by Gav Thorpe
He took the tablet with him as he moved to the feasting chamber, compiling and annotating tables of warships and other forces he had documented during the entire campaign. As he wolfed down the food, barely registering its taste or texture, Corax added an appendix detailing the enemy forces and tactics he had seen on Isstvan, and a few more notes regarding the fleet movements observed as they had fled the star system.
His account complete, he sealed the file and passed it to one of the attendants, commanding that it be taken to Malcador. The Sigillite would ensure that the information was passed on to Dorn and any others that would find it of benefit.
Writing down his experiences on Isstvan had not brought any sense of satisfaction or release. There were still so many unanswered questions, Corax could not begin to articulate them. Again and again he was left with a sense of loss and emptiness, not knowing what had turned his brothers against the Emperor.
Seeking peace and distraction, the primarch left the chambers and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the inner sea. He put aside all of the thoughts crowding into his head and tried to focus only on the ever-shifting play of light and the constant gurgle and ripple of water.
After spending some time marvelling at the beauty of the lake cavern and taking a few minutes to explore his immediate surroundings, the primarch chose to rove further afield. There were several other self-contained habitats in the vicinity, facing onto a circular plaza decorated with an abstract mosaic. All of the other residences looked empty at the moment. Corax counted twenty of them, a number that was surely not coincidence. That answered the question of how long ago they had been built, for surely a more recent construction would have numbered only eighteen.
From outside there was no way of telling one apartment suite from the other, and Corax quickly grew bored of trying to guess who might have been housed behind which doors. He was about to summon the elevator situated in a grand column at the central plaza when one of the residence servants came hurrying out.
‘Lord Corax, there is a message for you!’ The primarch turned back to see a woman of middle years running across the plaza. ‘Lord Dorn has returned and wishes to meet with you and Malcador.’
At that moment a chime sounded from the elevator and a panel in the marble-like pillar slid open to reveal a captain in the livery of the Imperial Fists.
‘That would be your guide, Lord Corax,’ said the servant. ‘Sorry for the delay in finding you.’
‘No matter,’ said Corax.
The Imperial Fist slapped a hand to his chest in salute and bowed his head as Corax stepped into the elevator. The door closed, enveloping the primarch and legionary in a soft blue glow of artificial light.
‘Where am I going to meet my brother?’ asked Corax.
‘Malcador will host you in the Hall of Victories, lord,’ replied the captain. ‘It will only take a few minutes to get there.’
They said nothing further to each other as the elevator continued to descend, dropping several kilometres into the heart of Terra. Eventually the conveyance slowed and Corax estimated that they were some distance below sea level. A short distance from the shaft the Imperial Fist brought him in front of a massive set of double doors, each gilded and engraved, showing a picture of a man and a woman facing each other. On the left door, the woman held a babe in the crook of one arm and a sword in her hand, her hair flowing like a waterfall, mingling with a billowing dress that in turn merged with the long grass at her feet. On the right, the man, dressed in a worker’s overalls, a chain with the crossed lightning bolt of Unification hanging around his neck, had a wrench in one hand and a pistol in the other, looking to the skies. Between them burned a stylised star, surrounded by other pinpricks in the sky.
Ornate scrollwork held a caption across the heavens, in one of the Terran languages of old. Corax had not been much of a scholar and had studied little of pre-Imperial Terran culture, unlike many of his brothers. He had felt little interest in the past, preferring to concentrate his thoughts and actions on the proper shaping of the future. Despite that, he could instinctively decipher the emblazoned message, crudely translating it as ‘People of Earth, Together.’
The doors opened easily at Corax’s push, swinging silently inwards to reveal a hall several hundred metres long. Corax was surprised to see arched windows along the wall to his right, with sunlight streaming through them.
Given the name of the place, Corax had expected to see lines of battle honours and banners, displays of armour and weapons lining the walls. Instead there were many glass cabinets varying from those small enough to fit in Corax’s palm to some the size of battle tanks, arranged in rows across the hall, each containing an object from across the galaxy and dating back centuries, millennia, tens of millennia.
Stepping up the nearest cabinet, Corax stooped to examine the contents. He felt a tingle of static and heard the faint buzz of a stasis field generator. Enclosed within was a small circuit board, its function unknown. On the stand below, a small steel plate etched with plain text revealed its importance:
Navigational Circuit from the first warp-capable starship
Corax stepped back in surprise. Intrigued, he turned around and found himself looking at the skeletal form of a wheeled vehicle, barely large enough for a normal man to sit inside. Its balloon tyres made up the greater part of its bulk. Corax stepped up to examine the title plate.
Titan Rover
The primarch was not sure what to make of it. It certainly looked like no Titan ever produced by the Mechanicum, which were towering war machines tens of metres high. He looked more closely at the vehicle, but could not see anything that might be a weapon mount.
With a grunt of confusion, he moved on, eyes passing over various technological artefacts and coming to rest on a glass tube filled with a pulsating liquid coloured a deep blue, located about a dozen metres further down the hall. The words beneath, though written in Imperial Gothic, might well have been an alien or lost language, for all the sense Corax could make of them.
Mendelian Eukaryotic Genesis Formula
Raking his fingers through his hair, which had slipped across his face, Corax straightened, bringing something else into his eyeline. It was a small cabinet, less than half a metre to each face, but its positioning on the central aisle seemed to mark it out as of particular importance.
Within was a broken piece of pottery. It was utterly unremarkable, shattered into eight curved shards of crude unpainted clay, marked with fingerprints and dents. Piercing the parts together in his mind, Corax worked out that it was a bowl of some kind.
He heard the whisper of the doors opening and turned back to see Malcador entering the hall, striding with purpose. His face was flushed with blood, his eyes bright and alert.
‘What is this place?’ Corax asked. ‘What manner of victories are celebrated?’
‘The most important kind,’ said the Sigillite, joining Corax beside the shattered bowl. He pointed with a skeletal finger at the contents of the cabinet. ‘One of the first pieces of pottery ever made by human hand. Hundreds of thousands of years old.’
‘It doesn’t seem like much of an achievement, compared to some of the things in here,’ said Corax. ‘It’s so simple, a child could make it.’
‘And yet perhaps one of the most important advances in our entire history, Corax,’ said Malcador. ‘Without this bowl, without the mind that devised it and the hands that shaped it, the rest of the hall would be empty. We have come a long, long way since one of our ancestors noticed a certain type of mud hardening in the sun and decided to make something, but without a first step, no journey is ever begun.’
‘All of these are technological achievements? First steps into new epochs of human history?’
‘Most are technological or scientific, a few are cultural,’ said Malcador. He waved his hand towards the far end of the hall where a number of paintings, statues, carvings, tapestries and other works of art were stored.
Before the primarch could i
nvestigate, the doors opened again, revealing a figure almost as tall as Corax and broader at the shoulders. Rogal Dorn’s white-blond hair was cropped short and spiked, framing his weathered features like a corona. He was dressed in demi-armour: chest, shins and forearms protected by plates and sheaths of golden metal etched with swirling designs similar to those on Corax’s own suit. A cloak of deep red reached down to Dorn’s ankles, held with a clasp shaped into a clenched fist on his left shoulder, pinned with a brooch in the form of the Imperial aquila on the right. He wore a skirt of golden mail that hung to his knees, and at the primarch’s waist was a belt that held a chainsword with fang-like teeth and a holstered bolter. Dorn’s hands were covered by segmented gauntlets of gold, each knuckle embedded with a sizeable ruby. His skin was leathery and heavily tanned, covered by traceries of thin scars and brand marks.
‘Brother!’ Dorn called out with a hand raised in greeting, his voice booming down the hall, disturbing the air of quiet reverence.
The two primarchs met and clasped wrist-to-wrist in welcome. Dorn slapped a hand to Corax’s shoulder and smiled briefly.
‘I promised I would be here today,’ said Dorn.
‘As ever, your word is as secure as the fortresses you raise,’ replied Corax, stepping back and releasing his grip on his gene-brother. Dorn’s expression darkened.
‘I hope that my latest work proves equal to the task.’
‘Your work is as exceptional as ever, Rogal,’ said Malcador. He waved for them to accompany him to the line of benches beneath the high windows. ‘There is not another in the galaxy the Emperor would want to raise up his walls for him.’
Corax stopped before sitting and looked out of the windows. Beyond was a wide valley, which appeared to be made entirely of metal. Glancing up, he saw the dull sky several hundred metres above. The entire edifice was delved into a deep fissure and continued to stretch below out of sight, storey after storey of windows and walkways, the divide criss-crossed by covered bridges, curving railway tracks and black roads.
‘The clerical tenements,’ explained Malcador, peering past Corax. ‘Three million men and women devoted to the administration of Terra and the Sol system.’
‘Three million? For one system?’ Corax could not believe what he heard. ‘Why so many?’
‘Oh, that’s just a fraction of the civil population, Corvus,’ said the Sigillite. ‘It’s barely enough to keep track of all the comings and goings here. Most of the others live in the service towers over at the Chivolan Heights, about seven hundred million of them.’
‘It is barracks space that concerns me more,’ said Dorn, lowering himself to the dark blue couch. ‘Your army of scribes and auditors are not going to keep Horus at bay.’
‘Give them guns and I am sure they will do their best,’ countered the Sigillite, sitting on the next bench.
‘I’ve already sent your honour guard to the new garrison quarters not far from here,’ Dorn told Corax as the Raven Guard primarch continued to look out of the window. ‘There is room for several thousand more, once the rest of your Legion arrives.’
Corax turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘You think I’m bringing the Raven Guard here?’
‘Where else would they go? By the sounds of it, there are barely enough of you to make Deliverance look inhabited. We need every warrior we can to defend Terra. Captain Noriz tells me that you had one thousand, seven hundred and fourteen legionaries and other ranks on board Avenger. How many more can I factor into my plans to arrive from Deliverance?’
‘You are getting ahead of yourself, brother,’ Corax said, crossing his arms. ‘I came here to see the Emperor and will seek his permission to launch attacks against the traitors.’
‘Unwise,’ muttered Malcador, obviously to himself yet not quiet enough to avoid Corax’s keen hearing. The primarch rounded on Malcador.
‘I am not staying here to get trapped like a rat in a hole,’ snapped Corax. He calmed down and looked at Dorn again. ‘You know how we fight, brother. We were never expert at manning a tower or trench line. If the Raven Guard are to play their part, we need freedom to operate without our backs to a wall.’
‘Impossible,’ said Dorn. ‘Like it or not, I must insist that your Legion be stationed here to bolster the defence of the Emperor. Horus will be coming here, make no mistake about that. Our first duty – our only duty – is the protection of Terra. What damage do you think you can do on your own? You have, what, three thousand warriors? Horus now has many hundred times that number, and who can say how his ranks might swell? Your place is here, on Terra, like it or not.’
‘I like it not, and I do not care what you insist,’ said Corax, infuriated by Dorn’s assumption that the primarch of the Raven Guard would demurely acquiesce to his demand. ‘I swore my oath to the Emperor, not to you, and nor to you Malcador, before you start claiming any authority as regent.’
Dorn and the Sigillite said nothing as Corax stepped away from the windows, one hand rubbing at his brow in agitation. The Raven Guard primarch stopped his pacing and turned back to the others, hand held out in conciliation.
‘Why do you assume that Horus must attack Terra?’ Corax asked.
‘If he wishes to depose the Emperor and claim the galaxy for himself, there is no other way,’ said Malcador.
‘We will not allow that to happen,’ added Dorn.
‘You misunderstand me,’ said Corax. ‘You assume that Horus will reach Terra. You have already surrendered the initiative to our enemy and now run around making the best you can of the time he will allow you. We need to strike back fast, dull any momentum he has gained from the massacre at Isstvan, and stop this rebellion in its infancy.’
‘That was why you were sent to Isstvan,’ said Malcador, sighing heavily. ‘It is you who does not understand the situation fully. Horus has the allegiance of his own Legion, the Word Bearers, the Alpha Legion, the Iron War–’
‘I know the faces of the traitors, I saw them first hand at Isstvan,’ snarled Corax. ‘We are not without allies. The Khan and his White Scars, the Lion with the First. What of the Ultramarines and the Thousand Sons?’
There followed an uncomfortable silence, while Dorn and Malcador exchanged a worried glance. The primarch gave Malcador a slight nod.
‘The Thousand Sons cannot be numbered amongst those loyal to Terra,’ said the Sigillite. ‘I won’t go into details, but Magnus proved his untrustworthiness and has been dealt with. Leman Russ and his Legion were despatched to bring Magnus to account for breaking the Nikaea Decree.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Corax.
‘What happened is uncertain so far,’ said Dorn, his tone blunt. ‘The Wolves of Fenris were over-zealous. They have destroyed Prospero and wiped out the Thousand Sons.’
‘What would you expect, unleashing the Wolf King like that?’ said Corax.
‘If that were true, our woes would be lessened,’ said Malcador, his gaze moving between Corax and Dorn. ‘Only this morning I have reports from Prospero that Magnus and some of his Legion escaped the attack. I fear the numbers of our enemies will be swelled by Russ’s headstrong actions rather than reduced. Though there is no great kinship between Magnus and Horus, it seems we have given them a common foe.’
Dorn let out a growl of irritation, his fist thumping down onto the fabric of the bench. The primarch stood up and stared at Corax.
‘Every warrior will count,’ said Dorn. ‘We need you on Terra. We cannot stop Horus coming here. Accept that as fact and bring your Legion to the defence.’
‘Not unless the Emperor himself commands it,’ said Corax, once more pacing back and forth in front of the other two, driven by agitation. ‘I will not sit idle while Horus and our other traitorous brothers bide their time and ready themselves for the battle. They must be harangued and harried, made to pay swiftly for what they have done. They will be brimming with supreme confidence at the moment. I will puncture their pride and show them that they have not won yet.’
‘I trust no one more than you, brother, to see the Emperor safe, but I do not have your confidence or patience. I must fight back and hurt the traitors, for what they have done to my Legion.’
‘A personal vendetta?’ said Malcador.
‘An act of defiance,’ replied Corax. ‘There are those that Horus will try to recruit. He can virtually guarantee them victory at the moment, with no evidence to counter his claims. I will send a message across the Imperium that the Emperor and his Legions have not abandoned them.’
The Raven Guard primarch spun away and strode towards the doors.
‘Where are you going?’ Dorn called out, standing up.
‘To see the Emperor!’ Corax snarled in reply.
‘He won’t see you, Corax, do not disturb him,’ Malcador cried out, hurrying after the departing primarch.
Corax hauled open the doors and found himself confronted by a contingent of Malcador’s Custodian bodyguard.
‘You,’ he snapped, pointing to their leader. ‘Take me to the Emperor.’
The Custodian said nothing, but turned his head to look at Malcador as he came up beside Corax.
‘This is unwise, Corax,’ the Sigillite said.
‘Be sensible, brother,’ said Dorn, laying a hand on Corax’s arm. The Raven Guard pulled away from his brother’s grip.
‘I am primarch of the Raven Guard, son of the Emperor,’ said Corax. ‘It is my right! Take me to the Emperor now, or I will find him myself.’
Dorn met his glare with a doubtful expression, his hand straying to the hilt of the chainsword at his hip in warning.
‘Enough! I will brook no dispute in my palace.’
Corax and Dorn looked at Malcador, who had spoken, though the voice was deep and resonant, unlike the whisper of the Sigillite. Malcador’s eyes shone with golden light, his face a mask of beatific happiness. His lips moved again, as though divorced from the rest of his body, and he held out a gnarled hand surrounded by a shimmering aura.