Angels on High-a Disciples of Caliban short.

[Walter Payton]

Angels on High

 

‘It is with dedication and loyalty that I make this request of you, my lords.

I wish a new descent of Angels, in remembrance of My Lord the Lion,

And his liege the Emperor. I ask of you know, to decree as such,

And to bring to this Imperium of Light

The Disciples of Caliban’

Supreme Grand Master Anaziel, to the High Lords

 

‘The Disciples of Caliban are an oddity amongst Astartes. The then Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels decreed that they be formed, rather than the High Lords. They are more secretive than even the others of the Unforgiven. And yet they carry out their duties with wisdom and strength. They are true Angels of Death’.

Of the Astartes, Inquisitorial Scholam Press, published 144 876 M39

 

What is it to be a Disciple?

It is to be a God of Righteousness

What is it to be Unforgiven?

It is our shame

What must we do to expunge our shame?

Administer the Emperor’s Wrath

What tools shall we use?

The four facets of Death

Fire, Faith, Fury, and Sword

 

Chapter One

Hunter and Prey

 

 

 

 

Calagrus was an unremarkable hive world on the furthest reaches of the Imperium. One might look up at its skies and see nothing but blackness, until the world rotated to face its sun once more. The Calagran day was the length of the Calagran year. In the summer, the planet’s single city would be alive with activity, dancing and jubilation. In the long night, frost and snow would blanket the streets, and the people would stay indoors, cosseted from the outside metre thick walls.

 

For eight thousand years the planet had existed in this manner, its people reaping a bountiful harvest to see them through the night. Calagrus had never been asked to supply men for the guard, and the last visit from an Imperial dignitary had been during the dark days of the Heresy, though none on Calagrus knew of this event. In short, it was as although Calagrus had been forgotten, its Planetary Profile lost amidst the mountain of parchment, casements of data slates and corridors of cogitator banks that formed the Adeptus Terra.

 

That was, until the Weeping came.

 

In the past year, a shuttle had arrived at the spaceport, bearing five men of fair aspect and noble bearing. These men were obviously not native to Calagrus. The majority of Calagrans were pale skinned folk, yet these men were tanned and taller than any Calagran. They bought an extravagant manor in the west of the Capital, and none thought anything of it, except the Administratum adept for whom their arrival meant an extra hour's work.

 

It was nor until three years later that these men became a problem. At midnight on the third year, a man was seen prowling the streets in the impoverished Flatlands area. This was prohibited by law on Calagrus, for reasons of public safety-a Calagran blizzard could flay a man in minutes. The Provosts were called, a local version of the Arbites, to arrest the man. Driving a protected groundcar, three provosts set out from the precinct in the centre of the city. They were found in the morning, four months later, their heads missing, their skeletons picked clean by the storms. Their groundcar was nowhere to be seen.

 

However, the murders were not without clues. A strand of a mysterious cloth was discovered in the clenched fist of one Provost, and taken back to the precinct, yielded mysterious fruit. Upon it was discovered the DNA of the unfortunate Provost, and a further mysterious set, unlike any seen before by the Provosts. They were forced to conclude that there was a mutant on the loose in the Flatlands.

 

Three successive Provost attempts to corner the mysterious assailant ended in failure, the creature slipping away before any could catch it. A partially intact vid-steal was sent to an Inquisition Bureau in a neighbouring system. The vid-steal showed a robed creature, with bony chitinous plate covering its entire body, or so the Provosts notes went. The Inquisition realised instantly that this was no mutant, and its mysterious armour no bony plate. It was an Astartes.

 

Before the Inquisition could send someone to investigate, however, Calagrus erupted in rebellion. A sect known as the Weeping gained control of the Flatlands, and Calagrus erupted into all out war. Simultaneous rebellions began in the north, south and east of the city. It became apparent that the demagogues responsible were the men who had bought the manor in the west. The planetary governor called for aid, but it was too late. He was sacrificed to the Dark Gods. Then the population turned on each other. Ninety per cent died in the first week. Only the strongest remained, twisted by the Dark Powers of Chaos. A tiny proportion of loyal citizens escaped into the Lowlands around the city. They had nothing but rags and prayer. For three weeks they hid and prayed. On the fourth, their prayers were answered. A new star shone in the Calgaran sky.

 

* * *

 

Above the damned planet, the strike cruiser Leo Dominatus hung against the backdrop of inky black space like a crennellated fortress. Banks of macro-cannons splayed from its sides. The prow tapered to a reinforced point like the blade of a sword. Torpedo tubes in the armoured sides displayed menace. A mighty figurehead of a lion embracing a two-headed eagle stood upon its prow. At the rear, the twin cones of its thrusters glowed blue. Its mighty nova cannon was mounted on the prow of the vessel, the mouth fashioned into the likeness of a lion’s open jaw.

 

On the starboard side, a ceramite plate slid away from the side of the vessel, disappearing into a recess in the side of the hull, revealing a plasglass observation bay.

 

In the shadowy recesses of the observation bay, many figures stood. Most were hunchbacked chapter serfs, or ship’s ratings, toiling at whatever mundane tasks set to them. A trio of figures, however, towered over the rest, Wearing armour of dark green and gunmetal grey. Astartes. Disciples of Caliban.

 

Beyond their similar garb and heraldry, the figures could not have been more different. One was short and stocky, barely taller than the ratings that toiled around him. His armour was chipped and brutalised, the bare unadorned metal showing through the plate. His helmet was held at his side, revealing a face that was as battered as the armour. The marines nose was broken, and a crude bionic eye shone like a red torch in the darkness of the observation bay. His face bore a trio of ritual duelling scars on its right cheek. At his side, a chapter equerry held a combi-melta gun, which was etched with all the names of the men who had born it in battle before. A vermillion loincloth fell from the codpiece of his armour.

 

Standing to this man’s left was another, of dark aspect and noble bearing. His armour’s shoulder pads were a light blue compared to the darker colours of his armour. Instead of usual iconography, his right shoulderpad bore a daemon skull device. In his right hand he held a long staff, which ended in a mighty blade in the aspect of a scythe, which was etched with arcane runes. His armour was rimmed with psychic frost, and his eyes were a pair of glowing green orbs, emitting wisps of green vapour. His dark-skinned face was lined in concentration. A plasma pistol of ancient design hung by his side.

 

The third Astartes seemed slighter than the other two, though this was due merely to the fact that he wore no armour. Instead he wore a simple monastic robe, which reached down to his bare ankles. The Astartes’s face was handsome and pale, with a mane of curly black hair. At his side, a diminutive humanoid creature, its face hidden by dark green robes stood stock still, turning its head from side to side.

 

Suddenly, the creature stopped turning its head, and tapped its master on the shin. The Astartes turned abruptly, to face his companions.

‘Brother-Librarian, your scrying was successful?’

‘Yes, brother-captain,’ replied the dark-skinned marine, ‘our brethren, five of them, are below. They have led the population into rebellion. I sense the bitter tang of Chaos upon the planet below, as well as the consciousness of those beyond the Veil.’

‘Daemons?’ asked the shorter marine.

‘Yes, brother-sergeant. They have not yet been summoned, but I feel the scions of the Dark Prince gathering around this place. We do not have much time.’

‘Orders?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Stealth,’ said the Captain, ‘if we go in with the drop pods, then our brothers will have ample time to either summon their allies or escape. We use the lighters and scouts. Mission orders are to kill.’

‘Not capture?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Not capture,’ repeated the Captain, ‘we slaughter them all. Assemble squad Laertes and Scout Squads Prasus and Gaius. Brother-Sergeant Assael, you take you own squad. I will go with Prasus and Gaius. Codicier El'Zusua, maintain psychic overwatch from here. We dust off in three hours.’ The captain left, his robes sweeping behind him.

 

--------------

 

An old story I wrote on a rainy afternoon a while back. Thought I might as well share it with the phratry.

[Walter Payton]

Uh-oh! I see that a DA short is already up. I feel embarrassed. Sorry, the author of the Andreus Campaign! ;)

[Skirax]

I'm sure my brother Simoleo will not mind, he's busy with exams at the moment. Don't worry about it :) Besides, his is more of a fictional account of his companies campaign and battles.

[Walter Payton]

Cool! Will update again soon!

[Firenze]

This is good. I like this alot. Alot of ways to go with this story. Keep it up!

[Walter Payton]

* * *

 

Captain Kiel of the Disciples of Caliban knelt in his chamber, the small light of the personal shrine flickering in the gloom. The short figure of the Watcher in the Dark stood behind him. He knelt before the broken halves of his mentor’s sword, the candlelight reflecting off the polished edges, casting lights on the carved walls. A knock sounded in the small chamber.

“Enter,” spoke Kiel, rising from his oblations. The door was pushed open, revealing the blonde hair and earnest features of Apothecary Cohen.

“My lord, Interrogator Vanus would speak with you,” said the Apothecary. Kiel sighed, then crossed to the door, the Watcher following close behind.

 

Emerging into the candle-lit corridor, he turned left, following the Apothecary. Entering the stark white confines of the Apothecarion, he crossed to the casket in which his brother lay, suspended in green amniotic fluid.

 

His body was entirely naked, and seeing the terrible injuries inflicted upon it shocked even the fearless Kiel. The two marines had bled together on a score of planets, had torn apart Hive Fleet Hades above Nova Colchis, and had captured the Fallen Nasrel amidst the shattered ruins of Caliban. Now, the Interrogator-Chaplain was confined to a life support tank in the Apothecarion. His left arm and leg were missing, and his upper body was burnt and torn. A Keeper of Secrets had done this to him, amidst the ruins of Caliban, emerging from the bloody remains of Nasrel, and grabbing Kiel’s friend in its terrible grip. Only the fearless assault of Sergeant Assael and the withering hail of fire from the devastators had driven the creature back to the noxious immaterium. Kiel had not wept since his childhood, and never would again, thanks to the implants he had received upon his ascension, but, seeing his brother confined to the cold green depths of the amniotic tank, he felt the corners of his eyes sting.

“Brother,” came the metallic, grating tones of the chaplain, through a speaker in the side of the tank.

“Old friend,” replied Kiel, with great effort.

“We are to attack the planet below.” It was not a question.

“We are, and we are going to offer our brothers the redemption of fire, and sword, not that of your cells.”

“I wish to accompany you.”

“The sarcophagus is not yet safe, my friend, and I will not risk it. Your experience is too valuable to lose.”

“Surely the Techamarine has no-“

“No, brother,” replied Kiel, “I will not lose you again. I must attend to the lighters. Goodbye.”

“What is the terror of death?” Kiel turned.

“Goodbye, brother.”

 

* * *

 

Kiel stood, dressed now in his interface bodyglove. He raised his arms, and spoke curtly, although there were no others in the room.

“Robe me.”

At this, servo arms descended from the shadows of the roof, bearing the sections of his artificer armour. His breastplate, sculpted to show a facsimile of an Astartes’s physiology, was first, followed by his greaves, then his vambraces and rerebraces. Soon, his entire form was covered in adamantium. He crossed to a locker set into the wall of his chamber, and withdrew a long broadsword, and a pair of combat knives. Buckling the broadsword at his waist, he slotted the combat knives into a pair of scabbards on his back. An ornate bolt pistol was tucked into his holster. His Mk VII helmet was carried by the Watcher in the Dark.

 

Touching a vox caster in his neck, he ordered the brethren to their stations for the coming assault, and swept from the chamber, holding open the door for his Watcher. The creature ignored his courtesy.

 

Reaching the assault decks, Kiel inspected the squads to be deployed. The scouts were ready, and the Arvus lighters were unveiled. Techmarine Rampel’s grating tones came over the vox: ++All on-planet comms jammed++

“Disciples of Caliban!” roared Sergeant Assael, “There are traitor-marines below! Kill them all!”

Climbing aboard the Arvus, along with squad Assael, Kiel gave the order to dust off, and assigned battle orders to the scout squads.

 

* * *

 

Trooper Judas was not a clever man, nor was he strong, but he was a man who recognised strength when he saw it, and so had trampled upon his oaths of loyalty to the Emperor. The blood-tattoos of the Weeping now adorned his face, and a battered autogun was slung under his arm. He was assigned by the Coven, the mysterious men who ruled the weeping, to the Flatlands, and patrolled the roof of the shanty towns. Trooper Halvus was walking at his side

 

* * *

 

Scout Bielski, his sniper rifle cradled in his hands, stood stock-still at the window of the small shanty dwelling. The others of his squad had already cut the throats of the guards, but the final pair were still walking on their search patterns. Sergeant Kramer stood next to him, his own sniper rifle resting on the window sill.

“Take the one on the right.”

 

* * *

 

Judas heard a sharp ping, and felt something spray his face. Beside him, Halvus crumpled to the ground. Judas’s eyes widened as he saw the hole in his comrades forehead. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, then felt a searing pain in his neck. He clutched his throat, feeling hot blood spurt from it, and fell to his knees as he realised he had no air. A second shot entered his head through his left eye, and blew a fist-sized hole in the back of his head. The heretic foot soldier was thrown backwards.

 

* * *

 

“Messy,” growled Sergeant Kramer.

The scouts vaulted the window, crossing over the slums like ghosts. Behing them, at ground level, followed thirty tactical marines of Squad Assael, Squad Prasus, and Squad Laertes.

 

* * *

 

The next enemy sentry posts were dispatched by squad Laertes, who overwhelmed them with the combat blade before they even had a chance to cry out. It was after that, however, that an enemy saw the moonlight reflect from Sergeant Assael’s melta, and raised the alarm. The Coven, at the height of their rituals, attempted to raise the outer guard posts, but no reply was forthcoming. The Coven then sprang into action accelerating their rituals. Their leader, standing amidst the defiled ruins of the Cathedral of the Emperor Triumphant, gestured to his kneeling acolytes. The circle of men rose, their jewelled armour and archaic weapons clattering against the blood-slicked flagstones. The arch-Fallen beckoned for a knife. A supplicant, a hideous, formless being, handed the heretic a serrated, wicked thing.

 

Upon an altar of stone, amidst the shattered ruins of the cathedral, was bound the naked body of the planetary Ecclesiarch. The arch-Fallen raised his knife, muttering words. The sounds of battle sounded outside. The traitor marine began to chant the ritual in a low, powerful voice

"ruo rehtaf ohw nitra nevaeh"

A succession of bolt rounds, a scream, and an explosion were audible nearby.

"dewollah eb, yht eman"

The Ecclesiarch whimpered as the arch-Fallen raises his knife, straining against the bonds. The Chaos Space Marine grinned, then slammed the blade down, levering open the Imperial savant’s chest, and lifting the still-beating heart to the sky.

“evig su siht yad ruo yliad daerb”

Captain Kiel, bellowing his hatred of the traitors, flanked by Sergeant Assael, and Sergeant Prasus, kicked down the flimsy wooden door to the cathedral, and ran inside, his twin combat blades flickering through heretic footsoldiers as they turned to defend their masters. An Astartes, kneeling near the altar, flanked by two hooded acolytes, leapt up, and yelled two names: “Zaherial, Luther!” The acolytes, possessed Arco-Flallegelants, leapt up, electro scythes flailing.

“reviled su morf live”

Kiel twisted, gutting a flalegellant, while Assael swung his chainsword in a killing arc, shattering through the other’s jaw. The arch-Fallen turned, the priest’s heart still in his hand, beating pathetically, as more Disciples poured into the cathedral, a cruel smile upon his warped face. Above him, the sky wheeled and buckled. His retainers leapt up beside him.

“Taste the tender kiss of Slaanesh, Lionite bastards!” he screamed. With that, the sky exploded, and Calgarus was plunged into darkness, as an army of daemons poured onto its ravaged surface.

[Walter Payton]

Updated once again, please C&C

[astartes88]

I must say a good addition, very descriptive. but oh no, the demons have come

[Walter Payton]

The dark rite spoken by the Arch-Fallen is the Lord's Prayer backwards, btw