Another 40k story based around my Space Marines Chapter, renamed the Lords of Midnight for this story (this will also be altered when I redo the old trilogy).  This story was very well received, and I am quite happy with both the concept and execution, particularly the frantic pace.

As usual, Warhammer 40,000, Space Marines, etc, etc, are all trademarks of Games Workshop, and I am not profiting in any way from writing these stories beyond my enjoyment of the wonderfully dark setting.

A Smile Like the Emperor

by Tim Sweeney

Cannot stop! Must not stop!

Brother Daimon Cael repeated this mantra over and over again in his head.

He was hurt; he couldn’t tell how bad, which was as ill an omen as any. His armour was battered and torn, rent in a dozen different places.  He could feel the warmth of his lifeblood oozing slowly into his right gauntlet, gently caressing his fingertips.

In spite of all this, Brother Cael smiled.

He smiled as he dove headlong into the corridor intersection, rolling to his feet even as his stolen autopistols spat a hail of lead slugs at the enemies he knew to be there. He disdained the primitive weapons, but his own bolter had long since run out of ammunition.

Can’t stop, no, no, no, mustn’t stop!

He got lucky – the first shot took one of his opponents directly through the eyepiece of his armoured helm. The other enemy survived longer, the stream of bullets deflecting off ceramite plate before finding the soft armour at his throat.  Cael watched the form of his enemy – the form of his erstwhile brother – slump backwards in a spray of blood. The wounds were certainly mortal, but still the wounded warrior struggled to rise and continue the fight.

Brother Cael smiled as he dropped an armoured knee and crushed the throat of his downed brother.

He did not smile from happiness, or for the simple joy of combat; after all, who could take pleasure in the killing of those you had only recently called family?

The line of identically armoured corpses extending back along the dank, roughly-hewn stone corridor marked Brother Cael as the traitor he was, but what choice had he had?

Mind wandering. Losing blood. Cannot stop!

He had slaughtered many of his former battle brothers, and many more of their assorted attendants and slaves; he had even managed to slay one of the Masters of his Chapter.  But he was only one warrior, and Cael knew his time was almost up.

Again, again, can’t afford to lose contr-

He was snapped from his reverie by the familiar sound of a bolter firing. He tried to twist out of the way; with his superhuman reflexes, he almost made it.

The shell connected with his shoulder pauldron – he felt it penetrate the flesh and muscle of his upper arm before it finally detonated, throwing him against the wall like some child’s discarded toy.

Brother Cael smiled as he slid slowly to the floor, shoulder crushed by the detonation.

A purple-armoured form loomed over him, the bolter it clutched seemingly oversized in its hands. Looming in the shadows behind the warrior, the giant figure of a Master stood in the shadows, an aura of power emanating from its every pore.

Cael felt his thoughts drifting away once again, away from the pain of his wounds and the agony of his treachery…

 

+++

 

He had been told, what seemed an eternity ago, that he had “a smile like the Emperor Himself,”

He hadn’t really known then who the Emperor was – what child could claim to know his God? – but he had known, somehow, that it was the greatest compliment he would receive in his life.

Who was it that had said it to him?

It was…it was…

 

+++

 

“My sister,”

“He is delirious,” the sibilant voice hissed from the shadows, “finish him off in the name of the Emperor.”

The amethyst-clad warrior removed its helm, leaning over Cael’s thrashing body.

“Why brother?” he asked softly, “Why did you commit this heresy against your chapter?”

Brother Cael just smiled.

 

+++

 

His sister!

He hadn’t thought of her in so long. She had always told him he had a smile like the Emperor.

She had told him that while they cried as their parents were burnt in the crematoriums, the victims of an unprovoked attack by drunken Navy sailors on shore leave.

She had told him that as they slaughtered and ate their pet karyline, just to have enough food to survive the harsh LarBellox winter.

She had even told him that when they had come to take him away, to make him one of the Emperor’s Chosen.

“You have a smile like the blessed Emperor Himself!” she screamed as they cut her down with their chainswords.

 

+++

 

Brother Cael smiled as he drove his combat blade into the eye of his bareheaded brethren, not really noticing the twisted corpse as it slumped slowly to the floor.

He pointed at the giant form of the Dark Master with a bloody hand, not truly seeing, and slowly advanced toward it.

 

+++

 

It had been the Dark Masters, sinister and huge, that had laughed cruelly as they cut his sister down.

They had found her last words to him particularly amusing.

“Let us truly make you smile like the Emperor,” one of the figures had whispered, carving a permanent smile into Cael’s face with his torture blades.

They had all gathered around, cutting him, slicing him, scarring him.

After an eternity of pain and disfigurement, they had reached a consensus; “NOW you look like your corpse-Emperor”

Daimon Cael now smiled because he had no choice.

But no, knowing what the tutelary engines had taught him of the Imperium and its history – of the God-Emperor and His Primarchs – Cael realised he no longer smiled like the Emperor. No, now he smiled like one of his Angels.

An Angel of Death.

 

+++

 

He had lost his weapons. His arm was a ruined mess, barely attached to his body. He knew he only had minutes left before his wounds overcame him.

The huge figure had initially recoiled when Cael had reached his feet, but now it stepped slowly from the darkness, harsh laughter echoing weirdly from the moss-covered walls of the ancient mine.

“Heretic,” Cael and the giant hissed simultaneously.

The gigantic form of the Master finally stepped fully into the light, his cruelly spiked onyx armour sheathed in a tabard of midnight blue. It held a chainsword almost the length of Cael’s body in one colossal fist.

Cael smiled as he remembered killing the first Master. It had been his greatest accomplishment on this dark day, taking the head of one of the beasts in his first surprise attack. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy the second time.

Brother Cael smiled, knowing that his treachery against his brothers was finally coming to an end.

“For the Emperor,” he whispered as he launched himself at his enemy, imagining himself as the Angel launching himself at the arch-traitor Horus so long ago.

“Your Corpse-God is but an illusion, boy,” came the dark voice, “though you will never learn of the true power in this universe.”

The Master moved like lightning, swatting him out of the air with one hand; Cael felt his chest plate crack under the impact of the huge hand, and he knew that his ribs had given way, the blood bubbling in his throat telling him that at least one had punctured a lung.

“I know not how you saw through our illusions, our tortures, when all the others did not,” the dark warrior hissed, “what makes you special?”

Cannotstopcannotstopcannotstopcannotstopcannotstop-

Somehow Cael managed to drag himself up once again.

“You can stop this now boy,” the Master chuckled softly, “you have proven that you have what it takes to join our Brotherhood.”

Cael stumbled forward a few steps, falling to his knees.

“You love the pain, don’t you? You thrive on it!”

Brother Cael smiled.

With a roar, he leapt once more at the evil warrior.

And then his roar was overwhelmed by that of a chainsword, and the high-pitched whine of saw-tooth blades meeting flesh.

Cael screamed as he felt the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced in his short, miserable life.

The Dark Master had been right; he loved the pain.

It was the pain of absolution.

He fell slowly to the floor one final time, blood pouring from his body. After what felt like centuries, the pain stopped.

Brother Damon Cael smiled as he died.

 

+++

“Clear,” called Brother del Fontaine, more for the benefit of Inquisitor Bautista than his battle brothers.

A moment later, he heard a similar affirmative come from Brother Ursthuss off to the left.

The expected call from the right, however, did not immediately follow.

Just as del Fontaine was preparing to counter a threat from the right-most corridor, Brother Cil’daer’s subdued voice echoed from the vox-link.

“Brothers, Inquisitor – I believe you will want to see this.”

Their raid on the subterranean facility under Dolchex Mine on LarBellox – suspected to be a hidden base for the renegade Astartes known as the Brotherhood of Torture – had borne little fruit so far.

The doors to the facility, carved with sickening sigils denoting allegiance to the Chaos God Slaanesh, had been sealed against intrusion. But there had been no signs of sentries, no indication of any enemies at all.

Ursthuss, always impulsive, had immediately wanted to cancel the mission as a waste of their time – like many of his brothers that had been recruited from the noble houses of Dagmar IV, Ursthuss resented the long ties between their Chapter and the members of the Inquisition.

Especially when those ties led to missions of infiltration and intelligence gathering, rather than the open warfare that so many of the younger warriors craved.  Frankly, del Fontaine had experienced his own share of doubts about the mission, especially when the enemy base appeared abandoned, but perhaps that was about to change.

The Inquisitor, tall for a normal human, swept past del Fontaine and Ursthuss in his haste to reach Cil’daer’s discovery.

“Little man will get his head blown off if he keeps leading from the front,” Ursthuss voxed gruffly over the private channel.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, del Fontaine found himself grinning. But nonetheless, as senior Marine of this mission he voxed, “We may be unlikely to see any action, but you will maintain communication protocols brother, lest I-”

“Emperor, grant me strength!”

The whispered oath from the Inquisitor cut off Ursthuss’ no doubt scathing retort to his rebuke.

Cil’daer, head bare in the tradition of those brothers recruited from Dagmar VII, stood with his bolter trained down the far corridor, eyes scanning the murky dimness for targets.

In the centre of the room lay a huge form clad in onyx power armour, spikes and cruel hooks jutting from every surface not covered in lurid pink, eye-wrenching symbols.  del Fontaine covered the corpse of the fallen traitor marine with his bolter out of reflex, though the head lying detached against the far wall indicated that the Chaos warrior would probably – probably – not rise again.

Nothing was ever truly certain in matters of the Daemon-Gods.

The body of the dead traitor was not what held the attention of the Inquisitor, however, and nor had it solicited his startled oath.

Bautista knelt over another prone form, one of many identically armoured bodies scattered around the much larger corpse of the Brother of Torture.

It wore self-powered carapace armour of a colour remarkably similar to that of the Lords of Midnight, although in design it bore only superficial similarities to their Astartes powered plate, having more in common with the armour issued to Inquisitorial Stormtroopers.

Bautista had removed the helm from the corpse, and it was only upon seeing its face that del Fontaine realised just how small the purple-clad body really was.

“A child?” In spite of over two decades as an Astartes, Ursthuss sounded shaken.

“I had heard…” the Inquisitor seemed to be speaking to himself, “I heard of the children disappearing on this world, knew that the Brotherhood had grown in size; but not once did I think it connected,”

He slammed his fist on the ground.

“I was blind; a damned fool!”

He turned the face of the corpse toward del Fontaine, and it was then that he saw the truth.

The tiny face belonged to a boy of no more than seven or eight years old as far as the Marine could tell, although it was so disfigured and grotesque that it was hard to know for sure; a row of small horns protruded from the brow, and numerous Chaotic markings had been tattooed or branded into the child’s flesh.

The Inquisitor scanned the corpse with an apothecary-grade auspex, “Initial blood readings indicate that the child was being fed growth inducers and combat drugs, in addition to whatever warping effect their foul sorcery was wreaking,”

He looked up at the marines, “Despite the small size, this child would have been many times faster and stronger than a typical adult human, and very deadly.”

The Inquisitor’s voice was business-like again, his momentary pang of horror forgotten. A warrior of the Ordo Hereticus may be used to sights such as these, thought del Fontaine, but he knew he would remember the mutilated child’s body for the rest of his life.

“The Brotherhood would have used them as assassins most likely,” came Cil’daer’s quiet voice, “taking the best of them as new recruits.”

He sounded cold and analytical, but del Fontaine knew his battle brother well enough to realise it was just a facade; the discovery was enough to shake even the most stalwart of Astartes.

“The real question is: who killed them all?” del Fontaine found himself asking, eyes still locked on the tiny corpse, “This obviously wasn’t the work of Arbites or local law enforcement; are there other Inquisitors or Astartes operating on this planet?”

Bautista was already sweeping from the room.

“I imagine we’re about to find out,” muttered Ursthuss.

del Fontaine led his brothers after the Inquisitor, quickly moving into formation around the fragile human to protect him with their armoured bulk.

It immediately became apparent that a brutal running battle had taken place in the corridors of the cultist lair; more purple-clad corpses littered the floor, alongside the bodies of numerous robed adult humans – cultists no doubts – and the walls were scored with the impact of bolter, las-, and autopistol fire.

Suddenly the distinct report of a single bolt round being fired echoed from somewhere deeper in the facility; del Fontaine and Cil’daer immediately broke into a run, Ursthuss bringing up the rear with the slower Inquisitor.

The little purple body, blood spraying, was just dropping from the blade of the chainsword when the Lords of Midnight marines rounded the corner.  The dark figure had only a second to turn towards them, body language registering obvious shock; it managed two steps forward before sustained bolter fire blew the Chaos worshipper apart.

Cil’daer rushed to kick the sword out of the still-twitching hand, firing two shells into the corpse’s head to make sure it stayed down.

del Fontaine, almost in spite of himself, was drawn toward the child that the traitor had struck down.

The small figure had been brutalised in a way that even the battle-hardened marine found difficult to comprehend; the arm was hanging, held on by little more than a flap of skin, and the carapace armour had been almost completely torn asunder by repeated impacts from multiple weapons.

And, of course, the boy had been eviscerated.

Older wounds were visible as well; large scars at the corners of the mouth, and raw patches where it appeared that older scarring or brands had been forcibly scoured from the skin.

The Inquisitor and Ursthuss finally arrived, the marine moving to examine the corpse of the renegade marine.

“Is this the scum that slaughtered the children?”

He kicked the corpse.

“I know they were corrupted,” he grunted, kicking the body again, “but they were children!”

He reared back to kick the body again.

“Enough Ursthuss!” called Cil’daer curtly, “regardless of the actions of this treacherous scum, you will act with the dignity and discipline of a true Astartes!”

Ursthuss was raging now; del Fontaine was worried that the experience in the Brotherhood fortress had completely unhinged his brother, who had not so long ago been of an age with the child lying bloody before them.

“Children, Cil’daer; this scum tainted innocent Imperial children with his filth!”

Ursthuss was trembling in rage, his humours so out of balance that the Inquisitor eyed him askance from his position near the traitor’s corpse.

“It wasn’t the renegade who did this…”

All conversation cut off at his whispered words. del Fontaine felt the eyes of his companions move away from Ursthuss and on to him.

They followed his gaze.

“The boy?” Ursthuss and Cil’daer were near echoes, disbelief in their voices.

Before they could ask more questions, Inquisitor Bautista leapt to his feet and ran at del Fontaine so quickly that the marine half went for his bolter.

The Inquisitor ignored him, dropping to his knees besides the body of the boy, “Throne above, he still lives!”

 

+++

 

Pain

So. Much. Pain.

He screamed as they cut down his sister over and over before his eyes.

He screamed as they carved into his flesh and mutilated his soul.

He screamed as he betrayed his brothers, slaughtering those who had loved him.

He screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.

No. More.

NO MORE!

Despite the forced rictus grin his owners had carved into his face, Brother Daimon Cael was no longer smiling

 

+++

 

The boy’s eyes snapped open.

Brother del Fontaine registered the look of shock on the Inquisitor’s face in the split second it took for him to register that the child was awake; he had already crossed the room and thrown the human out of the way before the hooked fingers could ever reach Bautista’s throat.

Ursthuss and Cil’daer raised their weapons to fire, their gene-enhanced reflexes almost ending the lives of the child before del Fontaine managed to shout “NO!”

He knelt over the small body, effortlessly holding the thrashing form down with his armoured bulk.

“Kill you,” the child was hissing through clenched teeth, blood-flecked spittle spattering del Fontaine’s helm, “Kill you…”

“Child, child, listen to me,” del Fontaine whispered through his helmet grille, fully aware that the Inquisitor had pulled himself to his feet from and was now approaching, “we are not heretics like those that you have fought!”

Bautista was getting closer, and the Marine heard the soft click of a pistol safety being switched off; very few Inquisitors would take kindly to being attacked by a member of a Chaotic cult.

Somehow, somehow, del Fontaine knew this child was pure; he had seen his fight against Chaos, both in the corpses scattered around the heretic facility and in the raw, blistered flesh showing the constant efforts to remove the brandings of the treacherous filth who sought to corrupt him.

Acting on instinct, Brother del Fontaine of the Lords of Midnight reached up and removed his helm.

 

+++

 

Brother Cael gazed upon the face of an Angel.

He stopped thrashing; stopped fighting against the impossible bulk holding down his broken form.

Framed by a mane of flowing silver hair, Cael stared at a face that was noble, handsome, proud, and yet scarred and weathered after centuries of warfare; it was the face of an honourable warrior, far removed from the twisted, warped visage so typical of the Dark Masters.

This was the face of a true angel; a true Angel of Death.

Like a drowning man dragging himself ashore, clarity returned, and with it the realisation that he was being spoken to by the demigod looming over him.

“What is your name child? Show me you are rational and pure, quickly now!”

Brother Cael saw the more normal-sized human approaching from behind the giant, and realised somehow that he was in immediate danger unless he did exactly what the giant warrior asked.

“C-C-Cael…My name is Daimon Cael.”

 

+++

 

del Fontaine felt the Inquisitor’s hand fall upon his pauldron like it was touching his own skin, and he knew that the boy had run out of time.

“Please step away, noble Lord; the child is obviously tainted and must be put down,”

The marine resisted the urge to strike the impudent little man, and instead continued to whisper down to the small, battered form lying prone before him.

“Cael – quickly now, no hesitation – why did you resist them?”

The boy’s eyes had rolled up in his head, a great seizure robbing him temporarily of the ability to speak.

“Step away now, del Fontaine,”

The marine heard the low buzzing-whine of a hellpistol powering up; he felt the muzzle push into side of his exposed neck.

He sensed his brothers preparing to tear the Emperor’s most Holy Inquisitor apart, with their bare hands if necessary.

“This is your first time working alongside the Lords of Midnight, whelp, so we will give you a single chance,” Cil’daer’s voice was like a dagger drawn across silk, and it was suddenly – shockingly – close, “remove your weapon from my brother’s neck, or I will be forced to remove your head from yours.”

del Fontaine felt the Inquisitor’s finger tense on the trigger. He ignored it.

“My brother is quick to threaten death; I’ll content myself with taking your hand, I think,” Ursthuss drawled, “perhaps I will feed it to you while you consider the repercussions of pointing a weapon at Astartes?”

The child had stopped shaking, but his eyes were still unfocused; even with the obvious genetic modification and chem-treatments he had received, the massive trauma and loss of blood had almost brought Cael undone.

Moving slowly, he injected another astartes blood-based stimulant into the child; Cael began thrashing again, but he stared once more into del Fontaine’s eyes.

“You are making a grave mistake, Lords of Midnight, a grave mistake,” The Inquisitor sounded remarkably calm considering the hooked blade at his throat, but removed the pistol from the marine’s neck…and brought it to point directly at the face of the child.

“He is tainted,” Bautista hissed, “he is a rabid dog that must be euthani-“

“I…I resisted them because t-t-they were…w-w-wrong…corr-corrupt…t-t-they…were….the t-t-tainted o-o-ones…” Cael was shaking violently, but he was lucid, and he gazed imploringly into del Fontaine’s eyes.

“Enough, I am ending this – get out of my way or I will have you all declared traitors to the Golden Throne!”

del Fontaine looked down at the child, waiting for one more sign. He heard Ursthuss utter another threat from across the room; he knew the situation was rapdily spiralling out of control.

“I fought them,” Cael managed to force out the words, “I f-fought them because…they claimed to…serve Him on Earth…but t-t-they did not…”

Time slowed down.

del Fontaine’s hearts pounded in his chest in a way he rarely experienced outside of combat.

He sensed the Inquisitor tensing, preparing to deliver the killing blow. He knew Cil’daer – Cil’daer, who was always calm and detached; Cildaer, who had spent almost a century caring for the Potentials of the Chapter; Cil’daer, who had watched an Inquisition kill-team slaughter his former village, his brothers and sisters, on a rumour of taint.

del Fontaine knew Cil’daer was about to kill the Inquisitor, even as he sensed Ursthuss preparing to do the same from across the room.

Bodies tensed.

Fingers twitched.

Hearts pounded.

A sharp intake of breath.

“Worthy,” pronounced del Fontaine.

And time stopped entirely.

 

+++

 

Cael sensed the danger – the quivering, barely-leashed violence – in the room, and he knew that something momentous had happened.

The three demigods had moved to stand over his prone form, their armoured bulk shielding him from the wrath of the one they called Inquisitor.

“Under the pact between your segmentum headquarters and our own Chapter,” his saviour – del Fontaine? – continued, “which has stood for millennia-”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor hissed, “I am quite aware of the ancient agreements – they are how I made you accompany me here, remember?” His voice was biting, angry.

Cael had a sudden premonition that this man would never forget this day, regardless of the outcome; more importantly, Cael knew he would never forgive either, and somehow that was the greater concern.

“Then you realise, of course, that those pacts quite clearly state that ‘any human of recruitable age may be pronounced Worthy-”

“HE IS CORRUPTED!” the Inquisitor roared, spittle flying; the demigod ignored him, and continued.

“-and duty will then fall to the Lords of Midnight to determine the physical, mental, and spiritual suitability of the Potential in question,’“

Cael was stunned – recruitment?

Surely these warriors – these true Angels of the Emperor – surely they did not want him?

“This is not over,” hissed the Inquisitor, “do not think His Holy Inquisition will ever forget what has transpired here today,” This last chilling threat uttered, the Inquisitor’s petulant form slunk off into the shadows; the armoured warriors seemed to ignore him entirely.

Instead, with still-startling speed, they turned toward Cael’s prostrate form as one.

The third demigod had removed his helm now; Cael saw that this warrior looked young, his skin smooth compared to the crags and scars of the other two. Yet all had a noble countenance so at odds with the form the Dark Masters had claimed was divine.

All three knelt in front of him, glittering purple forms buzzing and whirring as their armoured bulk adjusted to the movement. Even kneeling, they towered over him.

The brothers laid their left hands ritually upon Cael’s brow, the right clutched in a fist to the eagles on their chests.

The saviour spoke.

” Daimon Cael,” he began, voice heavy with the weight of ceremony, “are you Worthy?”

Mind racing.

Heart pounding.

Life slowly fading.

Unable to speak, Cael simply nodded.

“Brothers, it appears we have found one who is Worthy,” del Fontaine continued.

“Potential Cael, what say you, then, to a warrior’s life of violence, faithfully serving the Emperor and the Imperium until you finally embrace death?”

The three noble faces, so human and yet so utterly alien, peered into the soul of the battered, broken, mutilated child lying before them.

Daimon Cael smiled.

What else could he do?