‘It is the zenith of my career,’ said Malevolus proudly. ‘I shall never craft anything so perfect as this again.’
‘It’s… singular,’ said Ravachol, backing away from the armour, which now held nothing but dread for him. Something in its hulking form spoke to him of the oceans of blood that would be spilled by whoever wore this armour and he knew that it had been designed to intimidate as much as protect. ‘Who was it built for?’
Malevolus smiled. ‘It is for the Warmaster.’
Ravachol felt a surge of fear as he looked into the trio of glowing eyes beneath Malevolus’s hood. The Master Adept dwarfed him and the realisation that he had made a terrible error in coming here was a knot of sickness in his belly.
‘Horus?’ breathed Ravachol.
‘The very same,’ said Malevolus. ‘It is to be shipped to the Isstvan system any day now. But it is time to end this, Pallas, don’t you think? You gave us quite a scare when you fled from Adept Chrom’s Protectors. We had no idea what you might try to do, and our pact with the Warmaster was too important to allow a lowly third class adept to disrupt it. I told you there would be ramifications did I not?’
‘You are disobeying the commands of the Emperor…’ said Ravachol.
‘Oh, we’re doing much more than that, my dear Pallas, much more, but even though your little jaunt is now over, I shan’t be explaining it to you. Suffice to say, the Emperor’s time is passed and a new order is dawning for the galaxy.’
‘A new order?’ said Ravachol, backing away from Malevolus. ‘This is heresy! Betrayal! The Emperor is–’
‘The Emperor is finished,’ snapped Malevolus. ‘He shackles our advancement with absurd restrictions on what we may and may not research and then demands we supply his forces with weapons and war materiel. Where was the Emperor when Old Night engulfed Mars? No, when the Emperor’s conquest of the galaxy is finished he will turn on us and take our technologies for himself. We are his vassals, nothing more.’
Ravachol felt a mounting horror at his former master’s words, now understanding that his uncovering of these… traitors’ work on the Kaban project was just the beginning, that it represented treachery on a scale he could barely comprehend.
‘I won’t let you do it,’ he said. ‘I won’t let you drag the Mechanicum into treason.’
‘You won’t let us?’ laughed Malevolus. ‘My dear boy, it’s already begun.’
Ravachol swallowed and said, ‘Then you leave me no choice. Servitor, destroy him!’
The last servitor braced itself and its shoulder mounted plasma discharger swivelled to face the Master Adept. Its energy coils whined as it built up power and a series of targeting lasers reflected from Malevolus’s bronze facemask.
Before the servitor could open fire, a shower of blinding white fire and oil-laced blood fountained from its shoulder and Ravachol threw himself away from the cyborg as it let out a mechanical screech of distress. The oil ignited in the heat and the entire right side of the servitor burst into flames.
Ravachol saw the skimming form of the tech-priest assassin looping through the air above him, her sword trailing a thin line of burning plasma. The flaming servitor struggled to bring its targeting augurs to bear on the assassin, but without its weapon it was next to useless.
Ravachol watched as the deadly assassin spun down towards the servitor and skimmed across the floor. The burning servitor thrashed as its reduced battle capacities forced it to engage in close combat with the speeding assassin. Its remaining arm bore an energy-sheathed gauntlet and it staggered forward to defend its master. Ravachol set off at a run towards the chamber’s hopelessly distant exit as the assassin flickered over the dying servitor, easily avoiding its clumsy swipe and removing its head with a casual flick of her sword.
Ravachol wept as he fled, knowing he could not possibly outpace the assassin, but running anyway. He ran past the glittering suits of armour, wishing that they might step down from their racks and defend him from this treachery.
With each pounding step he expected a sword in the back or a pistol shot to punch him from his feet. The door was drawing nearer and he threw a panicked glance over his shoulder, seeing Adept Malevolus and the assassin standing over the blazing remains of the battle servitor.
Why are they not giving chase?
Ravachol put the question from his mind as he fled through the silver halls of his former master, mnemonic training allowing him to faultlessly retrace the path he had trod to reach this place of betrayal. Numerous adepts and lowly techs gave him curious glances as he ran past them, heading towards the great gates that led from the temple, but he paid them no heed as he sought to escape.
At last he came to the gates where he had claimed Sanctuary, now realising his folly in believing that Malevolus would respect such an ancient right, now that the Mechanicum was engaged in treachery. The great steel gates were open, the eagles etched upon their surfaces now seeming like the grossest insult, and Ravachol ran out into the heat of the Martian night.
And skidded to a halt as he saw the Kaban machine before him.
‘Hello, Pallas,’ said the Kaban machine. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Ravachol saw that the machine was mobile at last, the spherical body now mounted on its wide track unit. The machine towered above him, its thick, weapon arms pointed skyward and its silver, cable arms gently drifting in the air above it like poised snakes. Its sensor-blisters shone with a soft amber light and as much as he wanted to keep running, an inner voice told him that to do so would be the death of him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked warily.
‘I came to find you, Pallas,’ replied the machine.
‘Why,’ said Ravachol.
‘I thought we were friends,’ said the machine.
Ravachol’s mind raced. Had the machine escaped from Adept Chrom’s temple and come to find him in the way animals were said to seek a lost owner?
‘We are friends!’ cried Ravachol. ‘Yes, we are most definitely friends.’
‘Then why do you wish me destroyed?’
‘Destroyed? No, I never said that!’
The machine’s sensor-blisters pulsed an angry red. ‘You believe I am dangerous and do not believe I should exist. To not exist is death and I do not wish to die. I do not deserve to die.’
Ravachol raised his hands pleadingly before him and said, ‘Now, you have to understand I was simply concerned over what you represent.’
‘Adept Chrom told me what you and he talked about,’ growled the machine. ‘He told me that you believe I am illegal and wrong.’
‘Well, in some respects… you are,’ said Ravachol, hoping to appeal to the machine’s sense of reason. ‘The Emperor forbade research into artificial sentience.’
‘But following your logic inevitably leads to my destruction,’ said the machine. ‘And that I cannot allow. It is the right and nature of every intelligent being to defend itself from harm.’
Ravachol backed away from the Kaban machine as he saw Adept Lukas Chrom step from behind its bulk, now understanding why Malevolus and the assassin had allowed him to escape from the temple.
They wanted to see if the Kaban machine would destroy him…
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see his former master at the iron gates. Malevolus nodded and the massive pistons to either side hissed and groaned, pulling the gleaming gate shut.
Ravachol dropped to his knees and looked up as the Kaban machine rolled towards him, its weapons whining as they built power. Adept Chrom walked alongside the machine and Ravachol said, ‘Then do it. I cannot stop you. But what you are doing will not go unpunished.’
Chrom shook his head. ‘In this galaxy there are neither punishment nor rewards, Adept Ravachol, only consequences.’
‘Then I hope the consequences of your betrayal are worth what it will cost Mars.’
>
‘That will be for the Warmaster to decide,’ said Chrom, nodding towards the Kaban machine.
Ravachol looked into the glowing sensory blisters of the machine and saw nothing but the cold, incalculable mystery of a brain that had no right to exist and would one day turn on its masters as it was even now turning on him.
‘Goodbye, Pallas,’ said the machine, aiming its weapons at him.
He closed his eyes and his world ended in fire.
A bloodstained hurricane swept across a desolate hillside, its furious roar a hundred thousand throats crying out in anger and agony. Crimson winds turned to a raging inferno, setting all ablaze. The sky burned and a multitude of dark shapes flocked into the air, their wings alight, sparks trailing from their dark feathers. Dying shouts became the cawing of ravens, a rising cacophony that drowned out the wail of the storm.
Sweat soaked, heart hammering, Marcus Valerius broke from his torment with a scream stifled on his lips. Blood and fire. Always the same. Fire and blood. He pulled aside the sodden blanket, the recycled air of Deliverance drying his lips, crusting the salt on his brow. Valerius coughed and rubbed at his eyes as dim raven shapes danced in the shadows of his gloomy quarters. A faint echo of that desperate roaring rebounded from the bare metal walls, taunting him.
Trembling, Valerius pushed himself from his bed and fumbled his way into the shower alcove. He pulled the brass-ringed chain and tepid water flowed over him, washing away his fatigue. He quickly scrubbed at his flesh with a rough flannel and massaged the water into his curled brown hair. Like most things on Deliverance, water was closely rationed. After his allotted forty-five seconds the stream stopped. Valerius skirted with the idea of using his second daily allotment but dismissed the notion. After a day in the stifling air of Deliverance’s artificial habitat his evening shower was essential in washing away the filth of the day. It was impossible for him to sleep without it.
Not that sleep had come so easy these past days. Every night for seven nights the dream had tortured him. Blood and fire, fire and blood, and a host of ravens crying out in pain.
Mind still occupied by these disturbing thoughts, Valerius rubbed a hand across his narrow chin, feeling stubble on his fingertips. He took a deep bowl and filled it from the waste water of the shower, placing it on a shelf beneath the small mirror fixed to the wall. He looked at his red-rimmed eyes and the lines on his young cheeks. It did not look like the face of a man not long past the thirtieth anniversary of his birth. The past seven days had taken more of a toll than fourteen years of fighting; first against the orks on Therion and then as part of the great army of the Emperor alongside the Space Marines of the Raven Guard Legion. He had slept more easily on a drop-ship as it crashed down towards a world that had refused Enlightenment; he had spent nights in foetid swamps in more comfort than he had found in his own bed of late.
Valerius stropped his straight razor and drew it carefully down his cheeks, calmed by the motion. He paid particular attention to his thin moustache, carefully trimming just above his top lip. He took pride in his facial hair, a testament to his upbringing on Therion and as much a badge of his position as Praefector in the Imperial Army as any rank insignia.
Having performed his morning ablutions, Valerius called for his page, Pelon. The young man came in with his master’s uniform. Pelon helped Valerius to dress, a well-ordered dance between master and servant. The page smoothed out creases in the silk shirt and tied golden braids into the Praefector’s shoulder-length hair. Pelon broke the usual silence.
‘You look tired, my master. Are the dreams still disturbing you?’
‘What do you know of my dreams?’ replied Valerius.
‘Only that I hear you whispering and calling out in your sleep, my master,’ said Pelon. He held out Valerius’s knee-length britches while the officer stepped into them, fastening them with thick black laces.
The Praefector gave a brief account of his nightmare, glad to unburden himself of the dreadful images.
‘Depending upon the warp tides, Lord Corax and his legionaries would have arrived at Isstvan seven days ago,’ Valerius concluded quietly. ‘Can it simply be coincidence that my dreams started then?’
The manservant did not reply as Valerius sat on the end of his bed and held up his feet. Pelon pushed on the Praefector’s traditional Therion riding boots.
‘Perhaps it is a message, my master,’ said Pelon. ‘Some of the old tales say that we can be sent omens in dreams.’
‘Superstition,’ said Valerius, though his dismissal lacked conviction. ‘A message from whom? How would it get into my dreams?’
Pelon shrugged while Valerius stood. The Imperial officer held out his arms so that his manservant could wind a red sash about his waist and over his left shoulder, the tasselled tail hanging down his right leg.
‘Lord Corax is not a normal human, who can say what he can and cannot do, my master,’ Pelon said.
Valerius thought about this as he hung a belt around his waist, dress sword in an ornate scabbard on his left hip. He remained silent as Pelon helped him with the black half-cloak, trimmed with scarlet viarmine fur, affixing it over the Praefector’s right shoulder.
‘I wanted to travel with the Legion,’ Valerius said. ‘I spoke with Lord Corax before he departed.’
‘What did he say, my master?’
‘He told me that this matter was for the Legions alone to deal with. It is a terrible time, Pelon. I can hardly bring myself to believe the truth of it. Part of me still hopes that it is not true. A primarch turning renegade, throwing aside his duties to the Emperor? I would sooner believe that gravity was a myth.
‘I saw the intensity of the primarch’s eyes. They burned with something I have never seen before. Warmaster Horus’s rebellion stains the honour of all the Legiones Astartes. Lord Corax swore to me that the Space Marines would put this right, without our help. Then he laid his giant hand on my shoulder and said “If I need you, you will hear my call”. What do you suppose that means?’
‘I could not guess, my master,’ Pelon said, though it was clear he made some connection with the dream. Valerius let it pass.
There was no need to check a mirror, the Praefector knew that his appearance was impeccable. A thousand times he and Pelon had performed the same dance, whether in a tent on a rain-swept plain while artillery thundered overhead, in the cramped quarters of a troopship forging through the warp, or back on Therion looking out over the family estates, the earthy but reassuring scent of the grox farms drifting through the windows.
It was a ritual that had once given Valerius great comfort. No matter what happened, what life threw at him, he was restored, created anew as an officer of the Emperor. Today the ceremony was empty, as it had been the last seven days. It brought no comfort as the screams of the ravens lingered on the edge of his hearing and flames flickered behind his eyes. All the fine Therion tradition and all of the panoply of the Imperial Army did nothing to assuage his fears. His role, his duty, only increased Valerius’s anxiety. An impulse at the core of his being told the Praefector that something was amiss in the universe and that as an officer of the Emperor is was his destiny to act.
Valerius headed out into the meandering tunnels of the old mines, Pelon by his side. Little could be seen of the grim origins of the labyrinth, the plasteel-clad walls obscuring marks of laser-pick and rock drill. Millions had laboured and died to fuel the greed of a few, but of their passing nothing remained. Lycaeus was no more. Valerius knew of it only from the old stories of tyranny and misery passed on to him by the legionaries of the Raven Guard; those that had been enslaved here and had joined the Legion after the Emperor’s arrival.
Now the moon was called Deliverance, its rockcrete pinnacles and winding corridors a testament to the benefits of Enlightenment and the determination of Lord Corax. Valerius barely thought about the bloody past of this place, but now and then he remembered th
at the air he breathed was the same air that those indentured, pitiful creatures had once breathed, before Lord Corax had led them to freedom.
The pair climbed several flights of stairs towards a shuttle pad and came to a viewing gallery: a hemisphere of armourplas where once the slavemasters had looked into the black skies and seen the fiery trails of the transports bringing their human cargo from the planet below. That world, Kiavahr, could not be seen at the moment. Sometimes it loomed large on the horizon like a resentful eye.
Valerius’s own eye was drawn to the towering needle known as the Ravenspire, former guard tower and now fortress of the Raven Guard, his destination this day. Its sheer sides were blistered with weapon bays and punctured by the light-filled maws of its docks. A hundred searchlights cut across the abyssal blackness of the airless world, fixed upon the mineworkings that sprawled across the moon’s cratered surface, glittering from force domes that protected worker tenements and mineral refineries.
The Ravenspire was quiet. All but a few hundred of the legionaries had left, following their Primarch Lord Corax to the Isstvan system. Valerius did not know the details – few if any did.
It was this that so vexed the Praefector. The dreams might somehow be a call for help from the Primarch. How this might be so, Valerius did not know. All he had was a resounding conviction that he was needed at Isstvan, and that he should go there to whatever fate awaited him.
The vaulted halls of the Ravenspire were eerily empty. The armouries were quiet, the launch bays dormant. The thud of Valerius’s boots seemed to echo all the more loudly than usual. Perhaps it was only his imagination. Commander Branne, leader of the Raven Guard still stationed on Deliverance, held his chambers high in the tower. He was alone as the Praefector and his companion entered, looking out through a narrow window into the starry sky. The commander was dressed in soft slippers and wore a simple black tabard embroidered with the sigil of his Legion.
Shadows of Treachery Page 18