Only one other knew of this – the Emperor. As he picked his way down to the depression the primarch thought about that day when the Emperor came to Deliverance, to be reunited with his progeny. He remembered the looks of adulation and adoration on Corax’s guerrilla warriors as the Emperor had stepped down alone from his shuttle.
Corax’s memory was as sharp as a sword point, but even he could not quite remember the Emperor’s face, though it was clear he had not seen what had so struck the others with awe. The Emperor had seemed young in body, but his eyes were as old as anything Corax had ever seen. He was of no particular stature, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin.
‘You recognise me?’ the Emperor had asked when the two had withdrawn from the others. He had been clearly surprised by Corax’s reaction.
‘As if from an old dream, yes,’ Corax had replied. ‘I thought you would be taller.’
‘Interesting,’ had been the Emperor’s brief reply.
It was then that the Emperor had explained to Corax what he truly was – a primarch, one of twenty created by him to lead Mankind’s conquest of the stars. Corax had not doubted a word of it, the presence of the Emperor made everything else fall into place. They had talked for a whole day, of the Emperor’s plans and the ongoing Great Crusade. Corax told the Emperor of what had passed on Lycaeus and of the continuing conflict with the planet below. That day they pledged support and loyalty to each other and the Emperor had smiled and nodded.
As Corax had guided the Emperor back to his shuttle, the Master of Mankind had laid a gentle hand on Corax’s arm, his deep blue eyes gleaming. Corax remembered the warmth he had felt, elation coming from the Emperor’s parting words even though the primarch had made no mention of his peculiar ability.
‘You will never have to hide again.’
The primarch snorted at his sentimentality. He was hiding again, of that there was no doubt. He was not scurrying through some ventilation duct, or slipping past a guard post, but Corax suddenly felt as if all the years between then and now had been for nothing.
He looked at the devastation wrought at the dropsite. The Iron Warriors were fortifying the hills, as was their wont. Columns of Space Marines, on foot and in their armoured vehicles, stretched as far as the eye could see. Under the dark clouds their camps sprawled across the Urgall Depression like a stain, but there was something else that darkened the grassy hillsides and wind-swept basin.
Corpses. Tens of thousands of them. The traitors had left the dead where they had fallen, perhaps as a testament to their victory, perhaps unwilling to sweep away the shameful evidence of their treachery.
The slaughter was unimaginable, even to one who had spent his entire life at war. So many dead; legionaries dead, by the hand of other legionaries. This was no mere rebellion, this was something far greater. Rebels raised their voices openly against those they despised. These traitors had plotted in the shadows and bided their time. Who could say how long Horus had been secretly working against the will of the Emperor?
With a shock, Corax realised that he might have been an unwitting conspirator in this uprising. How many of Horus’s orders had he followed without question? How many times had he discussed his strategies, his plans, with the likes of Angron and Fulgrim?
Cloaked from view, Corax wandered amidst the bloodied piles of flesh and shattered armour. He heard harsh laughter from the traitor camps and ignored it. He saw the colours of the Raven Guard next to that of the Salamanders. Company banners lay tattered and broken in the gore-slicked grass. Here and there he saw the livery of the traitors, flecks of bright colour amongst the black and drab greens of the loyalists.
Corax could follow the course of the battle by the dead left in its wake. A fighting retreat here, a last stand around a banner there, a counter-assault against a position over there. Like a story, the scene played out, the Salamanders falling back into an ever smaller pocket of resistance, the Raven Guard breaking out in whatever directions they could. A psychotic charge from Angron’s World Eaters cleaving into the Salamanders’ defensive cordon; gun batteries of the Iron Warriors on the high ground; an encircling attack by the Word Bearers. Far away, the metal colours of the Iron Hands glittered in the rising sun, where Ferrus Manus had led them against the Emperor’s Children.
Of his fellow primarchs, there was no sign.
Corax knelt beside the body of a Raven Guard, his chestplate rent open, his ribcage splayed. His armour bore the markings of a veteran, one of those that had come from Terra and made Deliverance his new home.
Corax had seen untold atrocities and, in the name of Enlightenment and the future had even committed a few. Of these he was not proud, but he was sure that his cause had always been just. He had seen the slavers throttle babies to punish their mothers, and bloodthirsty Khrave fall upon columns of refugees. Never once had any of it caused Corax the slightest hesitation. War was not glorious, it was a desperate, messy business. But it had been his business, one in which he had excelled. This massacre, it was beyond the pale.
For the first and last time in his life, Corax cried. He cried not for the loss of life, though it was great. He cried not for the degradation that had been heaped upon his dead warriors, though it was obscene. He cried for all Space Marines, for the shame that Horus had brought upon them. They had been the Emperor’s trusted sword, and they had betrayed him. It mattered not that Corax himself had remained loyal. He was of the Legiones Astartes and the shame of one was the shame of all.
‘Will they ever trust us again?’ he whispered as a single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the fallen Raven Guard.
Should they trust us, was the next question, one that Corax did not want to ask and certainly could not answer. The Emperor made us gods and mankind followed us, Corax thought heavily. In us he poured the hopes and dreams of humanity, and we raised ourselves up above them. He gave us armies to command and the resources of the galaxy to draw upon. What have we done with that? When we first awoke, what did we do with the power he gave us? Set ourselves up as warrior-kings, with planets as vassals and star systems as our fiefdoms. Not all of us follow Horus, but none of us are beyond blame. Perhaps it is better not to trust us. Perhaps the galaxy is better ruled by normal men, who live and die and whose ambitions are not so grand.
Depression weighed down Corax as he continued his search. There was no sign of Ferrus Manus or Vulkan, though he did not know whether that boded well or ill. There was but one truth to face. The Salamanders and Iron Hands were no more. If aid was to come, it would be from outside Isstvan V.
The Raven Guard would have to fight on alone.
The ensign’s tone was worried as he turned from his console aboard the bridge of Valerius’s flagship, the Remarkable.
‘Praefector, I’m detecting power surges from the orbital platforms in our grid. Weapons are priming!’
Valerius looked to his comms officer.
‘Get me an immediate relay to the Ravenspire, and put it through to my cabin.’
Without waiting for the response, the Praefector hurried from the bridge into his private chamber. He flicked on the vid-screen and paced back and forth across the narrow room as the display filled with multicoloured static.
Commander Branne’s voice cut through Valerius’s agitation.
‘I warned this would happen.’
Valerius spun towards the screen and saw the Space Marine’s face filling the display. The commander’s expression was blank, giving no sign of what he was about to do.
‘Surely you cannot be considering opening fire on Imperial ships?’
‘It is not my decision, Praefector. You have disobeyed a direct command from your superiors. What happens next is up to you.’
Valerius fought the urge to claw at his hair in frustration. He could hear the cawing of ravens even when awake, and the corners of the cabin seemed to flicker with flames.
�
�The deaths of your men will be on your hands, not mine,’ insisted Branne.
‘How can you say that?’ shrieked Valerius. ‘It is by your command that they will be killed. You would slay them out of hand? I cannot believe that even you are that inhuman.’
‘These are inhuman times, Praefector. In following your unconfirmed orders, your officers and men place themselves in conspiracy with your insubordination.’
‘They’re just following my orders,’ growled Valerius. ‘To do otherwise would be mutinous.’
‘Yet you choose to commit that crime on their behalf. I say it again – this is your doing, not mine.’
Valerius’s hands formed claws as he tried to grasp some argument or line of reasoning that would persuade Branne not to open fire. He could think of nothing. His entire claim to this endeavour was based on a dream that tormented him and a deep feeling of dread, and nothing more.
Then it came to him. Valerius rounded on the screen with a last, desperate hope in his heart.
‘What if it is you and not me that is wrong?’
Branne furrowed his brow in confusion as he answered.
‘My orders were explicit, as were yours. The chain of command is equally clear. Any error is yours, not mine.’
‘But think of the consequences! Think not of the arguments and reasons for a moment, but think only of what happens if we follow your path and not mine.’
Branne shook his head, unable to understand Valerius’s argument. The Praefector continued at pace, scrabbling after the words as a drowning man might lunge for a lifeline.
‘If you are right and I am wrong, what harm is caused?’
‘If my worst suspicions are correct, you may aid the traitors.’
Valerius nodded at this, thinking as quickly as his fatigue-numbed mind would allow.
‘Then come with me. Bring your legionaries aboard and hold a gun to my head. I would be the first to pay if there is any hint of treachery in my actions. In that circumstance, what possible gain would there be for me?’
Branne shook his head again but said nothing, so Valerius plunged on.
‘And what if this is just a wild chase? What have we lost by acting? Nothing!’
The Space Marine remained unconvinced and Valerius moved in for his final argument.
‘But consider this. Think of the consequences if, against everything you believe and have been trained for, I am right. Think! If what I say is true, no matter how, then what is the price we pay for not acting? If you come with me, history might remember you as the commander that lost his pride because he allowed a delusional army officer to fool him? Your reputation might suffer, that is true. On the other hand, would you instead be remembered as the commander that stayed at home, too proud to listen to those that warned him of danger, while his primarch needed him?’
Valerius could see his words sinking in as Branne’s frown deepened even further. The Space Marine’s jaw worked incessantly as he turned the words over in his mind, analysing them as he might a battlefield situation, examining them from different perspectives.
‘I do not believe you,’ said Branne. ‘Though the consequences of inaction are far greater, the more likely risk is the loss of my honour, by a considerable factor. I see no benefit in your course of action.’
Valerius fell to his knees, hands held out imploringly towards the flickering image of the commander.
‘Lord Corax needs us! He needs you!’
‘And if he doesn’t? If I go to Isstvan and he welcomes me with scorn?’
Valerius rose to his feet and pulled his hand across his chest in salute, fist grasping the sash.
‘I will give up the red and offer my life as forfeit for my mistake. I will take the dishonour, even to the ruination of my family.’
An internal broadcast cut across the transmission from the Ravenspire. It was the officer at the scanner arrays, his voice timorous, broken.
‘Praefector? Orbital batteries have locked on to our vessels! What should we do? Praefector?’
Valerius cut the link and stared at Branne.
‘It is your decision, commander. My fate is in your hands.’
‘We will be avenged,’ Corax told his legionaries.
Behind him the Ghular salt plains stretched for hundreds of kilometres, offering no sanctuary to his depleted army. They had fought as hard as they could, never getting caught, always moving. Now there was nowhere left to run. The Raven Guard were trapped, sheltering in the last cover that had been left to them while the traitors scoured Urgall.
‘Have you ever seen such a thing?’ asked Agapito.
Corax shook his head. The might of the World Eaters Legion was arrayed against them. Tens of thousands of warriors poured up the slope, only a few kilometres away. From this distance they were lines of blue and white, though much tainted with red. Some of the World Eaters had taken to daubing the blood of the fallen on their armour, marring their Imperial livery in defiance of the Emperor.
‘He is with them,’ said Corax.
‘Who?’ said Alconi.
‘Angron, my headstrong brother,’ replied Corax, pointing into the mass of warriors. Amidst the blue and white armour strode a giant clad in red and gold, a great cloak of fur upon his back. Brazen chains were wrapped about his hands and wrists, a massive chainaxe in each hand. Corax could hear the savage war cries of Angron’s lobotomised warriors, their chanting flowing up the hillside as a challenge to the Raven Guard.
Corax flexed his grip on his whip as he watched the World Eaters Primarch stalking forwards. He knew this was the end. He had barely three thousand Space Marines against the might of a whole legion. He would have to face Angron, and he knew he would fall to the World Eater. There was not another primarch that could best him in single combat, save perhaps Horus, and maybe Sanguinius. Corax was an immortal lord of battle, but Angron was war incarnate. The Raven Guard had seen him leading his troops through the breach at Hell’s Anvil and witnessed his talent for destruction during the Siege of Gehenna.
No, there was not a doubt in Corax’s mind that Angron would slay him, and take great pleasure in the act.
Corax recalled part of the conversation he had shared with the Emperor on Deliverance. The primarch was not sure he yet understood what the Emperor had been saying, for he had said a great many things that referred to the time before his Unification of Terra, references to ancient Earth and his own life that were far beyond Corax’s knowledge.
‘Each of those parts that they put into me, I gave to each of you,’ the Emperor had said. Corax had asked who had put what into the Emperor but he had shaken his head and refused to answer, telling Corax that it was not important anymore. Reunited with his primarchs, he would be whole once again.
The Raven Guard’s leader wondered what part of the Emperor had been put into a beast like Angron. He shuddered to think what Horus had promised the World Eater in return for his betrayal of the Emperor. Conquest, no doubt, and glory in battle. Angron had craved these things more than any other primarch, though Corax and his brothers had all been created with a fierce military pride. What else, Corax thought. What do you gain from this rebellion against the Emperor?
As Corax watched the hordes of the World Eaters streaming towards him, he guessed at an answer. Freedom. Freedom from holding back. Freedom from restraint. Freedom from guilt and orders. But freedom was not without its drawbacks. The primarchs and their warriors needed structure, needed purpose to focus their martial instincts. Without the guiding hand, once provided by the Emperor, now manipulated by Horus, the Legions were nothing more than a bolter without an eye to aim it. Was the wildness, the savagery of the army that raged towards him something that hid inside every Legion?
Corax could not believe it was so. Duty, honour, loyalty. For the strong to fight for the weak, that was purpose. Freedom of the type craved by Angron was an empty existence, re
moved of all measure and boundary, so that no act had meaning because it served no further end. Corax had freed Deliverance from the slavemasters and then guided them into the fold of the Imperium. Perhaps he had merely swapped one master for another, but at least he was free to choose the master he would serve.
Relieved at his conclusion – that he had not in him the means to become a tyrant like Angron – Corax relaxed and waited. Legionaries fighting legionaries was a horrific thing, but in his heart the primarch knew that he would rather fall to the hand of one of his brothers than suffer any other fate. The Space Marines had pounded this new Imperium out of the rawness of the galaxy and it was fitting that it would be them who would decide its fate, for good or ill.
The first missiles from the World Eaters whirlwinds were streaking through the sky towards the Raven Guard. They refused to take shelter, proud to stand their ground against this enemy. The explosions tore through the squads, slaying dozens. Corax stood amidst it all as in the eye of a hurricane. His officers looked to him and drew strength from his bold defiance of the World Eaters.
More vapour trails crossed the open skies, but something was wrong with their direction. They came from behind the Raven Guard.
Corax looked up and saw broad-winged aircraft plunging down from the scattering of cloud, missile pods rippling with fire. A swathe of detonations cut through the World Eaters, ripping through their advance companies. Incendiary bombs blossomed in the heart of the approaching army, scattering white-hot promethium over the steep slopes. Corax looked on with incredulity as blistering pulses of fire descended from orbit, cutting great gouges into Angron’s Legion.
The roar of jets became deafening as dropships descended on pillars of fire. Black dropships emblazoned with the sigil of the Raven Guard. The Space Marines scattered to give the landing craft space to make planetfall. As soon as their thick hydraulic legs touched the ground, ramps whined down and boarding gateways opened.
Shadows of Treachery Page 21