-brothers who perhaps slightly lacked the faith and zeal of the old Legion, who opposed our leaving,’ Astelan replied.
‘And so you attacked them, wiped out the dissenters.’ Boreas’s face twisted into a snarl as his anger grew again.
‘It was they who attacked first, and revealed their treacherous intent with the death of hundreds,’ Astelan corrected him. ‘We had prepared everything to leave, and were embarking onto the transports to take us into orbit where the battle barges and strike cruisers of the Chapter awaited us. As the ships began to leave, the traitors struck. Their orbiting ships opened fire on ours, they stormed the planetary defence batteries and opened fire on the transports. Defence lasers blew the transports out of the sky and they rained down in pieces onto us. Some tried to continue into orbit, and they were destroyed by the enemy, while others were blasted into shrapnel as they attempted to land. Their strike was short-lived, however, as we counter-attacked in force. Their ships fled, and those who had taken the batteries were driven out or killed.’
‘So they acted to stop you disobeying the primarch’s orders,’ Boreas suggested.
‘They had no right to!’ rasped Astelan. ‘I have already told you that the primarch’s wishes were as unknown to us as the state of the war against Horus. Theirs was the sinful act, firing on us.’
‘But you did not leave, did you?’ Boreas pointed out.
‘We could not,’ Astelan said with a sorrowful shake of his head. ‘We were afraid of what might happen if we left Caliban in the hands of the treacherous brethren. We could not leave until we were sure that Caliban was safe.’
‘And how did you hope to ensure that?’ demanded Boreas.
‘We hunted them down, of course,’ Astelan told him. ‘They hid in the deep woods, and struck with hit-and-run attacks, but eventually our numbers took their toll and we thought them exterminated. For three months, our guns were silent and it was then that perhaps we committed the only sin – that of complacency. Thinking our foe destroyed we relaxed our guard as we began to make preparations to leave once more. That was when they struck. They had hidden themselves away more thoroughly than we could have ever imagined, in the most inhospitable places on Caliban. Without warning, they gathered their might and launched an attack on the starport, taking several transports. Stunned, we did not react quickly enough and by the time the defence lasers were active, they were already amongst our fleet and we could not target them for fear of hitting our own ships. They concentrated their attacks on the largest craft in the fleet, my own battle barge, the Wrath of Terra. They stormed her, took control, and turned her immense guns and torpedoes on the rest of the fleet. The battle was short-lived, for the Wrath of Terra outclassed any vessel in orbit, and soon my Chapter’s fleet was reduced to smoking wrecks.’
‘And so you were stranded on Caliban, and those who had stayed true to their primarch had finally succeeded in preventing you from joining the Warmaster,’ Boreas said, sharing some pride in the desperate act.
‘It was not their final act,’ Astelan said bitterly. ‘They piloted the Wrath of Terra into Caliban’s atmosphere, where she burned up and exploded into fiery fragments that rained down onto the surface. Plasma reactors trailing infernos exploded in the forests leaving craters kilometres across and sending dust and rock into the sky to obscure the sun. Fragments crashed into the cities and castles, destroying them, and the largest portion of the ship plunged into the southern ocean, creating a tidal wave that wiped out everything within twenty kilometres of the southern coast. Not only had they marooned us on Caliban, they wrought untold destruction upon the planet that had now become our prison.’
‘If what you say is true, then how was it that you fired upon our primarch when he returned?’ Boreas said accusingly.
‘Caliban was then a ravaged, desolate place,’ Astelan continued, his voice dropping to a barely audible murmur. ‘The forests died, the life-giving energies of the sun blotted out by the clouds of dirt and ash that hung in the air. The world was slowly destroying itself, because we had failed to protect it from our own battle-brothers. You speak of shame, but it is nothing compared to the guilt we felt at that time, as the trees burned, and the light of the stars was taken from us.’
‘But why the attack on the Lion?’
‘Luther had taken up residence in Angelicasta, the Tower of Angels, largest citadel on Caliban and greatest fortress of the Dark Angels. I had taken personal command of the outer defences and the laser batteries, from a command centre hundreds of kilo-metres away. When we received a signal that spaceships had entered orbit, we thought at first that the traitor ships had returned – the ones that we had driven off in the first battle.’
‘And that is why you opened fire?’ asked Boreas.
‘No, it is not,’ Astelan replied with defiance. ‘It soon became clear that our primarch had returned. Luther contacted me to ask for my advice. He was troubled because he had intercepted a communication that claimed El’Jonson himself led the approaching ships. He did not know what to do, fearing the wrath of the Lion for what had befallen Caliban.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him nothing,’ Astelan said grimly. ‘I gave the order for the batteries to open fire on the approaching ships.’
‘You gave the command?’ spat Boreas, gripping Astelan’s throat and pressing him back against the slab. ‘It was you who precipitated the destruction of our homeworld? And you say that you have no sins to repent!’
‘I stand by my decision,’ Astelan replied hoarsely, ineffectually trying to prise away the Chaplain’s vice-like grip. ‘There was nothing else I could do. El’Jonson was going to wipe us out, for I suspected that the traitor ships had met him, and their version of events would have damned us all. Our beneficent primarch would have had us all killed for what had happened to his homeworld. I also feared that our primarch was no longer loyal to the Emperor. We had heard little of the exploits of the Dark Angels during the Horus Heresy, and I did not discount the thought that this was due to El’Jonson having sided with Horus.’
‘So you fired because you were scared of retribution?’ Boreas snarled, raising Astelan’s head and cracking it back against the stone table.
‘I fired because I wanted El’Jonson killed!’ spat Astelan, pushing weakly at Boreas to free himself. ‘My loyalty was first and foremost to the Emperor, and to El’Jonson a long way second behind that. It was my duty to the Emperor to protect the Space Marines under my command – Space Marines that the Emperor himself had picked and raised, and who were now threatened by this primarch. Do you understand?’
‘Not at all, I cannot comprehend the treachery that pulses within your heart,’ Boreas said, letting go of Astelan in disgust and stalking away. He did not look at his prisoner as he spoke. ‘To turn on your primarch, to wish him dead, is the gravest sin that you could have committed.’
‘It was the primarchs who turned on the Emperor. Before their coming there had been no dissent, no civil war,’ argued Astelan, pushing himself into a sitting position. ‘It was the primarchs who turned the Legions against their true master, who furthered their own ambitions with the thousands of Space Marines under their command. It was the primarchs who nearly destroyed the Imperium, and it was Lion El’Jonson who had doomed Caliban with his own actions.’
‘Your arrogance was fuelled by jealousy, lubricated by the dark lures promised by Luther!’ Boreas roared at Astelan. ‘You turned on your primarch in return for power and domination by the Dark Powers!’
‘I defended myself from a madman who had already tried to destroy my Chapter and would not hesitate to do so again!’ Astelan snarled back. ‘I never swore to any Dark Powers, I was nothing but loyal to the Emperor! But I was also wrong.’
‘So you admit it!’ Triumph was written across Boreas’s face as he swept across the cell towards Astelan.
‘I admit nothing.’ Astelan’s words stopped Boreas in his stride, his elation turning to fury. ‘I was wrong in believing that Lion El’Jonson sought a reckoning with me. It was his mentor and friend, Luther, that he was intent on destroying. It was Luther, steward of Caliban, his saviour, that El’Jonson had grown to hate, to envy. His actions prove my point! Did he not personally lead the attack on the Tower of Angels, while his ships bombarded Caliban from orbit? Was he not seeking to destroy all evidence of his own weakness, striking out at those who had seen him for what he truly was?’
‘The Lion had indeed heard of Luther’s treachery and knew that to cure the malady, he had to act decisively and swiftly,’ explained Boreas. ‘He hoped that by striking at Luther, he could save Caliban from his evil influence.’
‘When the missiles and plasma came screaming down from orbit, it was all too plain to see the primarch’s intent,’ Astelan argued. ‘The seas boiled, the land cracked and the fortresses tumbled into ruins. I remember the ground lurching beneath my feet, and then tumbling into what seemed like a bottomless pit, before I lost consciousness.’
‘And there lies the heart of the evidence against you, the overwhelming proof of your guilt!’ Boreas bellowed. ‘At the end, as tortured Caliban tore itself apart, your dark masters reached out to snatch you from death. As the world shattered, a great warpstorm erupted over Caliban and spirited you away, along with all those who had turned on the Lion. That is why you are guilty, that is why no amount of justification and argument can convince me of another intent behind your actions. The Ruinous Powers saved you and your kind, and scattered you across time and space so that we might not have our vengeance against you. Luther was as corrupt as Horus, as you all were! Admit this and repent!’
‘I shall not!’ growled Astelan. ‘I renounce every charge you have laid against me! I have been loyal to the Emperor from the day I was first chosen to become a Space Marine, and I will stay loyal to the Emperor until my dying breath! Torture me, probe my mind with witch-powers! I refute your accusations! I see now what has become of the so-called pure gene-seed of Lion El’Jonson! You have become creatures of shadow and darkness, and I do not recognise you as Dark Angels!’
‘So be it!’ Boreas declared, shoving Astelan back against the slab. ‘I shall return, and I shall take up my blades, and my brands, and I shall call for Brother Samiel. Your soul shall know justice, whether you choose it or not. You have chosen the path of suffering, when you could have walked the path of peace and enlightenment.’
Boreas stalked towards the door and wrenched it open.
‘Wait!’ Astelan called out.
‘No more of your lies!’ the Chaplain snapped back, stepping through the door.
‘I still have more to tell!’ Astelan shouted after him.
The Chaplain stopped and turned around.
‘You have nothing more I wish to hear,’ he said.
‘But you have not heard the full story,’ Astelan told him, his voice dropping to a cracked whisper. ‘You have not learned the truth.’
‘I will find out the truth in my own way.’ Boreas turned to leave again.
‘You will not,’ Astelan told him. ‘Now it is your turn to decide, as must we all, which path your life will follow. Go now and return with your warlock and take up your implements of pain, and I will never divulge the secrets I keep within me. Not even your psyker will be able to probe them free from my soul. But if you stay, if you listen, I will freely tell them to you.’
‘And why would you do such a thing?’ Boreas asked, not looking back.
‘Because I wish to save you as much as you wish to save me,’ Astelan said, pushing himself to his feet, gasping as pain flooded his body. ‘Through pain and suffering, you will not hear my words, you will be blinded to the truth. But if you listen, as you asked me to listen, then you will learn many things you would not otherwise unearth.’
‘What inner secrets?’ Boreas turned. ‘What more could you tell me?’
‘An interesting thought, a concern of mine,’ Astelan said, meeting the Chaplain’s gaze.
‘And what is that?’ Boreas asked, stepping back through the door.
‘Though we heard little at the time, and accounts of it afterwards are hard to uncover, I have learned as much as I can about the siege of the Emperor’s Palace and the battle for Terra at the end of the Horus Heresy,’ Astelan explained as hurriedly as his ravaged lungs allowed. ‘It is a stirring tale, I am sure you agree. There are stories of the exploits of the Imperial Fists holding the wall against the frenzied assaults of the World Eaters. There is praise running into hundreds of pages for the White Scars and their daring attacks on the landing sites. There are even accounts, most false I suspect, of how the Emperor teleported onto Horus’s battle barge and the two fought in titanic conflict.’
‘What of it?’ Boreas asked suspiciously.
‘Where in all these tales of battle and heroism are the Dark Angels?’ Astelan replied.
‘The Lion was leading the Legion to Terra’s defence, but faced many battles and arrived too late,’ Boreas said.
‘So, Lion El’Jonson, greatest strategist of the Imperium, who was never once defeated in battle, was delayed? I find that hard to believe.’ Astelan’s strength failed him again and he slumped back against the interrogation slab, his legs buckling under him.
‘And what would you believe, heretic?’ Boreas demanded.
‘There is a very simple reason why Lion El’Jonson did not take part in the final battles of the Horus Heresy.’ Astelan let himself drop to the floor, his back against the stone table, his eyes closed. ‘It is beautifully simple, when you consider it. He was waiting.’
‘Waiting? For what?’ Boreas asked quietly.
Astelan looked into Boreas’s eyes, seeing the curiosity that was now there.
‘He was waiting to see which side won, of course.’
Boreas stepped into the cell, and closed the door behind him.