by Gav Thorpe
After the standard delays in bringing the scanners and communications arrays online after the warp transit, the Raven Guard found themselves being insistently hailed by the Wrathful Vanguard, a strike cruiser of the Imperial Fists Legion. Captain Noriz was threatening all manner of violence if they did not identify themselves.
It was clear from Noriz’s hails that unexpected visitors were not welcome.
‘This is the Avenger, battle-barge of the Raven Guard,’ replied Branne, with Corax standing beside him. ‘We are carrying Lord Corax to Terra. Please ensure we have a clear path.’
There was a delay before the Imperial Fists communication returned. Even with audio-only exchanges, there was a noticeable time lag between message and response, indicating that the Wrathful Vanguard was several hundred thousand kilometres away.
‘You are not authorised to proceed. Power down your shields and prepare to receive a boarding party. Failure to comply will be treated as an act of aggression and you will be destroyed.’
Corax laughed at this, but Branne was in no mood to bandy words with the Imperial Fists captain.
‘Watch your tone, captain! Lord Corax will be meeting the Emperor in person. If you have a problem with that, perhaps Rogal Dorn himself would like to come aboard and discuss it. If you have finished insulting my primarch, provide us with escort to get us to Terra without further interference.’
‘I am not at liberty to indulge you, primarch aboard or not,’ came Noriz’s terse reply. ‘All non-sanctioned vessels are to be inspected. If you have not noticed, one legionary’s word to another doesn’t count for much anymore. We will board and if you refuse, your vessel will be destroyed.’
His jaw clenching with anger, Branne reached for the transmit button, but he was stopped by Corax. The primarch gently pushed the commander aside and bent down to the communications array.
‘Captain Noriz, your attention to duty and protocol is admirable,’ said the primarch, his deep voice edged with humour. ‘I am more than happy to welcome a delegation from my brother’s Legion aboard, but please dispense with the threats. This is a battle-barge carrying several thousand legionaries; you have a strike cruiser with a complement of fifty legionaries.’
More silence followed, longer than the previous pause.
‘Please identify yourself.’
Sighing, Corax shared a glance with the others around him before he activated the transmit switch.
‘I am Lord Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard, Saviour of Deliverance, Commander of the 27th and 376th Expeditions, acting Marshal of the Therion Cohort and lauded conqueror of a thousand worlds. Please come aboard and I will show you my other credentials.’
Static buzzed across the network for a while, until Noriz had conceived a suitable reply.
‘I will lead the boarding party, Lord Corax. Please lower your shields in preparation.’
Corax gave a nod to the technicians at the defence control station and stepped back from the communications panel.
‘Be nice, he is only doing his duty,’ the primarch told Branne. ‘The quicker we sort out this inspection, the sooner we can be on our way.’
‘Aye, but he doesn’t have to be so stiff about it, does he?’ said the commander.
‘He’s an Imperial Fist,’ replied Corax. ‘He can’t help it.’
Though he kept his tone light, the primarch was wary. He was sure there was nothing on board the Avenger that would cause problems, but he had an instinctual aversion to close scrutiny. He suppressed his apprehensions and motioned for Branne to welcome Captain Noriz.
THE SCRAPING OF a rock chisel smuggled from the mineworkings rang tinnily from the walls of the small cell. Reqaui sat in the corner of the room whittling away at a lump of slag, the form of his latest creation not yet discernable. Corvus lay on the small mattress, listening intently to the old man with his eyes closed, his hands behind his head. It had been only two years since his discovery; two years of moving from prison block to prison block while his body had grown to that of a twelve-year old. Reqaui was only the latest in a line of imprisoned dissidents and anti-establishment intellectuals who had learned of Corvus’s existence and volunteered to teach the strange boy what they knew of people, politics and history.
It was the one area Corvus really hadn’t known anything about. His technical knowledge was vast, encapsulating the greatest scientific learning of mankind. Corvus could identify the molecular composition of the walls, the door and the bed. He knew the biological processes that had formed the cataracts in Reqaui’s eyes. The old man had turned down Corvus’s well-meant offer to surgically remove them, saying it would arouse suspicion in the guards.
For all of that immense knowledge, Corvus knew little enough about people. It was if his education had been cut short before that lesson had been learnt, leaving him bereft of the subtleties of human nature, a blank slate waiting for more information to be written upon it. He was aware enough to know he was very naive in this regard, and his first tutor, Manrus Colsais, had swiftly exhausted his own store of wisdom concerning the human condition. So had begun the process of Corvus’s education, hidden amongst the masses of the prison-mine that he now knew was called Lycaeus.
‘That was the end of the third Facian dynasty,’ Reqaui was saying. Motes of detritus floated in the air and created a grey patch on the flagstoned floor around the elderly agitator. His chisel continued its work, seemingly independent of his whitening eyes, which were fixed on a point somewhere near the dim light globe set into the ceiling. ‘With the usurpation by Neorthan Chandrapax, the First Settlements began. Lotteries were held for the colonists, so great was the urge to leave Kiavahr’s smoke-ridden cities and polluted seas. In a way, it was the first time in seven hundred years that anything like a democracy was in effect. Regardless of station, every family was given equal chance to be crew on the ark-boats being built. Of course, the higher-ups weren’t being stupid. While everyone had an equal chance to participate, only the elite would be in charge as officers. The new colonies would have mayors from the old families, the College networks would still be in place and the workers would still be the downtrodden in their new lives.’
‘Someone’s coming,’ said Corvus, hearing beyond the walls the distinctive tramp of boots and the specific noise of the door at the far end of the corridor opening. ‘Flash inspection!’
‘Quick, lad, you know what to do,’ said Reqaui, bounding to his feet with sprightly energy.
Corvus rolled off the bed as Reqaui scattered the evidence of his hobby with a sweep of his foot. The old man stuffed the chisel and lump of slag into a pocket sewn into the bottom of the mattress, while Corvus moved aside the old tin bucket that served as a latrine. He could hear the clank of the locks being unwound from the main lever further down the corridor, and a moment later the latch on the cell door sprang open with a rusty screech. The door swung outwards on its spring, opening onto the brightly lit corridor, letting the thudding of the boots into the cell.
‘I don’t have to hide,’ said Corvus, hesitating as he lifted up the slab that concealed the crawlspace he had dug through the core rock beneath the prison block. ‘I can only hear six of them. It wouldn’t be any trouble to kill them.’
‘Oh, not trouble for you, for sure,’ said Reqaui, scowling. ‘But where there’s six, there’s six thousand. Think you can take on all of them, do you?’
‘I could try,’ said Corvus.
‘Not yet, lad,’ said Reqaui. ‘Not ’til you know what’s worth fighting for. Told you before, what you have is a gift, but it could be a curse too. Gotta be right, when you kill a man. Gotta mean something.’
Corvus sighed and slipped into the dark space under the floor. He dragged the slab back into place and fumbled in the dark for the matches and candle stub. The youth did not really need them – there was enough light trickling through from the crack around the loosened slab for him to see perfectly – but Reqaui had provided them for Corvus’s comfort and he felt honour-bound to ma
ke use of them.
As the candle flickered into life, its light gleamed from Reqaui’s carvings that Corvus had placed on a narrow shelf that ran the length of the crawlspace. There were all kinds of animals and birds, some complete, others just heads or faces. Each seemed a grotesque parody of the creatures locked inside Corvus’s head, but Reqaui assured him that they were real, true-to-life representations of mutant creatures that dwelled in the slime pools, acid grottos and sprawling enzyme marshes of Kiavahr.
Corvus wondered much about this world. He had seen it several times through the armorplex windows on the transit galleries, like a red and blue eye glaring up at Lycaeus. Manrus had explained that Lycaeus was a prison, on a moon orbiting Kiavahr. The first prisoners had been sent here centuries ago, for speaking out against the coronation of the Fourth Dynasty. Then the mineral deposits had been discovered, and more and more were found guilty of dissent and sentenced to work to death in the burgeoning mines.
That much Corvus had understood, even if Manrus had spelled it out in no uncertain terms that such political imprisonment was immoral. To remove one’s enemies made sense to Corvus, especially if they could be turned to a more profitable endeavour. It was the condemnation of the families that Corvus had not fully understood. Again, he could perhaps justify the imprisonment of those related to the first agitators and demagogues, because there would be grounds to suspect a criminal’s beliefs might be shared by those around him. What stretched Corvus’s comprehension was the continued internment of those born and raised in the mines.
The people of Lycaeus were no longer just prisoners, they were a colony, of families and children, whose entire lives would be spent in the stuffy false atmosphere contained by the energy domes and mineworks. No child could be accused of insurrection, surely?
Manrus had explained carefully that Lycaeus was a prison only in name now. It was a slave factory, its purpose to provide resources for the great manufactories of the world below. That had made Corvus angry, especially when Manrus had revealed that only a few hundred members of the tech-guilds, the descendants of the old Colleges, benefited from the mass industrialisation. Manrus considered this deeply unfair, and therefore so too did Corvus.
Corvus listened to the guards above shouting for the prisoners to stand in the corridor for inspection as he crawled along the narrow tunnel, admiring the skill with which each sculpture had been fashioned. Every feather, scale and hair was rendered in fine detail, etched from the hard slag by that tip of chisel.
The candle flame flickered slightly as someone moved across the false flag above. There was a strange hollow thump and Corvus froze, realising he had not replaced it properly. There was a confused exchange between the guards and two further stamps on the offending slab.
Corvus blew out the light and retreated to the far end of the hideaway, some three metres from the entrance. There was a scraping noise as a knife was inserted into the narrow gap between the flag and its neighbours.
Bunching his muscles, Corvus formed his hands into fists and bared his teeth, ready to slay those who could discover him. He must not be found. Over and over, from everyone through whose wardship he had passed, he had been told this: do not be found. He was an anomaly, something beyond the understanding of the Kiavahrans. If they discovered him, he would be taken away.
Corvus did not want to be taken away. He had friends here. Friends like Ephrenia and Manrus and Reqaui.
The slab lifted up and the beam of a flashlight flickered around the tunnel mouth.
‘What have we here?’ said one of the guards, ducking his head into the opening.
Corvus shrank back as far as he could, pressing himself against the jagged rock wall, eyes narrowed. The beam of the torch moved towards him and stopped when it reached the shelf of sculptures.
‘Seems Raqaui’s been up to his scrimshawing again,’ said the guard. Corvus did not detect much malice in the man’s tone.
‘Leave it be,’ said another voice from above. ‘It does no harm. More paperwork for us if we report it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said the guard squatting above the hole. ‘It is contraband, and if someone else finds it, we’ll be up for penal shifts, or worse.’
‘Let me see.’
The guard moved away and his helmeted head was replaced by another, this time with the silver strip across the nose guard that signified a wing corporal. He flashed the torch around some more, the beam of light coming to rest directly on Corvus.
The youth tensed every muscle, ready to leap forwards and tear off the corporal’s head the moment he tried to raise the alarm.
To Corvus’s amazement, the corporal said nothing. He played the flashlight around the tunnel for a few more seconds, its beam twice more moving slowly over Corvus, and then stood up.
‘You’re right,’ said the wing corporal. ‘Not worth reporting that. We’ll get him to hand over whatever he’s using as a tool, might use it as a weapon otherwise.’
The slab slammed down with a ring that shook Corvus. He squatted panting in the dark, unable to work out why he had not been discovered.
Eventually the boots thudded away and the door creaked shut again. There was a gentle rap on the concealing slab.
‘You still down there, lad?’
With a laugh of relief, Corvus crawled to the slab and pushed it up, glad to see Reqaui’s perplexed, bearded face.
‘Still here,’ said Corvus.
‘I thought they’d find you for sure,’ said Reqaui, helping Corvus up through the hole, though the youth needed no such aid. ‘I swear they was looking right down there.’
‘They did,’ said Corvus. ‘They didn’t see me. How’s that possible?’
Reqaui shook his head and slumped onto the mattress while Corvus replaced the slab, this time ensuring it fit as snugly as possible.
‘How’s anything possible where you’re concerned?’ said the old inmate. ‘How’s it possible a baby boy’s found a kilometre deep inside a glacier? How’s it possible he pulls off the head of a grown man? How’s it possible he ages five times faster than any other folk? There’s all sorts that’s possible when we’re talking about you.’
‘They looked right at me, and didn’t see me…’ The possibilities were flashing through Corvus’s mind. He thought how wonderful it would be to travel the wings without concern, moving from one block to the next without the guards ever noticing him. Deep inside himself, from some place of instinct rather than intellect, he knew this was something he could do. Like all of the other gifts he had been given, this was an ability that was meant to be used, though to what purpose he still was not sure.
‘It was nice of the guards not to take your sculptures,’ said Corvus, bringing himself back to the present.
‘Nice, my arse,’ said Reqaui. ‘That corporal gave me a truncheon in the gut before he left. They’re all bastards, lad, never forget that.’
‘I won’t,’ said Corvus. ‘They’re all bastards. Don’t worry, Reqaui, one day we’ll be settling the score.’
Reqaui smiled and leaned forwards, gesturing for Corvus to sit beside him. He placed a wiry arm across the boy’s shoulders and gave him a hug.
‘Sure enough, lad,’ said the inmate. ‘A few more years, you’ll have to be patient. A few more years and you’ll be ready. You’ll make the bastards pay, no doubt about it.’
Corvus smiled at the thought.
TRUE TO HIS word, Corax met with the arriving Imperial Fists, accompanied by his senior officers and company captains. Noriz arrived with a full complement of legionaries, who disembarked from the Stormbirds in the docking bay and formed a guard of honour for their captain.
Noriz appeared last, crested helmet under one arm, a long cloak of scarlet trailing from his armour. He seemed very young for a captain to Corax’s eye, his head covered in a short-cropped nest of blond curls, bright blue eyes fixing immediately upon the primarch. The captain swallowed hard and continued to stare at Corax.
‘Is there something amiss, c
aptain?’ asked the primarch.
‘No, not at all,’ said Noriz. ‘We thought… We did not expect to encounter Raven Guard, much less yourself, primarch.’
‘And why would that be?’
Noriz’s discomfort increased.
‘We have received word that you were all dead,’ he said quietly. ‘The Raven Guard, Salamanders and Iron Hands… We, that is Legion command, were told that there had been no survivors from Isstvan.’
‘I am pleased to contradict such rumours in person,’ said Corax. ‘As you can see, the Raven Guard continue to serve the Emperor.’
The captain said nothing in reply. Corax realised that Noriz had to consider an alternative explanation for the Raven Guard’s survival: that they were loyal to Horus.
‘I understand your suspicions, captain,’ said the primarch. ‘When so few have survived such treachery, it is hard to believe we did so without collusion. I would assuage your doubts in any way that I can. Whatever assurances you require, we will provide them.’
‘My apologies for this necessary inspection, primarch,’ said Noriz, eyes averted. ‘I am under standing orders to conduct a search of every vessel entering this quadrant without authorisation.’
‘The Raven Guard will cooperate in any way we can,’ replied Corax. ‘We understand well the need for security at this time. What do you require of us?’
Noriz looked along the line of Raven Guard officers: a row of scarred faces regarding him with distaste bordering on hostility. He sought sanctuary in the more welcoming expression of Corax.
‘We are ordered to conduct a thorough search of the ship and all personnel aboard, primarch.’ He glanced back at his legionaries. ‘We shall conduct our investigation in ten teams, if that is possible. If you would appoint a liaison officer, I can brief him on the details of the process.’
‘I do not wish to be delayed, captain,’ said Corax. ‘I am on my way to an audience with the Emperor.’
‘I am sure that, with your cooperation, we can be thorough and efficient, primarch,’ said Noriz. ‘It should take no longer than a couple of days.’