The halls of the "Herald of Graffia," a mighty void predator, held within them a history centuries old—a history inextricably bound to the Unforgiven sons of the Lion. To the Angels of Retribution.
Since the days of Rasputin's bloody uprisings, the Chapter's first campaign, this strike cruiser had served the warriors in grey-and-red armour. On every crusade, fate seemed to shield this vessel of the Emperor's will itself, and the ship suffered the least damage of all, coming through "dry" even after the most brutal void battles. That was what guided the Chapter Master of that era, back in the old days, when he chose the strike cruiser as one of the Chapter's two flagships—in the distant time that preceded the Chapter's unspoken schism into two parts that could barely tolerate one another.
It was named the "Herald of Graffia" about half a century ago. Long before that it had borne another name, but that name was no longer needed. For the strike cruiser could rightly be called so, because the feat accomplished by this ship's crew had been impossible…
But something had carried us too far into memories.
The ship itself had long since become the home of the Angels of Retribution's 2nd Company. Or the "Blades of Valour," as they were called within their Chapter. And recently, gatherings of the Inner Circle had begun to be held here.
And it was at one such gathering that the Unforgiven's fate was decided. It was on this ship that an event would take place—fateful for many in the galaxy—a decision many would deem heresy and great betrayal. It was aboard the "Herald of Graffia" that the Lion's sons would decide to abandon the crusade.
***
The training hall was empty. Usually, many brothers could be found here—both veterans and yesterday's Scouts—trying to take from their elder mentors a measure of their mastery and combat experience, so that, upon that foundation, they could build something of their own while preserving the continuity of generations. Now most of them remained in their cells, scarcely understanding what had happened. Not being members of the Inner Circle, those brothers did not even suspect the great changes to come…
This hall had been built using records of such places from the era of the Great Crusade. Spectator stands, training cages, weapon racks, rows of combat servitors—all of it seemed to serve as a portal into the time when Lion El'Jonson still walked among men. Perhaps he had fought in one of those cages, setting a living example for his attentive sons.
The hall, despite the oppressive sense of emptiness, was not wholly deprived of the attention of its ancient masters. On one of the training grounds, lost in a battle trance, one of the three most important figures in the Chapter—split in two—worked off stress. To the outside world, and even to his brothers from other Unforgiven Chapters, he was an "ordinary" captain of the 2nd Company; but within the Angels of Retribution, a tremendous burden had fallen upon his shoulders—to lead the Chapter in its endless hunt for the ghosts of the past…
Once, long ago, he had not been the Master of the Hunt. Earlier still, as a mere battle-brother in a Tactical Squad, he could not even have imagined so high and responsible a position. And in the days of his distant youth, he had not even guessed that beyond his planet, in the void of black space, any life existed at all…
Another swing from a combat servitor pulled him from his thoughts. Parrying the axe blow, he hacked the servitor's legs apart, then drove his sword into its chest. The imagined foe—whose real threat the training servitor could only partially emulate—fell beneath the Angel of Death's assault.
"Last one," the warrior muttered.
The bout helped, as one of his lieutenants liked to say, to "let off steam." Training truly refreshed him, drove the blood through his superhuman body, and helped him gather his thoughts. The tried-and-true method had worked throughout his entire life. Even back when the future demigod had still been a man…
The Master of the Hunt stepped off the ring and collapsed onto a chair. Half-forgotten images suddenly began to trouble his peace again:
"…He stood atop a mountain of corpses. The beasts feared to approach him. They snarled, howled, and snapped their jaws. But they feared him. He was the killer of their leader. He was stronger. And the beasts retreated.
The boy limped slowly toward the house. He passed the torn-apart corpse of his father. Passed the servants split in two. Passed his mother, whose throat had only been cut open. He had already seen it, and so he simply kept walking.
He stepped onto the square. In the distance, the battle still thundered. The monsters were retreating, but he did not care.
Reaching an overturned cart, he let his sword slip from his hand. The ring of steel was the last reminder of his master. But now only one thing mattered—the body of the girl, who looked to be about twelve.
He carefully lifted her into his arms and gently carried her lifeless body to the temple. All the way there he whispered:
"Yana…" his voice faltered. "Wake up, please. Don't die."
The boy thought they would help in the temple. He was wrong. There was not a single living soul there, and the temple itself was burning.
He sat another hour by the wall of some house. In the center of the city, the monsters were gone, but that was the only thing the city's defenders had been capable of. The boy did not care.
He lifted his head only when a strange knight approached him—a giant in grey armour with blood-red trim. He shouted something in a language the boy did not know, and a few seconds later another knight came running. This one wore snow-white armour, and only one pauldron was grey. He immediately took the body into his arms. The boy no longer had the strength to resist.
"She's not dead."
"W-what?"
"I'm saying she's not dead. She just lost consciousness. She'll be fine."
The boy looked at the giant, and then collapsed to the ground. A smile froze upon his lips…"
The Master of the Hunt rose. The visions, at last, left him. But why did they still torment him?
Memories of the life he had lived before ascension… For many brothers they were no more than a barely perceptible dream. For others, the memories of the past were wiped away completely as the years went by. Yet the Master of the Hunt remembered—if not everything, then very much indeed… But why?
There was no answer. And, truth be told, he did not want one. Let the Chapter's Librarians and Apothecaries concern themselves with such questions—his lot was battle.
The Master of the Hunt liked to reflect in his spare time. And not only reflect—yet on that day, beyond talking to himself (and breaking a couple of servitors), rest did not come easily. The door to the training hall burst open as one of the fleet's junior officers rushed in like a bolt.
"Master Kazimir!" he shouted. "Our fleet has emerged from the Warp! The Company Masters are summoning you to council."
The one called Kazimir smirked.
"Mortals rarely call me by name," he thought. "Either the lad is foolish, or he is fearless. Hopefully the latter—because not everyone can tolerate a fool as a messenger for long…"
Minutes later, the Master of the Hunt had donned his armour and headed for the exit.
"Well then," he murmured as he put on his helmet. "I will believe that everything has come to pass as Pharail said."
***
"Damn it! I'll be damned if Abi believes me when I tell him about this!"
These were the first words spoken on the bridge of the "Dusk Blade." They came from someone from whom no reaction was expected at all: Lieutenant Commander Jamil Bakir, one of the captain's deputies, who over the last twenty years aboard the ship had spoken, at best, a little more than a hundred words not related to void battles. But now he had a compelling reason to let his tongue off the leash.
The ship's seasoned crew had seen all sorts of things over long years of service. Together with the valiant sons of the Lion, they—mere mortals—had passed through fire and water and even Ork captivity, to temper their souls in the flames of endless conflicts that had preceded the splitting of the Galaxy into two uneven halves and the beginning of the Indomitus Crusade. But to emerge from the Warp in a place where the Astronomican's light could not be seen… A commonplace occurrence for Imperium Nihilus promised nothing good for Imperium Sanctus…
The crew learned that they were at a considerable distance from the Emperor's light from the Navigator. A scrawny youth, recently arrived from House Alderwacht, he endured the absence of the God-Emperor's light with surprising fortitude. He did not scream, did not thrash about in his cabin, did not foretell the end of days as had happened on other ships—he simply stated, in a slightly trembling voice, that he could not see His divine light, and that perhaps they were somewhere beyond the limits of their native Galaxy. Incidentally, that calmness had always been the reason for the crew's unusual respect for him, as they had endured for far too long the previous, overly emotional guide through the empyrean (may the God-Emperor preserve his soul).
The Navigator's statement was supported by Magos Olvin as well, who reported that none of the surrounding star clusters matched Martian charts.
The captain of the "Dusk Blade," Erwin Macbeth, seemed less shocked than anyone. He immediately opened comms with the fleet Admiral, reporting on the status of their strike cruiser. The crew, meanwhile, began to recover from what had happened. Some were already loudly praising the God-Emperor for the Miracle and the life granted to them once more—life they could again devote to fighting His enemies at the Angels of Death's side.
Unexpectedly, their commander rose from his throne, indicating his desire to address everyone on the bridge:
"My friends," he began, "I have to darken your joy. I have just been informed that half our fleet was lost in the Warp."
The tremor in the captain's voice betrayed that even for him this news was a shock. Erwin, a void wolf who had seen much, for the first time in his career had lost half his comrades in the space of a few hours. Only yesterday he had…
The captain pulled himself together. No—this was not the time for him, a veteran with great-grandchildren, to fall into despair. There had been worse. Now he needed to link up with his fleet, for the ship was at a significant remove.
It was at that moment that the Admiral came on the vox again:
"This is Admiral Kaur! All vessels, form up around the flagship! Be ready…" The vox transmission cut off sharply.
"Most esteemed Magos, what happened to the link?"
"I do not wish to alarm you, but it appears we are being jammed," the servant of the Machine God replied in his indifferent, mechanical voice.
"And who, then, is doing it?"
The servant of the Omnissiah did not have time to answer. Because at that moment, those whom Erwin feared most of all came on the vox.
"This is the frigate 'Guardian of Order.' I was sent by Lady Viola den Shin; I am her acolyte—Varrek Kharakhan. We have arrived to establish contact with the fleet of the Lion's valiant sons, for their aid is required for the crusade."
"He's lying," Erwin thought grimly. "He's here for sure to plant a spy in us. Or worse—to seize MY ship. Fine. We'll see who wins…"
"Attention, gentlemen!" the captain addressed his subordinates. "Representatives of the Inquisition will be arriving shortly. I am going personally to meet our 'courteous' guests. In my absence, command passes to Jamil. And may the God-Emperor protect us!"
***
Mezarius entered the Council Hall. A spacious chamber in the ship's prow, lit only by a few viewports, it was almost devoid of decoration. Only statues of the Chapter's ancient heroes watched him from the shadows.
"Ah, the Captain of the 3rd Company finally decided to show up! And here I thought you couldn't handle the Warp transit!"
"You never change, Haruil, so don't remind me of your foul temper, brother."
Laughter from the Chief Apothecary was his answer. Being among the few surviving neophytes from their intake, the two shared an especially close bond. A strong friendship, tested by centuries of endless war against mankind's enemies and the unseen hunt for the Fallen—whose very existence, even a hundred centuries later, defiled the honour and dignity of the sons of Lion El'Jonson.
After clasping the hand of his friend and brother, Mezarius sat in one of the empty seats. Looking around the chamber, he counted seven more members of the Inner Circle. Unlike Haruil, their faces were hidden beneath hoods, as the Chapter's traditions required.
"Why are you late, brother?" one of those gathered asked Mezarius.
"A pack of ship ghouls broke loose from the lower decks. They were led by a very clever alpha. Through the vents they managed to reach the Scouts' firing range. The youngsters held them off, but two of them are badly wounded." He turned toward the one seated at the head of the table. "We must carry out a purge before the filth from the black holds gets completely out of hand."
"Of course we will. But I am more concerned about the Scouts' fate."
"We are doing everything we can," the Chief Apothecary replied; not a trace of his earlier mirth remained. "One of them will certainly lose an arm and an eye. The other has torn wounds all over his body, but that is entirely treatable."
The Space Marine at the head of the table nodded, then rose from his seat, sweeping his gaze over those assembled.
"You may remove your hoods, brothers. There is no need to hide your faces." Making sure he could see all the "initiated," he continued. "In the Chapter Master's absence, I will preside over this gathering…"
A heavy atmosphere settled over the council. No wonder: for almost a millennium now, the Chapter's two halves had lived in a state of undeclared cold war. What had begun in ancient times as an ideological conflict between the Master of Battle and the Master of the Hunt had become a full schism between brothers who had once been one.
Fortunately, the Lion spared his sons from bloodshed—the sides parted "amicably," deciding to conceal the very fact of the Schism from the other Unforgiven, and all the more so from the rest of the Imperium. Keeping this shameful secret was not difficult—for Astartes Chapters often divided their strength into several autonomous strike forces. From that time on, the Chapter's Masters were always the bridge connecting the two different halves. Otherwise, only the fulfillment of the "Great Duty" (the hunt for the Fallen, or an assignment received directly from the Chapter Master) could gather the entire Chapter together again.
Mezarius looked around the chamber, studying the Chapter's leaders. There was Attiy, Captain of the 4th Company, scanning the room with thoughtful amber eyes. Pharail, the Chief Librarian, staring into a single point and murmuring something inaudible. The Chapter veteran Ritorol, Captain of the 6th Company, passing something to Haruil with a martyr's expression. And finally, Master of the Hunt Kazimir, towering over all the Astartes. As Mezarius recalled, Azrael himself had called him "a son of the Lion" for his near-complete resemblance to their great Primarch.
"We must begin with the worst news. As we all know, half the fleet was lost in the Warp. With it we have lost the Supreme Master, the Master of Battle, the High Chaplain, the Master of the Forge, the commanders of the remaining five companies, and the forces under their command."
"That is a heavy blow to the Chapter," Ritorol concluded grimly. "Even though we still have enough Chaplains and Techmarines at our disposal."
The Chapter's brothers, whom fate had placed on opposite sides of the barricades, could dislike one another as much as they wished, but no one wanted them dead. Not to mention that to be swallowed by the Warp was a dishonourable death—especially when, to carry out the duty laid upon them by Azrael, the Chapter Master of their founding Chapter, the "Angels of Retribution" would need every strength and resource available.
"However, we must turn to the present, for we must act without delay." Kazimir looked around the Inner Circle members seated at the table. "What is the status of the forces under our control?"
"The Third Company has been brought to full combat readiness," Mezarius answered at once.
"The Fourth is ready for a campaign, but most of our vehicles were undergoing repairs under the Master of the Forge, so there will be problems," Attiy spoke up.
"The Sixth is always ready, Master of the Hunt," Ritorol smirked. "My warriors are ready to support the main force, and we always try to keep our equipment close."
"The Apothecarion is at your disposal, Master. Some of our brothers remained with the lost flotilla, but the core strength is here."
"The Librarians are already working to contact the missing forces. Before departure I sent several brothers to the second flagship."
"That pleases me, brothers," Kazimir replied. "Now let us move to our main problem—our location. This is a different expanse, without the Astronomican and without relatively accurate charts, which creates a serious problem—solvable, perhaps, but serious nonetheless."
"So we truly are in another galaxy, as the Navigator said?" Captain Attiy of the Fourth asked, open skepticism in his voice.
"Yes, brother. We are indeed in another galaxy," Pharail answered, the Lion's sons' Chief Librarian. "And we are here because it is our duty. However, our purpose may be hindered by the crusade forces we joined—and in particular, our 'cousins' of the Sons of Anathema Chapter. May the Lion curse them…"
In that moment, every member of the Circle remembered that story. Mezarius remembered it too. And his entire being once again felt revulsion for the Ultramarines' heirs.
In those days, their Chapter was mired in battles with the renegades of the Angels of Ecstasy, and so could not take part in the Hunt. The Apostles of Caliban were a friendly Chapter to them, and thus the news of a conflict unfolding between brothers and cousins of a different genetic line was bitter indeed.
According to the chronicles, the Apostles' Chapter Master of that era came to the planet in search of a group of Fallen psykers who were moving to join the Thousand Sons' forces and their local Tzeentchian cult. But they were too late: the "Sons of Anathema" had already landed on the planet. Despite the threat of exposing their secret, the Inner Circle decided to make contact with the forces on the surface. And their Epistolaries recoiled in horror, for the one who answered them from the surface was one of the Librarians—only he was no longer loyal, having fallen to the "Changer of Ways." That was why the fateful decision was made: to attack the sons of Guilliman who were conducting their campaign on the planet's surface.
The Apostles of Caliban's Terminators, supported by two more companies, launched a swift assault. However, after the first bolter volleys, an order was given to cease fire—because the Lion's sons saw that their "cousins" bore no sign of corruption. On the contrary, they were fighting cultists and daemons with the Emperor's name upon their lips. The Chief Librarian realized how hasty their decision had been. But it was too late: the Sons of Anathema returned fire.
The bloody battle claimed many lives, but nonetheless the 2nd Company's strike teams managed to capture the Fallen, and the Unforgiven withdrew.
But afterward came a truly treacherous blow. On one of the worlds, an ambush was laid for them in which almost half the Chapter's brothers were slain. The trap was arranged by the "Sons of Anathema," seeking revenge for the attack on their brothers, and by Inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus, who had long sought to learn the Lion's sons' secrets.
After that, the Unforgiven (including both halves of the "Angels of Retribution") more than once clashed in minor skirmishes with the "Inquisition's mongrels" and forces loyal to them.