Corax- Lord of Shadows

by Guy Haley

  ‘We shall see how much blood your father is willing to expend in taking our homes from us,’ said Agarth. ‘Leave us be, before we all suffer for your aggression.’

  ‘My father would spend all the blood there is. He will not permit any human society to suffer outside His protection,’ said Corax. ‘It is His duty to bring enlightenment to the galaxy.’

  ‘We are enlightened enough,’ said Agarth.

  ‘I say otherwise,’ said Corax.

  ‘Then many will die,’ said Agarth. ‘How does that sit with your conscience, saviour?’

  The hololith cut out. Agarth’s face disappeared in a strobed flash of deactivated bubble fields. Ribbon projectors sighed at the end of the effort of creating one coherent image from a thousand individual displays.

  Fenc glanced up at the primarch. Corax radiated dissatisfaction.

  ‘Sentril, tell me of Agarth. How much control does he have over the others?’ Corax asked. ‘Is this a bluff, or do all the cities now speak with his voice?’

  Sentril, who had been conspicuously displayed near the front of the group so the Sodality could see that his mutilations had been made good, stepped closer to speak. ‘Before, not very much. My impression was that the other lords were intimidated by him. His city is larger than most, and better equipped for war. He is aggressive, and was ill-liked. Your presence has changed the situation here greatly. He was agitating for direct confrontation with the Imperium as soon as we iterators had delivered the first offer to the Sodality presidium. At the beginning, he was dismissed, but the destruction of 27-42 made them militant. They are frightened.’

  ‘The scouring of Hartin was regrettable,’ said Corax, ‘and poorly timed.’

  Fenc’s back stiffened. His expedition had been responsible for the massacre there.

  ‘But it is done, my lord,’ said Sentril. ‘So we must deal with the consequences.’ He spared a look of sympathy for Fenc. ‘The Sodality see themselves in the same position, threatened by an external foe, only they regard themselves as a greater power than others we have faced. They think they can win.’

  ‘They have no conception of the enemies we have overcome,’ said Corax.

  ‘They still believe they will prevail where Hartin fell,’ said Sentril.

  ‘I will prove their confidence misplaced,’ said Corax. ‘Zenith-Three-One-Two is Agarth’s city. It is there we will strike next. It is the logical target. An escalating display of our abilities will shake the others’ convictions. Therefore, I will lead the assault myself and bring Agarth before this hololithic projector in chains to show his fellows.’

  ‘I mean no disrespect,’ said Sentril, ‘but you underestimate their pride. We have gone past the point of convincing them.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Corax.

  ‘My lord, please reconsider,’ said Fenc. He began hesitantly, but as the words left his mouth they grew louder. His conviction strengthened. He spread his hands out, palms down, in an emphatic gesture of disagreement. ‘My lord, no.’

  Corax looked at him oddly. There was some new respect in his expression, but a deal of anger.

  ‘You say no to me?’

  Fenc trembled. Corax radiated calm and reasonableness, and yet even with so neutral an aspect the power of him bore down on the admiral. The gaze of his black eyes pressed into him.

  ‘Fenc, I was sent here because you have so far failed to convince the Sodality to compliance, and have presented no military solution to force the issue. Now you say that the plan I have formulated is lacking?’ Corax gave a short laugh of disbelief. He sounded almost like a normal man delivering his recrimination. ‘What is your objection?’ asked Corax. ‘Voice it now. Remember that you speak with a son of the Emperor.’

  How could Fenc possibly forget that? He almost submitted to the overpowering will of the primarch. But his people were proud. Fenc stood his ground.

  ‘Agarth is correct, my lord,’ said Fenc, forcing himself to stare into the wells of darkness Corax had for eyes. ‘We face a long and costly campaign.’

  ‘You do not think we can win? You do not think I can do what I have said I am going to do?’ said Corax. Through the unease the primarch engendered in him, Corax’s self-belief struck Fenc. He is arrogant, thought the admiral. That makes him rash.

  ‘Naturally, we will win,’ said the admiral measuredly. ‘What concerns me is how quickly, and at what cost.’ Corax watched him, his pale face impassive. Fenc pushed on, quickening his speech before his resolve fled. ‘The Thousand Moons are adjusting their orbits. They are bringing themselves closer together physically and politically. Their confederated habits are vanishing in the face of our might. They are uniting. The war is changing before it has properly begun.’ Fenc looked to Sentril for support.

  ‘This is true, my lord,’ said Sentril. ‘This system has been watched for the last century. They have before never displayed this level of cooperation. Their orbits are defined by treaty, signed at the close of their last internal war. Moving the cities is an act their culture will not take lightly.’

  ‘They have decided that they are going to fight against us. Whatever we do now, they will not back down,’ said Fenc. ‘United, they present a significant challenge. Your actions have clarified the situation, and I thank you for your intervention. It is my contention that we must strike at them in force before they fully consolidate their militaries. The time for stealth and gesture is done. We need to begin a full assault. I can have orders drafted for your approval within the hour.’

  There was a long pause where Corax’s black eyes bored into Fenc’s own. A run of sweat tickled its way down from his temple, over his cheek and inside his high collar.

  ‘The cost will be too great. Hundreds of thousands will die. Many of the cities will be lost,’ said Corax. ‘This Agarth must fall. We shall take his city from him. Once that is done, the rest will capitulate.’

  ‘But, my lord, you are wrong,’ said Fenc. His back was soaking with sweat. Defying Corax was a physical effort. ‘The cities move slowly, but once they have reconfigured their orbits about Carinae, the difficulty of our task will be multiplied enormously. I have already run simulations of action against a better disposed Sodality. Our projected losses are here, in this report.’ He took a second slate from his adjutant, and held it out to the primarch. Corax glanced at it but did not take it. ‘The Twenty-Seventh Expedition has standing orders to push deeper into the Argyluss Cluster. We are due to link with the Seventy-Sixth Expeditionary Fleet in six months. There are four class-six human societies between us and their projected path. Iterator overtures have gone well in only two. We will not make the rendezvous if we do not act now. In the worst scenario, this fleet will be too heavily damaged to wage further war, holding up the entire line of advance for the crusade in this subsector.’

  Lines appeared on Corax’s forehead like fractures in a white cliff about to collapse. Something in him changed, perhaps consciously, perhaps not, but Fenc found himself looking up into the face of something inhuman.

  ‘I am not proposing inaction, Fenc,’ said Corax. His voice resonated painfully in the admiral’s skull. ‘You disgrace yourself. This all-out attack you propose is inefficient and will bring about the result you wish to avoid. Agarth’s fall will end this. I will see to his capture personally. The decision is taken. Now leave me. You will return to your ship to await orders for the deployment of the fleet. Do you understand?’

  Fenc’s face burned with anger.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, and bowed.

  Disaster awaited them. Corax might be a primarch, thought Fenc as he left the chamber, but he is not infallible.

  Nine

  sable brand

  Agapito could not concentrate. He was waiting for Branne. For months they had been assigned to different fleets. Legion bonds were supposed to supersede those of family, but in those rare cases of legionaries who were bi
rth brothers also, blood ties were inevitably strengthened.

  He was reading a bullet-pointed list of Zenith-312’s defensive capabilities for the fourth time when the hardline vox buzzed.

  ‘Agapito,’ he answered.

  His equerry replied. ‘Commander Branne is here to see you.’

  ‘Send him in,’ said Agapito, and made an effort to look busy.

  The door whispered open. Branne had come across from the Avenger, so wore his armour. Regulations demanded full battle gear during ship to ship transit while they were in an active warzone. But he had his helmet under his arm, the better to display his cocky smile.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Branne. ‘Have you an embrace for your brother?’

  Agapito was dressed in black trousers and a sleeveless tunic. His arms bulged with muscles studded with the silvery wink of nerve shunt ports. His pale skin was shadowed by subcutaneous black carapace. When he stood and clasped Branne’s armoured chest to his, it was like hugging a refrigeration unit. Branne stood back and gripped Agapito’s shoulder.

  ‘It has been too long. How have you fared without me to watch your back? Still alive, I see.’

  ‘I am better for hearing that I took my target before you did today.’

  Branne laughed. ‘I still took it.’

  ‘You have more than enough to brag about,’ said Agapito. ‘Allow me a moment of gloating.’

  Branne shrugged. His pauldrons whined as they followed the motion. ‘All right, you win.’ He glanced around. ‘Have you done something to this place?’

  ‘My quarters are the same as they ever were.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Branne, looking about. ‘Something’s changed.’

  Being commanders afforded the brothers large quarters. But although their rooms were not the monastic cells of their line warriors, Branne and Agapito were Space Marines still, and natives of Deliverance at that, so their private chambers were small and austere by the standards of Imperial lords. There was no facing on the plasteel walls to disguise the ship’s structure. No marble, or treated rockcrete, wood or granite as could be found aboard the ships of other Legions. The alloy’s dark grey undercoat was unpainted. The lumens and every other device were purely functional. There were no artistic flourishes, and precious little light. Four objects decorated the room. Agapito’s rarely worn dress armour stood to attention in a glass case, shining with inlay and decorative engraving so fine it was barely visible on the black ceramite. There was his bolter at rest on a plain stand by his desk. The desk itself was the only thing of obvious non-Kiavahran make, being of rich woods and gloriously carved. Lastly was a collection of the commander’s art. Miniature engravings executed on tiny pieces of silver stood ranked with military precision in a matt-black shelving unit. Under magnification, they were marvellous landscapes of the worlds Agapito had visited in his career, forty-nine thus far. To the unaided eye they were small squares of bright metal.

  ‘This is new,’ Branne said, patting the desk. ‘Pretty big.’

  ‘It was a showpiece, made on Varva for the Star Giants.’

  ‘I was not there for that one,’ said Branne. ‘I did not know the compliance came with furniture.’

  ‘The Varvans believed in a race of giants that would descend from the heavens and bring them into the light,’ said Agapito. ‘They built palaces in anticipation. The whole planet is littered with ruins built over centuries.’ He paused for a moment. The world had affected him. ‘They put so much effort into their creations. There was so much hope in their offerings.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Though, until the day the star giants actually came, they were perfectly happy to go about murdering each other over what kind of embellishments the star giants might like on their cornices.’

  Branne shook his head. ‘The galaxy is an ocean of madness.’

  ‘Well, at least it was an easy compliance.’ Agapito placed a bowl of fruit and two plain cups of metal on his desk.

  ‘I remember,’ Branne said. ‘That was when I was out in the Chavai Salient, winning the Avenger.’

  The assignment of a battle-barge to Branne’s direct command rankled with Agapito a little, in that humorous, not-humorous way envy can strike at brothers. Technically the resources under Agapito’s command were larger, but Branne’s battle-barge carried prestige Agapito’s cruisers did not. The Raven Guard were not known for jests. Branne still enjoyed teasing his brother.

  ‘You would have to remind me of that,’ said Agapito.

  ‘As long as you are jealous I will continue to do so,’ said Branne. ‘And you are still jealous.’

  ‘I am still jealous,’ admitted Agapito. ‘Shall I call someone to remove your armour?’

  Branne shook his head. ‘I cannot stay long, brother.’

  ‘A little while is better than no time. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Branne.

  ‘Do you think,’ Agapito asked, as he poured out the contents of a small aluminium flask into two mugs, ‘that it is going to work?’

  ‘Corvus’ plan?’ said Branne. He frowned. ‘He has never let us down before.’ He took a nip of the liquor and pulled a face halfway between appreciative and appalled. The old prison techniques for distilling alcohol had been refined, but old tastes died hard. ‘That’s exactly as rough as it should be.’

  ‘Drink enough of this, and it will get you drunk, even now,’ said Agapito with a glint in his eye.

  ‘You sound like Nathian,’ said Branne.

  ‘Not me,’ said Agapito. He took a drink. ‘Do you think it will work? Will they capitulate if we take Zentith-Three-One-Two?’

  Branne looked uneasy. ‘I am uncomfortable questioning Corax, even in private with you.’

  ‘What is the point in being commanders if we follow orders blindly?’ said Agapito.

  ‘Well,’ said Branne reluctantly. ‘They will not fall for the same trick again. Whichever way we do this, we are in for a hard fight. If Corvus’ plan works, it offers the best outcome for the rapid integration of this system into the Imperium, with the lowest casualties and the least damage to its material structure.’

  ‘That is a given,’ said Agapito. ‘But what if it does not work? We will be stuck here for months, fighting a well-organised enemy.’ He drained his cup and gasped. Space Marine physio­logy could take most toxins in its stride, but penal liquor, enhanced by mankind’s finest minds, set it a challenge.

  ‘It better work then,’ said Branne.

  ‘Did you see his face when they destroyed their own city? He hid it, but he was appalled. He is getting too caught up in all this. We have never rested, not since the Emperor came. Straight from the rebellion into enhancement, then the crusade. He had it worse. Even he has to have limits. He has been tested. He is going to go too far to prove himself.’

  ‘What are you driving at, brother?’

  Agapito’s line of thought was borderline sedition, but it came from the heart. Before Corax had become their gene-father, he had been their friend. ‘He has too much to prove – that enlightenment works, that the Imperium can be compassionate, that war can be bloodless, that tyrants must fall and, over all, that the Emperor’s way is the right way.’

  ‘Are you saying the Emperor’s plan is not for the best?’ said Branne carefully.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Agapito with a frown. ‘Obviously it is the right way. The crusade is everything, but we hold back sometimes when other Legions do not, for fear of hurting the innocent. I am proud of that fact. But this is one of those times where we should not. Admiral Fenc thinks Corax is wrong. He was shaking with fury when he left yesterday’s briefing.’

  ‘I saw,’ said Branne. ‘But there is no other viable plan.’

  ‘There is Fenc’s plan, of attacking en masse now,’ said Agapito. ‘I ask you, brother, what if the attack on Zenith-Three-One-Two goes wrong? What then? By then, it will be too
late. Fenc might be right.’

  Branne set down his empty cup. ‘Brother, it will not go wrong.’

  The hardline buzzed again, preventing further discussion. Agapito’s equerry was shouting at someone. The door opened. A legionary in full armour stepped inside.

  ‘I am sorry, brother-commander,’ said Agapito’s equerry. ‘He would not listen. I will remove him.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Agapito. ‘What are you doing here, Pexx?’ He stood from the table.

  ‘Brother-commander,’ said Pexx. ‘I must speak with you now.’

  ‘Pexx?’ said Branne. ‘Fedann Pexx? It is good to see you.’

  Pexx looked sidelong at Branne. It was a furtive look, bizarre when performed by a Space Marine in battleplate.

  ‘I will come back later,’ Pexx said quietly. ‘I am sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘You are here now,’ said Agapito. ‘You know my brother. What is wrong?’

  Pexx brought his hands up to his helm hesitantly.

  ‘It is this,’ he said. He unclasped his helm. He kept his face towards the ground, then slowly looked up.

  His skin had gone a luminous white. His eyes had become black orbs of jet. In Corax’s Legion, this change to resemble the pri­march so long after apotheosis was no cause for joy.

  ‘Emperor’s throne, Pexx!’ said Agapito. ‘Your behaviour during the attack was strange, I thought, but this…’

  ‘Sable brand,’ said Branne. ‘How long?’

  ‘A week,’ said Pexx. The revelation of his condition prompted an outpouring. ‘I could not hide it any longer. The thoughts, commanders… Death, everywhere. And the sorrow. I have never experienced such misery.’ The usually bold Pexx had gone, substituted for this shattered creature.

  ‘You should rest. In a percentage of cases the dark humours pass without intervention,’ said Agapito.

  ‘A percentage?’ asked Pexx.

  ‘A small percentage,’ said Branne.

  Pexx drew in another wavering breath. ‘That is not good enough.’