Sword of Caliban

Hrodric’s expression of wonder brought a smile to Branwen’s face. She’d have liked to activate the weapon, present it’s brilliant blue disruption field and perhaps take the blade through a few test strikes. However, a cramped gunship full of exhausted Dark Angels and terrified Guardsmen was hardly the place. The Lieutenant would need to wait before he saw Sic Semper Tyrannis in action again.

“It is a great honor to be entrusted to wield it,” Branwen agreed, eyes dropping to the sword. Her hands held the sword almost lovingly, with a grip that showed that the Raven Guard was intimately familiar with the weapon’s heft and balance. “I can only hope that it continues to serve beyond me - one shattering was enough.”

She paused as Hrodric voiced his question, dark eyes darting to the other Dark Angels aboard the craft. If they were eavesdropping, they gave no sign. If what the Lieutenant was saying was true, then it would mean that more than just Branwen and her companions had survived to become Primaris. She fought to keep her eyebrows from shooting up in shock.

“… I remember,” Branwen replied, her voice hushed. “Too well, sometimes.”

He leans his head back, a slight smile curving his lips as he close his eyes. His armored fingers tap softly on his thigh plates, as if trying to conjure up a melody long lost.

“Beset by spectres of yore, I sometimes find my mind wandering to those days, which seem like yesterday to me, but the universe has seen a thousand lifetimes since. It is like... waking up from a long slumber, only to realize that the life you lead was but a dream, with warm sun on your cheeks and soft grass between your fingers replaced with the cold void of space and barren rock.”

He slowly opens his eyes and catch the red eyes of one of his comrades’ helmet before they turn their gaze away.

Branwen nodded appreciatively, dark eyes inspecting the Dark Angel’s blade more closely. The craftsmanship was a cut above - The obsidian blade unmarred by any signs of the long battle that Hrodric had only just escaped. That he was the mere thirteenth to wield that blade in the ten thousand years that had passed struck a chord with the Raven Guard.

“A fine weapon, and a great honor.” She agreed, cracking a lopsided grin. “If the last twelve owners are any indication, perhaps having it will ensure you a long record of service.”

The Shadow-Captain then reached for her own sword, pulling it slowly from it’s sheath. The long-handled hilt was enclosed with a basket-style handguard, styled after a spreading wing of white feathers. The single-edged blade itself shone a bright silver in the gloom of the Thunderhawk’s troop bay, etched with a phrase in High Gothic.

“Sic Semper Tyrannis - ‘Thus Always to Tyrants’,” Branwen intoned, resting the blunt back edge against her other hand as she presented it to Hrodric. “Fired in the forges of the Terawatt Clan at the outset of the Great Crusade. It was made for Wyrrin of the XIX Legion, and knew one other owner after.”

She paused, leaving out exactly who that owner was - It seemed imprudent to simply reveal how long she’d served the Raven Guard, especially to one not of the Unkindness. Perhaps with time.

“This is it’s second incarnation,” She continued. “The first was shattered at the Siege of Terra. To my knowledge, it was reforged on Mars prior to the Ultima Founding. A new weapon for this new age.”

He was enthralled by the thing, a weapon of exceptional craftmanship and extraordinary history. Even with the gentle movements it almost sang with unbridled power as Branwen turned it this way at that. Or perhaps that was just his imagination. There was something mystical about these ancient weapons, that he was sure of, something that the newly manufactured gear of the Primaris could not match.

“It is amazing, is it not? That even now these arms bring the Imperial light to the galaxy. Some have served for longer than I have.”

He looks away from the blade and glance around the hold of the craft as it draws nearer to its destination. Even this assault craft was probably ancient by comparison to his own lifetime of war. Even though he had once walked Caliban and heard the words of the Lion and his companions, all that was made naught by the long ardous process of Master Cawl. Not many Astartes today could match his age as such. But his life had been cut short nonetheless.

“Strike Cruiser,” Branwen corrected, shrugging an armored shoulder. “But yes, one of ours. Great Vengeance. She’s leading the Navy ships in the bombardment.”

She fell silent for a moment, studying the Dark Angel’s blade more closely. It was a finely wrought thing, unblemished despite the heavy fighting that it had seen in Hrodric’s hands. The design looked old - definitely moreso than the sleek Primaris gear it accompanied. The Shadow-Captain raised an eyebrow, considering the possibility of pitting Sic Semper Tyrannis against such a weapon.

“Given time, I would welcome such an opportunity.” Branwen agreed. “I’ve never before served alongside the First Legion-” She paused, wincing at her own use of the old terminology. “Old habits, forgive me. But my point stands - Sparring is a good way to get to know someone.”

The Thunderhawk must have broken atmosphere, as the rattling turbulence born of the devastating orbital bombardment abated. In it’s wake was only the murmur of conversation over the low thrum of the gunship’s engines. Branwen leaned her head back against her seat’s arrester-cushion, letting out a long breath.

“Your sword,” She said after a long moment of silence. “I’ve not seen any like it before. A relic of your Chapter?”

*Great Vengeance*. Sounded like something his own chapter would be steering around the galaxy. Then again, a lot of Imperial vessels followed similar naming conventions. At her mention of the First Legion his earlier assumptions are confirmed. She must be a veteran of great age and experience if that was an old habit. Oh how he was reprimanded by his seniors when he first entered service, yet he still sometimes referred to the Dark Angels as the First.

His eyes follow hers as she again inspects his sword and now that the ship is in the calm confines of outer space he feels secure enough to lift it again, holding it upright.

“A relic, yes. The Blades of Caliban are passed down from champion to champion. I am the thirteenth to hold this blade, which was forged in the days of the Great Crusade...”

He gives pause, feeling the eyes of his brothers on him. It was best to be vague when speaking of the Chapter’s history. He knew not why but... he nonetheless didn’t want to end up missing in action. 

Lion El’Jonson

Branwen spared a glance to the guardsmen once more, noting that one of her own had approached the mortals, removing their helm to offer some soft words of encouragement - even as the gunship began to rattle with turbulence. The Shadow-Captain found a small smile at that - sympathy for the mortal humans was something that Astartes would do well to remember.

“They say the Imperium was founded on the blood of martyrs,” Branwen recalled, shaking her head at the notion. “I’d counter that it was built by good soldiers. Ones who knew when to fight, but also when to rely on others.”

She eyed the black-bladed sword that Hrodric was tending to with interest, noting it’s craftsmanship and the engraved words on its blade. Briefly, the Shadow-Captain mused on what the full phrase was, and what its meaning was - something to ask later, perhaps.

“I’ve always preferred melee combat,” Branwen admitted, looking down to her own blade, sheathed at her hip, her smile going lopsided. “Swords don’t run out of ammo. In all seriousness, there’s something personal about it - more involved than simply pulling a trigger. Then again, I suppose that was involved just now.” She shrugged, her eyes returning to Hrodric. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it. Perhaps it wasn’t sporting, but it got the job done.”

He listens to her speak and is reminded of some of the more veteran sergeants in his chapter. There was a certain point along the way where the officers of the Dark Angels lost their connection with humanity. Something changed their minds onto a darker path. He figured there was more experience behind Branwen than her rank suggested. A sage wisdom, so to speak. To rely on others.

Hrodric is almost drawn to smile at her words concerning the art of the blade and her improvised use of the bolter. Definitely something his mentors would balk at. 

“Sporting is an excuse of those lacking in skill. It was an opportune moment to strike, whether by blade or bolter.” He looks down on his armor and the helmet beside him, scarred and damaged, yet his sword remained as sharp and unscuffed as ever. His armored hands trace over the black blade again, a relic of a bygone age, forged on Caliban from the purest metals anointed by the Lion himself. Had he known when he first joined the ranks of the First that this would be his honor to carry...

“Such as it is, we do what we can to save those we are able to,” Branwen replied, looking from the guardsmen to Hrodric with a determined expression. “Even if it means we only save a handful, we’ve made a difference. At the very least, for them.”

She paused as the Dark Angel removed his helm, trying not to let her surprise show. Perhaps it was the way that a vox-grille changed an Astartes’s voice, but Branwen had not expected the face that was beneath it. Instead of a craggy cliff-face of scar-tissue and scowling, Hrodric’s features were almost patrician. Her own dark eyes locked with his, and her expression shifted. The Dark Angel was burdened, but with what the Raven Guard was unsure.

Branwen tentatively reached out to rest a comforting hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder as he spoke. She was about to reply when Vespertine’s intra-ship vox crackled to life.

“Orbital strikes incoming. Hang on, we’re in for some chop.”

A moment later, the muffled thuds of impact could be heard even through the hull of the Thunderhawk. Macro rounds impacting on the surface. It wouldn’t be long before the pressure waves of those detonations began to jostle the gunship as it fought to reach orbit.

“Your gratitude is appreciated,” Branwen managed a small smile. “I’m glad we made it in time. Would have been a right shame to leave a swordsman of your caliber behind.”

He remained unphased as the shocks of the macro barrage shook the craft, experience and conditioning blunting his mind to such irrelevant fears. Another glance is spared to the guardsmen, who cling to each other in their search for safety and reassurance. Then one to his own comrades, who sit silently across the way, calm and still like one of the murals at the Rock. He shakes off that eerie feeling in the back of his head as he looks back to Branwen.

“Any loss is potential squandered. But I am inclined to agree. I would rather live on to fight an other day than to make a fruitless martyr for the sake of it.”

He pulls his black relic blade up in his lap, wiping some blood of it to reveal the engraving of ancient words which meaning were lost along the way of history. Like so much had been the last ten millennia.

Branwen spied the bright bloodstain on Hrodric’s robes, and grimaced. The Dark Angel’s injuries were not mortal, but were numerous enough that even the transhuman physiology of a Primaris Astartes would be hard-pressed in such heavy fighting. She pulled him closer, shouldering the Lieutenant’s weight as they turned back to the center of the cordon. The Raven Guard Thunderhawk had effected an unorthodox landing, it’s tail end perched on top of the wrecked carapace of the Knight Titan that had formed the rear of the desperate Imperial defense. It’s nose and forward assault ramp were close at hand, the dim red of emergency lighting illuminating the troop bay.

“I’ve got you,” Branwen grunted, coaxing Hrodric towards the Thunderhawk. “Just try not to keel over until you’re aboard.”

Her other hand went to the micro-vox bead in her ear, signalling the defensive perimeter of Raven Guard. “All units, fall back to Vespertine. Marines, we are leaving!”

The units of Intercessors and Hellblasters responded immediately, breaking the cordon by fireteams to fall back under the cover of the Thunderhawk’s array of heavy bolters. Their leapfrogging pattern of retreat allowed one unit to move while another kept up a screen of suppressive fire that ensured the Iron Warriors could not press the attack.

Branwen and Hrodric reached the troop bay at the head of the Raven Guard’s retreat, where the Shadow-Captain guided the Dark Angel to a vacant bench. She noted his gaze falling on the surviving guardsmen, and their shell-shocked nature and nodded gravely.

“Would that we could shield them all,” Branwen lamented, feeling a pang of sympathy for the stricken mortals. “That they stood beside you this long is a testament to their resolve.”

“Survival is a great motivator. Some of them turned their guns against themselves to...” He falls silent, tearing his gaze away from the stricken guardsmen. “How cruel the fate of man in these dark times when not even their angelic heroes can deliver them from such despair.”

He reach up, the seals hissing as he opens the clasps of his helmet and lifting the feathered spectacle off his head. Hrodric’s features are surprisingly delicate for an Astartes, that is; more so chiseled than hewn out of rock, with defined cheekbones and narrowing chin. There is a softness to him that other space marines lack. His face is scrunched up however, pained by something for a mere moment after taking the helmet off before his deatures harden into a stoic mask. He turns to Branwen with a sigh, harrowed and bruised, but his clear blue eyes seek hers as if looking for something. When he finally speaks up, without the vox grill’s distortion, his voice is suitably dulcet to his features.

Even as the Iron Warrior’s head topped from his torso, Branwen appeared to not relent. She was at the corpse in two quick strides, thrusting her blade through the traitor’s breastplate in a quick motion. The attack seemed entirely gratuitous until a series of bolt rounds detonated across the gigantic brute’s gnarled and misshapen backpack. Branwen’s attack had only meant to steady the body and ensure that a bulwark against the vengeful fire of the Iron Warriors remained. As their fire slackened, Branwen rose from behind the corpse with Causa Mortis braced. She fired in single shots, muffled thuds sounding from her bolt rifle’s suppressed barrel.

“And a good kill, Lieutenant,” The Shadow-Captain replied, pulling her blade free from the champion’s corpse. “Now, I believe we were in the process of leaving?”

As if to accentuate Branwen’s point, the Thunderhawk above fired it’s turbolaser. A blinding white beam speared forth, fusing a line of advancing traitors and the ground beneath them into glass. The line of defending Raven Guard were beginning to backpedal, bolt rifles chattering away on full auto to drive back the Iron Warriors. It seemed to be working - the IV Legion were pulling back to regroup, their fire becoming sporadic and light.

Branwen let her rifle hang from it’s shoulder-sling, sheathing Sic Semper Tyrannis as she made her way towards Hrodric. The Dark Angel’s fatigue brought a brief look of worry to the Raven Guard’s face.

“Can you make it?” She asked, offering him a hand.

Hrodric nodded at the question, watching the black Thunderhawk soar in and bringing its powerful arsenal to bear against the traitorous horde. He stumbled again, and this time he felt the pain shooting through his abdomen. A dark red circle was slowly spreading on the right hand side of his robes. Not a fatal wound by any means, but it had sapped him for who knows how long now. His comrades moved to aid him, but his hand clasped Branwens as another huff rasped through his rebreather vents.

“I’ll be fine... with some help.”

A short chuckle escaped him, and with some borrowed vigor from the Shadow-Captain he slowly made his way towards the Thunderhawk. The din of battle was fading, but was it because of their efforts to push the enemy back or was it more to do with the rising pitch in his ears. Battle fatigue was uncommon with the Astartes, and the Primaris especially, but perhaps the unrelenting nature of his adversaries and the length of the battle was excuse enough. Once inside the hulking craft he glanced to the surviving guardsmen, huddled in a corner. In them he could see the horrors of war that he would never know reflected back at him in empty eyes and terrified grimaces.

Branwen could feel the tension in the brief pause after she gave the order for evacuation. Even with their helms in place, the Dark Angels’ reluctance to leave was palpable. The Shadow-Captain was not altogether familiar with the sons of the First Legion, but knew somewhat of their stubborn nature. She held Hrodric’s gaze, letting her stony expression convey that she would brook no argument - especially not while above, starships were jockeying into position to turn this battlefield into glass.

Thankfully, the Dark Angels relented. Branwen nodded her approval, about to turn back to her Astartes to bark out orders for their withdrawal when the Iron Warriors champion stepped forth. Hrodric went on the offensive almost immediately, forcing the traitor to bring the haft of his great hammer up and about to parry strikes. Branwen moved to support the Lieutenant, sidestepping right to deliver a quick thrust with Sic Semper Tyrannis at what appeared to be an unprotected flank.

The Iron Warrior was good, though. With a grace that belied his bulk, the traitorous champion whirled the long haft of his hammer, knocking strikes from both Branwen and Hrodric away. He laughed, a deep rumble of gurgling snarls as he brought the hammer around in wide sweep. Branwen managed to throw herself back just in time, the energized head of the weapon passing mere inches from her torso. A Raven Guard Intercessor was not so lucky, straying too close only to recieve the hammerblow to the side. The marine was thrown flat, torso bent unnaturally to one side amidst shattered, bloody ceramite.

Branwen bit back a curse at the loss of another of her marines. The cordon was closing rapidly - as was the window of time before orbital strikes began raining down on the battlefield. She and Hrodric had little time to draw this duel out.

One hand left the hilt of her sword, reaching back for the grip of her slung bolt rifle. She brought it to bear in one fluid motion, squeezing the trigger to fire a few rounds off at point blank range. Hardly sporting behavior, and outside of a lucky hit, the hip-firing was unlikely to take the traitor down. However, she hoped it would be enough of a distraction for her Dark Angel companion to exploit.

What an incredible reaction time. This Iron Warrior was a lumbering thing of ossified growths and metallic skin, but still he managed to counter blow after blow from both his adversaries with relative ease. The control he exhibited over the massive hammer was impressive to say the least, every parry precise and every swing a deadly force of nature. Even so, he was still slow by the measure of a Primaris and Hrodric ducked and sidestepped those blows with relative ease, which he was grateful for, seeing the destruction wrought upon one of Branwen’s Intercessors. He didn’t spare a glance back at his own men. As much as they would want to join in to aid him, they knew fully well not to step within the circle of this champion.

Hrodric had fallen back on the defensive, watching his enemy with great care. For every swing he learned more, a routine form began to surface in the Iron Warrior, calcified by millennia of constant war and the arrogance of countless victories. Openings were showing, caught in small glimpses that a mere human would miss. He had to step out of the way of an especially devastating swing that ruffled the feathered crests on his helmet, after which a burst of shots rang, sparking on the Traitor’s shining flesh in a display of his robust constitution. A glance was spared, seeing Branwen with her bolter raised and smoking. A stinging feeling within him wanted to deride such a breach of honorable combat, part of him that was still left in a distant past. But it was a good call. Time was running out.

The chaos champion stepped back and drew a gurgling breath to shout his mockery at the Shadow-Captain, and Hrodric saw his opportunity. In a display of speed and power he dashed up, reversing the grip on his sword as he sunk the black blade into the side of the traitors gut. His elbow raised and the palm of his gauntlet brought down on the guard, forcing the blade through and splitting open the iron skin and silvery armor with ease, spilling the brute’s insides on the ground with a sickening splat. Forced to his knees, the Iron Warrior tried to shift the grip on his hammer to shove Hrodric aside, but the Dark Angels champion had already swung his Blade of Caliban around in a wide circle, up and above before he brought it down with a guttural grunt of exertion. The brute’s head fell to the ground, still grimacing in a soundless scream, his body still on its knees and gripping the hammer tightly.

Branwen took a halting step towards the Dark Angel as he faltered, ready to grab hold of his power armor in case he toppled over. It was obvious that Hrodric was exhausted - desperate, bitter fighting of this scale against the Iron Warriors would have been enough to tax any Astartes. Hrodric recovered though, and Branwen’s posture straightened to mirror his.

“It’s not just the Guardsmen that we’re here for,” Branwen replied, sweeping her gaze across the cordon that her Intercessors were holding. Further beyond, the stubby shape of Stormtalon Gunships dove from cloud cover, assault cannons coming alive with a harsh buzz as they strafed the traitors. “The fleet is enacting Hammer-Down protocols. We’re to set beacons for lance and macro strikes, and pull back. So unless you fancy being caught in an orbital strike-” She was cut off by the booming chatter of the Thunderhawk’s heavy bolter turrets, putting out another stream of suppressive fire. “- You should get aboard.”

A shout from one of the Raven Guard drew Branwen’s attention. She turned just as the Intercessor toppled backwards, the front of his armor a cratered bloody ruin. The Shadow-Captain cursed as a hulking, silver armored marine forced his way through the gap. His form was swollen with unnatural muscle, the ridges of which were topped with gnarled bony extensions not unlike horns. The traitor brandished a two-handed hammer, it’s head awash with flickering purplish lightning.

The Shadow-Captain spared a glance back to Hrodric even as she readied her own blade. “Shall we deal with this first?”

There was a moment of stark silence among the defenders. The guardsmen looked relieved, flinching at every staccato of bolter fire from above when the gunships came roaring down upon the enemies. They were more than ready to go, but their wide eyes lingered on the stoic Dark Angels who were glancing at each other. Even now they were hesitant to leave, determined to hold their ground. Perhaps they even would have, had Hrodric not been there to break the Unforgiven spell, of seeking repentance at every opportunity.

“We leave then, brothers. To fight another day...”

As soon as he had spoken the marines nodded, moving to help the guardsmen up and to the dropships. He knew well their thoughts. The older Astartes of the chapter was of two sorts. Those that violently opposed his kind joining their ranks and those that felt... obsolete. Perhaps it was so in every chapter now, not just the dour First. These veterans often felt that the sooner they fell, the better, because they would be replaced by another Primaris. But Hrodric would have none of it. Every Astartes had experience worth ten of his own kind. So he would save them, whether they wanted to or not.

The cacophony of battle was joined by a new series of sounds. The roar of jet engines began to rise above the staccato fire of bolters and the screams of the dying. A second later, it was joined by the shriek of smaller rocket engines firing - missiles that began to fall among the attacking hordes of Iron Warriors. Nasty fireballs, tinted with atomizing earth and blasted-apart bodies fountained up from the traitor lines.

Finally, came an echoing crack that reverberated through the chests of both Dark Angel and Iron Warrior alike - the report of a turbolaser. A bright beam struck amidst a squadron of advancing Predators, and in an instant the tanks vanished in an expanding fireball of cooked munitions and detonating fuel bunkers.

Out of the moonlight, a single craft swooped in, banking out of a sharp dive as retro-thrusters screamed to slow it’s descent. VTOL engines powered up, and the vessel decelerated to hover above the thin cordon of Dark Angels.

It was a Thunderhawk Gunship, it’s black fuselage emblazoned with the pale white sigil of the Raven Guard.

Assault ramps about the gunship lowered with the squeal of hydraulics just as heavy bolter turrets opened up with a withering hail of suppressive fire, scouring the immediate area of hostiles. The Raven Guard began to drop from the hatches, forming a cordon in the space that had opened before the Dark Angels. Bolt rifles opened up in short, controlled bursts, punching holes in silver plate that gouted with blood as the mass-reactive rounds detonated.

At the head of the formation was an unhelmed woman in the markings of a Captain who moved for a trio of attacking Iron Warriors. She drew a long-handled sword, it’s single-edged blade shimmering with a pale blue glow as she launched into a series of wide slashes, taking limbs with each blow. With the immediate threat dealt with, she turned back towards the Dark Angels, the fury of battle subsiding from her dark eyes as she regarded her allies.

“I am Shadow-Captain Branwen. Who’s in charge here?”

Emperor be praised. The continuous assault over the last few hours had been repulsed, at least for the moment by the timely arrival of the 19th, heralded by the scream of jets and blasts of rockets. Not a moment too soon. It had become a grave reality to the beleaguered Dark Angels that this could very well have been their last stand, at which point their grim resolve had kicked in. With dwindling ammunition they carried out their bloody work in silence, knowing full well that they could only inflict as much casualty on the enemy before they fell. But now they were given reprive, watching the Raven Guard fall upon the vile forces opposing them with vigor that they were quickly running out of.

At the arrival of the Shadow-Captain there was no celebration however, just some relieved sighs from the guardsmen who had been trapped along with the Unforgiven. The stoic demeanor of the Dark Angels was almost legendary among other chapters, and this was no time to rest. No one stepped up at her request at first, until that is the tallest among them broke line and approached, his powersword dormant for the first time since the enemy assault had begun the day prior. The blood stained armor and cloth made a vicious visage, but the holes and streaks across it along with the ruffled feathers of his crests left a harrowed impression. Him and his brothers had been tested this day.

“I am in charge, for now. Lieutenant Hrodric.”

His step falter and he almost takes a knee. One can see the tension among the other Unforgiven, that they are restraining themselves to not come to his side to aid him. It would be unbecoming, respectless. As far as they are concerned, he’s no longer one of those Primaris upstarts. He straightens again with the aid of his blade, his implants rushing his massive body with adrenaline once more so he can stand proud before Branwen, head held high.

“Feel the might of the righteous!”

“Trials of Azrael”