Dropping to the ground, the primarch grabbed one of the sponson lascannons and braced a foot against the tank’s hull. With a heave of his shoulders, Corax tore the mounting free, the gunner within dragged halfway out of the hole. Corax brought his fist down onto the Iron Warrior’s back, the force of the blow cracking his armour and shattering his spine.
The bolter fire was becoming too intense to ignore. Like a rain shower that suddenly becomes a hail storm, it had grown in vehemence. Four squads of Iron Warriors poured their fire at the primarch, legs braced, muzzle flares gleaming from their armour. The primarch hurled the remains of the predator sponson through them, crushing three Space Marines.
The smoking trail of a missile cut through the air a moment before the projectile crashed into Corax’s left shoulder, sending shards of ceramite in all directions, staggering the primarch to one knee. He spat a wordless curse as he surged forwards once more, cutting to the left and right as balls of plasma and more rockets screamed around him.
Corax covered the hundred metres in a few seconds, coming at the nearest squad from their flank. His fists buckled the faceplates of the first two Space Marines. As their bodies slumped, the primarch snatched up their weapons and stormed into the rest of the squad, a blazing bolter in each hand. The bolts hammered into the Iron Warriors, half a dozen more left on the ground before the ammunition belts were exhausted. Corax tossed the weapons aside.
The squad’s sergeant leapt at Corax, a screeching chainsword in his right hand, bolt pistol blazing in the left. The primarch swatted away the whirring teeth of the chainsword and grabbed the sergeant’s elbow. With a twist and a wrench, he tore out the Iron Warrior’s arm and swung it around, the razor-sharp blades of the chainsword biting deep into the sergeant’s helmet. Corax threw the bloody limb aside and grabbed a grenade from the fallen sergeant’s belt, slamming his fist into the chest of another Space Marine, the explosive detonating in his grasp.
Corax heard the whine of hydraulics to his right as he shook his numbed fingers. A Land Raider opened its assault ramp. Silhouetted against the ruddy light within, a squad of bulky Terminators advanced with purpose. They did not waste the ammunition of their combi-bolters but came forward quickly, flexing lightning-enveloped claws.
More detonations and bolter fire rocked the Iron Warriors column as the Falcons attacked, Aloni’s companies descending on the traitors with jump packs flaring. The Talons pushed forwards from the valley ahead, lascannons and missile launchers cutting trails of death through the surrounded Iron Warriors.
The Terminators hesitated in their advance as anarchy reigned around them. Corax reached behind him and pulled a fresh weapon from his belt. A long twin-barbed whip uncoiled in his hands, writhing with a life of its own. The primarch had requested the Mechanicum of Mars to fashion the lash for him. The irony of wielding such a tyrant’s weapon in a noble cause pleased Corax. Inside his helmet, the primarch grinned in anticipation.
Flickers of energy sparking along its length, the whip flicked out in Corax’s hand and caught the closest Terminator with a thunderous crack, slicing him from shoulder to waist. His remains fell to the ground in three, wisps of smoke drifting from the neatly sliced body parts.
The Terminators opened fire but it was too late. Corax’s whip slashed the head from another and cut the legs from under a third. Aloni bounded past in his ebon armour, his plasma pistol spitting incandescent blasts.
Corax felt a surge of exultation and raised the whip above his head.
‘No mercy!’
The Raven Guard picked the dead clean of everything that could be taken. They worked their way amongst the fallen, slaying those traitors that still lived whilst Sixx and his fellow Apothecaries did what they could to attend the loyalist wounded. Weapons were ripped from dead grasps and ammunition taken from the belts and packs of the fallen.
It was with some distaste that Corax had ordered such plundering, but the circumstances offered him no choice. If his warriors were to continue fighting, they needed supplies. They had to move swiftly, the attack on the column fixing the Raven Guard in one place. Corax wanted to be many kilometres away before any more forces arrived in the area.
Survival was the key. Strike and withdraw and live to strike again. This gross betrayal would not go unnoticed. The Emperor would learn of what had befallen his Legions at Isstvan and his retribution would be swift, of that Corax was sure. He was determined that his warriors would live long enough to see it.
Valerius could see the doubt in the eyes of his subordinates. They were wary. He knew he presented a less-than-inspiring image, cheeks drawn, eyes dark and haunted. For thirty nights he had snatched no more than a few hours of sleep, waking early every morning with the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils and the cries of the dying in his ears. His continued applications to Commander Branne had all fallen on deaf ears and the Praefector was desperate.
He had to go to Isstvan. Nothing else would relieve his foreboding.
Valerius watched the columns of black-masked soldiers marching onto the orbital shuttles, confident that he was doing the right thing. Massive rams lifted the craft out of the sealed hangars into the launch domes above. Beyond the faint blue sheen of the forcefield, plasma jets roared into life, taking the slab-sided shuttles into low orbit over Deliverance where they delivered their living cargo to the immense warp-capable transports of the Imperial Army. His command staff had done as he asked and the regiment had been mustered and supplied ready for the journey to Isstvan. Despite their compliance, Valerius had detected an undertone of confusion and unease amongst his officers and turned his attention back to them, pulling himself straight despite the weariness he felt in his bones.
‘Fifty per cent of the infantry and eighty per cent of the armour has been embarked, Praefector,’ reported First Tribune Marius. He referred to a wafer-thin data-slate before continuing. ‘Seven transports are squared away and ready to leave. The captains of the three others report that they will be warp-worthy within five hours. Frigates Escalation, Garius and Vendetta stand ready for escort service.’
Marius paused and exchanged a glance with the other Tribunes and Aquilons. Valerius guessed Marius had been nominated as spokesman for the command staff’s concerns. It was unlikely anybody would have volunteered for such a task.
‘What is it?’ snapped Valerius.
Marius’s reply was reluctant and he again looked at his companions for encouragement.
‘Praefector, we have yet to receive orders confirmation from Commander Branne, nor launch vectors from the Ravenspire.’
Valerius cleared his throat, uncomfortable.
‘Such verification will be coming shortly. Continue with the boarding manifests.’
Marius and the others hesitated.
‘We are worried about your health, Praefector,’ said Marius. ‘You have not been well of late.’
Valerius summoned his resolve, drawing on the generations of breeding and military command that had paved his way to his position as a Therion Praefector.
‘I gave you an order, Tribune! Be prepared to leave orbit as soon as possible. This is my regiment, seconded to Lord Corax himself. Order confirmations and launch vectors will be forthcoming. I will travel to the Ravenspire to deal with any delay. Is there anything else?’
Marius opened his mouth and then closed it. The others darted angry glances at the First Tribune but remained silent.
‘Good, I am happy that I have made myself clear. Go and attend to your duties.’
Valerius received the salutes of the officers with a nod and watched them turn and disperse into the companies of Imperial soldiers forming up for boarding. He breathed out heavily, and could feel his hands shaking. It was just fatigue, he was sure. Nothing more serious.
With another cough he called for Pelon to bring forward his aircar. He would have to go to the Ravenspire, and that meant another confronta
tion with Branne. Have the courage of your convictions, Valerius told himself. Even to himself, his words sounded weak.
‘This is insubordination!’ roared Branne, looming over Valerius. The Praefector could not help but shrink away from the intimidating bulk of the commander. He hated himself for showing such weakness, it was an affront to the uniform he wore. He was a loyal officer of the Emperor, not some tutor-yard weakling. Yet the Praefector’s protests died in his throat as Branne’s tirade continued. The commander paced across his private chambers, where the walls were hung with paintings depicting idealised scenes from the liberation of Deliverance. Lord Corax featured in all of them.
‘It is precisely because of this… this idiocy that command of the Imperial Army was given to the Legions. A few dreams and you’re ready to head straight into a highly-volatile warzone. Do you really think that Corax wants your regiment hanging around, something else for him to worry about? Leave aside the nonsense of these dreams and consider this. If what you say is true, what difference will one regiment make? Horus’s forces are Legiones Astartes! If the whole might of the Raven Guard, not to mention six – six! – more Legions, are not enough to quell Horus’s rebellion, what can your troops achieve?’
At this, Valerius smarted and he stepped forward, fist raised.
‘We’d actually be there! No, we are not Space Marines, we are not the Emperor’s favoured. We are simply men. Men that believe in the Imperial Truth, in the forging of this new Empire every bit as much as you!’
‘Men are weak,’ replied Branne and Valerius exploded with rage, his frayed psyche finally giving vent. He did not shout; his voice descended to a spite-filled whisper.
‘It is not a normal man that leads this rebellion. Horus is a Space Marine, one of yours! The best of you, if that is to be believed anymore.’
‘Be careful what you say next, Valerius,’ snarled Branne, fists balled by his sides. ‘It is not wise to stand in judgement of your betters.’
Valerius was shocked, speechless. He turned and stalked a few paces away from Branne, quivering with indignation. He had no argument that would sway the Space Marine. In a way, the commander was correct. His legionaries were far superior to Valerius and his warriors. They were created by the Emperor to be physically greater than any mortal human. Their armour was better, their weapons the best that the Mechanicum could create. But that was all that they were – soldiers, war-bringers, conquerors.
Valerius calmed himself before turning back to Branne. He was about to offer a conciliatory gesture when Branne suddenly looked at Valerius with narrowed eyes. The Space Marine’s whole body tensed and for a moment Valerius was filled with an animal fear, that of a prey seeing the predator ready to pounce.
‘Perhaps there is some other reason you are so eager to travel to Isstvan with all of your warriors? Maybe it is not to Lord Corax’s aid that you would go, but to the rebels’.’
Valerius was horrified at the suggestion but Branne continued before he could offer any argument.
‘Perhaps you think you are too good to serve under the Legion? Is that it? Perhaps your dreams are a result of tortured pride, a symptom of a badly bruised ego? Maybe you feel that you would be better off serving Horus?’
‘My pride is in this uniform,’ hissed Valerius, tugging at the sash across his chest. ‘You know why I wear the red? My father gave his blood for the Emperor! He fought and died beside the Legions when they came to Therion. This is a badge of my family’s dedication to the Emperor, a sign of the Emperor’s trust in my family. It means as much to me as that sigil upon your tabard. Do not dare to suppose that I would besmirch this honour!’
Branne was taken aback by the vehemence of Valerius. He blinked several times, as might a large dog when swiped across the nose by a feisty young pup.
‘The weakness of men?’ Valerius muttered, not daring to look at Branne. ‘Yes, the Legiones Astartes united Earth and conquered the galaxy. Behind their guns and swords, we forged across the stars and claimed so many thousands of worlds for the Emperor. You created the Imperium, of that I am sure. But without us weak, frail men, what would you be? Who pilots the ships that carry you, grows the crops that feed you, makes the weapons you wield and raises the children that will be your future generations? Not the Space Marines.’
Branne’s hesitation lasted only a moment and his scowl returned.
‘This is not a debate, Praefector. Were you a pilot, a farmer, a techpriest or a father, you could say such things. You are not, you are an officer of the Imperial Army and you answer to the Legion. I am ranking commander on Deliverance and I order you stand down your regiment. You may not leave for Isstvan. You are not welcome there.’
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Valerius. He straightened and took a deep breath, thinking the unthinkable. The Praefector steadied himself and looked Branne directly in the eye.
‘And if I choose to go anyway?’
Branne’s stare was as hard and uncompromising as the suit of armour that stood in the corner of the chamber.
‘Deliverance has many orbital weapons.’
‘Reminds me of Eblana,’ rasped Agapito. He peered out of the cave mouth as rain sheeted down, turning the grassland outside into a quagmire.
‘Aye,’ said Sergeant Lancrato, another of the Terran veterans who had been at the pacification of the marsh-city. He laughed at a recollection. ‘Remember Hadraig leading us into that bog? Up to our arses in mud, starshells overhead, mortar bombs landing all around us.’
Agapito did not join in his companion’s humour. His tone was sombre.
‘I’d rather have that stinking marsh than this. At least we knew where we were going, even if it was difficult to get to.’
‘We can’t stay in one place, it would be suicide. You know that. We’ll hide out in these caves while we can and then move on.’
‘Yes, I know that, but it galls me to run from these traitorous swine.’
‘I also,’ rumbled a voice from the vast cavern.
Corax emerged from the gloom, divested of his armour. The primarch was clad in a black undersuit, immense muscles criss-crossed with wires and circuits woven into its fabric. His dark eyes stared outside for a moment and then fell upon the two Space Marines.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ the primarch announced.
‘In this?’ Lancrato’s laugh was incredulous. ‘A strange time for a stroll.’
Corax gave a lopsided smile.
‘I never had fresh air before my first planetfall with the Legion. Can’t get enough of it now.’
‘Where are you going, lord?’ asked Agapito.
‘To have a look around. It’s been thirty days since the drop and there’s been no word at all from the Salamanders or Iron Hands. We can’t risk any comms broadcasts, Horus’s followers may use them to locate us. I need to find out what’s happening, make contact with the other Legions. I may be gone for several days. It will be safe to remain here while the bad weather holds. If it clears before I return, move the force west to the Lerghan Ridge and I will meet you there.’
With that, the primarch strode out into the rain.
Corax headed towards the Urgall Hills, swiftly covering the kilometres with easy strides at a pace he could sustain for many days. He avoided the more open plains and kept to the ridgelines and valleys, never exposing himself upon a horizon, circling around the remnants of villages and towns.
He did not allow himself to think too much as he ran. There was little point to it. For thirty days he had asked himself why this had happened; wondered how Horus had turned so many to his cause. It didn’t matter how Horus had created this revolt, the pressing matter was that the Warmaster had. If an effective counterstrike was to be made, those that remained loyal to the Emperor had to come together. If they remained divided they would be picked off, one Legion at a time.
The primarch occupied himself with thou
ghts of strategy, recalling everything about the topography and landscape of Isstvan V. He mentally overlaid the map with the forces of the Legions ranged against him, estimating their strengths, where they would be disposed and where there would be gaps in their defences.
As dawn broke, the primarch reached Tor Venghis, a mount that overlooked the dropsite where so many of his warriors had been slain. From this vantage point he looked out across the Urgall Hills. Huge dropships dominated the landscape, blazoned with the liveries of the traitors: Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, World Eaters, Emperor’s Children, Death Guard, Alpha Legion, even the Word Bearers.
Corax’s heart fell at the sight. So many had turned! It seemed impossible that those who only months before had fought valiantly alongside the Raven Guard were now hunting them down. Despite his earlier thoughts on the futility of understanding their treachery, Corax could not fight the urge to find out more. He needed to get closer, to walk amongst this devastation so that he might better understand it.
So it was that the primarch of the Raven Guard stole into the Urgall Depression and drew upon that ability he had possessed since his first memory but had revealed to no one. He knew not how it came to be, but if he focused his thoughts, he could pass unseen amongst others. Long he had honed his power in the fighting against the slavemasters, walking through their defences in plain sight. His followers had not been aware of his special talent, but there had been plenty about their mysterious leader they had not known.
It was not that he literally disappeared – more than one encounter with an automatic scanner had taught him that – it was that the minds of others ignored Corax if he wished it. Like a predator that only recognises the shapes of its prey, those that Corax wished to deceive simply did not register his presence. Such was their unconscious disbelief that they even refused to acknowledge a return on a scanner sweep or the glow of a thermal monitor. To any naked eye Corax could, for want of a better term, become invisible.
Shadows of Treachery Page 20