He turned and smiled as Valerius entered, waving him to a couch along one wall of the low-ceilinged room. Branne sat next to him, the sofa creaking alarmingly under his weight. Even sitting down, the Space Marine dominated the room with his physical presence. His bare biceps were the size of Valerius’s thighs, his massive chest stretching the fabric of the tabard almost to tearing. The Praefector felt like a toddling child. It was even worse when confronted by Lord Corax, who made even the legionaries appear small and frail.
Valerius gulped back a moment of nervousness.
‘Is all well, commander?’ the Praefector asked casually.
Branne’s expression was wistful. His face was crossed with several scars and he unconsciously ran a finger along one across his brow as he replied.
‘This used to be a guard room,’ he said. ‘I killed my first man here, when I was younger than your manservant. Throttled him with the strap of his rifle and took his gun from him. Of course, Corax was with me then. I saw him rip out a man’s heart with his hand and crush the skull of another with his fist.’ He looked around the room, seeing memories rather than cold plasteel walls. ‘It’s a bit lonely. I wish I had gone with the rest of the Legion.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ asked Valerius.
‘Luck of the draw. Someone’s got to stay behind and watch the fortress. The commanders had a lottery and I lost, so here I am, missing out on the action.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Valerius, sensing an opening.
‘I don’t understand you,’ said Branne. He looked up as Pelon appeared with a tray carrying two goblets. He shook his head but Valerius took the proffered water. It had a chemical aftertaste, not at all like the fresh-running streams of his estate on Therion. Still, water was life and he drank swiftly to remove the dryness that had nagged him since wakening.
The Praefector realised he was stalling, not wishing to explain himself. His words came in a rush, breaking through the dam of embarrassment that held them back.
‘I think that Lord Corax needs our help, on Isstvan, I mean. I fear that all has not gone well with the fight against Horus.’
Branne frowned.
‘What makes you think anything is amiss? Have you heard some word I haven’t?’
‘Not directly, no. Look, this is probably not going to make much sense, I don’t really understand it myself. I keep having a dream of burning ravens.’ The furrows in Branne’s brow deepened but Valerius plunged on, his voice rising with anxiety. ‘It might be nothing, nothing at all, but it has plagued me for seven days now. I fear that it is some kind of warning perhaps. I cannot explain it well, it is something that I can just feel. All is not well at Isstvan.’
Branne’s confusion became scepticism.
‘A dream? You want me to ship out to Isstvan, against the primarch’s orders, because of a dream?’
‘More than a dream, I am sure of it.’
‘You are worrying about nothing. Three Legions, three whole Legions move against Horus. Four more will follow-up their offensive. No matter what those traitors have done so far, they haven’t the strength to contend against that. What force in the galaxy could Horus possess to fight such an army?’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ Valerius conceded, though part of him was not convinced. ‘Maybe if I took my men there, just to be sure? If all is well we can simply return, a few weeks lost and nothing more.’
‘I am right,’ said Branne. ‘Nobody is leaving Deliverance, least of all your Imperial soldiers. This is Legion business. We look to our own and we will deal with our own. You must be ready for Lord Corax’s return. We’ll be in the warp and heading off to some other world soon enough, if you’re thirsty for action.’
Valerius nodded in defeat, suppressing a sigh. In the face of such a blank refusal, there was nothing else he could do.
Peace. A rhythmic hum muffled through artificial amniotic fluid. A calming voice, similarly distorted. The words are lost, but the tone comforting. Something beeps insistently in the background. A pale face appears, blurred through the incubator. The features are indistinct, the expression indiscernible. A hand is laid upon the glass of the pod: reverent, hopeful, nurturing. Even loving, perhaps?
Fire and blood crashed through the peace: fire from the burning engines of the Thunderhawk gunship; blood from the tears in his armour, rapidly thickening to stem the flow. There was no pain. No physical pain, at least. The psychological pain, the horror of betrayal, burned like an open wound in his thoughts.
Most of the crimson drying on his black armour was not his own. Pieces of shrapnel protruded from its ceramite skin – shards of armour from his bodyguard. Grisly lumps of flesh clogged the joints, slivers of bone trapped in strands of sinew and gobbets of muscle. He didn’t know the names of those that now stained his armour. He didn’t want to know.
Corax pushed himself from the wreckage of the gunship, steadying himself with the aid of Vincente Sixx.
‘You should allow me to see the wound, lord,’ said the apothecary.
‘It is nothing,’ Corax replied, truthfully.
‘That same blast killed five legionaries. I would not dismiss such a thing so lightly,’ insisted Sixx.
‘My body recovers. We have far more pressing concerns.’
Captain Alvarex stumbled down the assault ramp behind the primarch, the ceramite of his armour pitted with craters from bolter detonations, ivory-coloured holes in his black livery. He tried to hide a limp but it was clear Alvarex’s left leg was injured in some way. The captain carried a stratnet transmitter, salvaged from the gunship’s command deck.
‘Casualty estimates are sketchy,’ the captain reported. Even over the comm his voice was faint, hesitant.
‘Tell me,’ Corax said.
Sixx shook his head in disbelief as the captain replied.
‘Rough estimate is that seventy-five per cent of the Legion has already been lost. Losses may be as high as ninety per cent, lord.’
Corax groaned, hurt more by this news than the gouge in his flesh.
‘Give me a moment,’ said the primarch.
He turned away from the Space Marines as they alighted from the downed Thunderhawk. Many kilometres to the west, the Primarch could see the fires burning on the Urgall plateau and the ring of hills around it. Tens of thousands of legionaries lay dead there. Tens of thousands of Raven Guard. Corax had never been afraid of anything in his life. Not the whips of the slavers, not hordes of orks or armies of dissidents. This was something different. This was Space Marines killing Space Marines.
This was the birth of mankind destroying itself.
Corax allowed himself a few moments of grief, to ponder the lives lost, the fallen brothers-in-arms who had been cut down by their traitorous brethren. He watched the smoke billowing into the sky, blanketing the horizon. He remembered the hasty exchange with Vulkan as the traitors had opened fire from the rear. The primarch of the Salamanders had wanted to protect the dropsite. Corax had argued otherwise, knowing that the field was already lost. It was not in his nature to stay in one place and allow himself to be cut down. With Vulkan’s curses ringing in his ears, Corax had ordered his Legion to retreat by any means necessary. Emergency rendezvous points had been broadcast over the comm-net; coded, but Corax wondered if the traitors had access to the Raven Guard’s communications ciphers. When the survivors had regathered their strength, the primarch would have the Techmarines establish new security protocols.
In this way, with regret giving way to immediate needs, Corax pushed aside the empty gulf that threatened to swallow him. As his mind filled with dispositions and orders, he turned back to the remnants of his honour guard. A Techmarine, Stradon, fussed over a tangled mess of ceramite casing and steel feathers. Stradon looked up as Corax returned. The Techmarine’s helmeted head cocked to one side in dismay, his voice a hoarse whisper.
‘Your flight pack… I could
cannibalise some parts from the Thunderhawk perhaps… Reverse-fit some of the attitude jets…’
‘Leave it,’ said Corax. He cast his gaze over the Space Marines looking expectantly at their primarch. ‘It will be some time before this raven flies again.’
The valley was filled with a deep mist, but there was darker smog amongst the haze – the smoke of engines. Corax was crouched at an observation point high on the western side of the gorge, his four commanders with him. The primarch had removed his winged helmet and listened intently, his superhuman ears better than any autosense the technorati could yet devise. He could tell every vehicle by its unique timbre of roar and grind of gears: Rhino transports, Land Raiders, Predator tanks, Thunderstrike assault guns. This last told him who it was that advanced up the valley, for only one Legion employed artillery of that fashion.
‘Iron Warriors,’ announced the primarch.
There were growls of disgust from the officers around him. Of those that had turned traitor, the Iron Warriors were reserved for especial hatred. The Raven Guard had always considered them brutal, simplistic in their tactics. Corax had never spoken his doubts openly, but he had not shared Perturabo’s approach to war. His former brother viewed conflict as a simple matter of exchanging punishment until one side capitulated. He was the sort that would stand face-to-face with a foe and trade blows, relying on obstinacy to prevail. More than once Perturabo had hinted he thought Corax cowardly for his preferred strategy of hit-and-run.
Corax cared little for the criticisms of the other primarchs. Their Legions were larger than his, their Terran forces bolstered by populous home planets. Deliverance had not the vast resources of many other worlds and only a few thousand more legionaries had swelled the ranks of the Raven Guard. Such a situation had necessitated a certain approach to war, one that Corax had learnt well when he had led the uprising against the slavemasters. Though it was the Raven Guard who had become the superior-armed force, Corax had never forgotten the hard-learnt lessons of that guerrilla war. Had he done as Perturabo believed – or as Vulkan had decided – his warriors would all be dead.
Through careful withdrawal under fire, some had escaped to rejoin the primarch. His four thousand legionaries were little compared to the might he had commanded only a dozen days earlier, but they were still Space Marines and they could still fight. Corax was determined that the dropsite massacre would not go unanswered. Perturabo’s warriors would learn that sometimes the concealed blow was the most lethal.
Corax listened intently to the mechanical noises echoing along the valley, pinpointing each source.
‘Fourteen Rhinos, three Land Raiders, six Predators, three Thunderstrikes,’ the primarch told his officers. None doubted his word, his eyes and ears more accurate than any scanner they had remaining in their armoury. ‘Advancing in double column, six transports in the vanguard, half a kilometre ahead. Two outriding squadrons of bikes, twenty in total.’
The primarch looked up. The cloud in the highlands was low. He heard no jets. It was unlikely that the Iron Warriors had aerial forces, they would be virtually useless in this weather. Further up, beyond the atmosphere, their frigates and battle barges peered down upon Isstvan V with their long-range augurs, but finding a force as small as Corax’s would be all but impossible. It was a gamble, but Corax had to hope that the recon column – one of three that had been scouring the hills since the massacre – did not have attached orbital support.
‘When we attack, they will assume an arrowpoint defensive stance,’ Corax continued. ‘Land Raiders to the fore, Predators along the flanks, assault guns and transports as reserve. That is just the sort of fight these bastards like. Let’s not give them that.’
‘Diversionary delayed attack, lord?’ suggested Agapito, Commander of the Talons, the Tactical companies that formed the fighting backbone of the newly reorganised Raven Guard.
Corax nodded. He turned to Commander Aloni, freshly appointed leader of the Assault companies – the Falcons.
‘Agapito will set up a base of fire in the eastern head of the valley,’ said the primarch. ‘Give the Iron Warriors ten minutes to assemble their formation before attacking the rear. Agapito, I need you to draw their attention to you as much as possible. Hit them hard and hold your ground. Retaliation will be intense. You have to take it. If the enemy think you are going to fall back they will form up for pursuit, which will leave a rearguard right in front of Aloni’s companies. Don’t allow that to happen.’
The commanders nodded their understanding. Another officer, Solaro, spoke next.
‘What about the outriders, lord?’
‘Use your bike squads to give them something to chase. Draw them to the west. Aloni, slant your attack from the east.’
There were affirmatives from the officers, followed by a moment’s quiet until Aloni voiced the question they were all anxious to ask.
‘And you, lord? Where will you be fighting?’
‘I’ll attack from the south-east, as the second wing of the delayed attack.’
‘Is that wise?’ asked Agapito. ‘You disbanded your bodyguard into the other companies.’
Corax stood up to his full height and unslung his heavy bolter, holding it easily in his left hand. The towering primarch smiled down at his officers.
‘That was for appearance. Do you think I actually need a bodyguard?’
The valley was alight with heavy weapons fire and bolter rounds. Two Rhinos were smouldering wrecks and a Land Raider burned fiercely from its engine compartment. The traitors’ return fire was intense, a stream of shells and blasts that seared away the concealing mists. Detonations wracked the boulder-strewn hillside where Agapito’s Talons poured fire on the Iron Warriors.
Corax watched the exchange from a narrow defile a few hundred metres behind the Iron Warriors’ positions. He saw the crews of the Thunderstrikes readying their big guns and knew it was time to act. He had expected as much, but hadn’t wanted Aloni to attack too soon for fear of revealing the strategy. Corax felt no remorse at deceiving his own commanders – it was for their survival that the primarch had decided against them attacking early. He could handle this situation on his own.
The primarch broke from cover, pounding across the pebble-strewn hillside with long strides. Surprise would be his first weapon. As the gravel sprayed underfoot, a lone Iron Warrior, his silver armour dappled with water droplets, turned towards Corax, perhaps somehow hearing the crunching footfalls over the din of the battle. The primarch acted without hesitation. Stooping in his run, he snatched up a shard of rock. With a flick of his arm, he hurled the stone at the Iron Warrior. As a dark blur it struck the Space Marine in the throat and erupted from the back of his neck, silently felling him. Corax sprinted onwards, readying his heavy bolter.
The Thunderstrikes opened up on the Raven Guard, three enormous blossoms of fire enveloping the hillside. Corax could not spare a glance for the devastation caused, he was utterly focussed on his targets. Fifty metres behind the assault guns he stopped and took up a firing position, bringing the heavy bolter up to his left shoulder as an ordinary man might heft a rifle.
He sighted on the closest Thunderstrike, eyes narrowed. He aimed at a point just above the armoured maintenance hatch in the vehicle’s flank, beyond which sat the primary engine relays. The first roaring salvo of bolts hit the exact mark, ripping through the armour plates. A moment later smoke was billowing from the Thunderstrike’s engines before a ball of fire engulfed the assault gun sending torn pieces of metal flying in all directions.
Corax had no time to admire his handiwork. His following fusillade tore into the flexible armour of the next Thunderstrike’s gun mounting, smashing gears, jamming the cannon in place. Silver shapes spilled from the Rhinos and ran towards Corax but he ignored them. He primed three krak grenades, easily holding all of them in the palm of his hand. With an overhand toss, he lobbed the grenades onto the engine vents of the
third Thunderstrike, shattering the grille and rupturing fuel lines. Soon the vehicle was ablaze along the left side of its hull. As the crew emerged smouldering from the hatches Corax gunned them down with raking fire.
Bolter rounds were pattering from Corax’s armour, nothing more than a distraction. Taking in everything at a glance, the primarch turned his attention to a Predator tank slewing in his direction. Its lascannon sponsons swivelled towards him.
Twin blasts of energy exploded around the primarch, hurling him to his back, his chest plastron a semi-molten slurry, the heavy bolter a mangled ruin in his hand. Pain flared across his chest but disappeared as quickly as it came. Corax tossed the heavy bolter aside and pulled himself to his feet as the Predator’s turret opened fire, autocannon rounds shrieking past the primarch.
He broke into a loping run, shells ringing from his helmet and shoulder pads as he sprinted into the teeth of the metal storm. He cared nothing for the danger, except to embrace it. This was what he had been created to do and joy sang in his veins.
Corax’s joy was further fuelled by a righteousness of purpose. He looked at the Iron Warriors and saw only cowardly bullies revealed in their true nature. The primarch had been raised fighting such tyrants. To find them within the ranks of the Legiones Astartes appalled him in a way that nothing else ever had. The slavemasters of Lycaeus had been human. They had been fallible. The Space Marines had no such excuse. They had been chosen for their strength of body and purpose. They had sworn binding oaths of service to the Emperor and the growing empire of mankind. They were liberators, not oppressors.
With a feral roar, Corax leapt upon the Predator. Driven by his indignant rage, he drove his fist through the driver’s slit, crushing the skull of the Iron Warrior within. Jumping onto the turret, the primarch tore away the hatch covers, sending their jagged remains scything through the Iron Warriors squads advancing on him from the transports. The tank’s commander looked up in surprise as dim light flooded the interior of the Predator. Corax reached in, his gauntlet enveloping the Space Marine’s head. The helmet resisted for a moment before giving in to the titanic pressure, the tank commander’s skull collapsing between Corax’s fingers.
Shadows of Treachery Page 19