by Gav Thorpe
The thought was making Soukhounou angry. Though he had not been born on Deliverance, had not fought against the tyrannical tech-guilds of Kiavahr, he had still accepted wholeheartedly the axioms and philosophy of Corax. If it had not been the purpose of the Legiones Astartes to bring freedom to the galaxy, if war and butchery on an unimaginable scale had no greater cause than domination, then everything he had fought for was pointless.
‘It does not even have to be a legionary. It requires one man or woman, nothing more. The first to risk everything for an ideal. They put their life on the line, their whole future for a cause in the hope of being an example. And then there is someone even braver. The person that chooses to step up next to them. One man or woman is an individual, fighting for themselves. Two is a cause.’
‘That makes me braver than you, doesn’t it?’ Fajallo said with a grin. ‘If you were the first and it’s braver to be second.’
‘Technically, I had recruited several hundred followers before I approached you,’ said the Space Marine. He saw the youth’s expression turn crestfallen, and laid a hand on Fajallo’s shoulder. ‘But you did not know that at the time. From your perspective you were the first – or the second I suppose – and yes, what you did took more bravery and was harder than anything I have ever done in my long life.’
A loud detonation rang out across the square as an explosion tore out part of the wall above the gates. The crowd surged away as metal and stone showered down onto the plaza. From windows below, rebel fighters bellowed to the people that the gates were unbarred. Cheers and fierce cries greeted the announcement and the downtrodden of Carandiru came on again with renewed vigour.
‘You need to start the next phase,’ Soukhounou told his companion. ‘Time to get to those charges we rigged under the secondary wall.’
Fajallo swiped a casual salute and darted off, leaving Soukhounou to scour the skies above the square for a sign of a Stormbird – Arendi and his small group were supposed to be supporting the battle for the citadel.
But there was no sign of them, and even with the advantage of numbers it was not certain that the inmates of Carandiru would overpower their foes.
Disappointed, Soukhounou moved off the balcony and started back to the stairwell. He would have to trust to Fajallo to lead the attack through the breach of the secondary wall so that the commander could lend his might to the battle raging a few storeys below. He was only one legionary and more would die because of Arendi’s absence.
He would have words for the former commander when the two of them next met.
Thirteen
Carandiru
[DV +2 hours]
The Raptors advanced with purpose along the broad tunnel, alert for any danger. Hef marched alongside his commander, amazed and horrified by what they found. The underground chambers they passed were fronted by flickering power fields and beyond the force walls lurked all manner of creatures.
The rooms were decked out like cells, with bunks and ablution facilities, but most looked more like animal lairs, containing piles of shredded blankets and soiled sheets. The inhabitants capered and slithered and stalked around their cages, some throwing themselves at the energy barriers as the Space Marines passed, each attempt met with a crack and a blast of purplish light.
No sound passed the power fields, leaving Hef to wonder what howls, yammers and screeches resounded beyond them. Many of the inmates were obviously furious, some sobbing. A few approached the legionaries with suspicious or hopeful eyes, all too human amongst distorted, canine faces and scaled skin.
It was soon obvious why the main controls had not operated the wards in this part of the prison. Some of the creatures they passed were hulking beasts as large as Dreadnoughts, twisted with outlandish muscle and sprouting tendons and veins. They hunched in their cells with horns and tusks and sword-like claws. Furrows carved into the walls and ceilings stood testament to long frustration. Some of the mutants picked up the remnants of their furnishings and hurled them at the barriers as the legionaries passed; beat fists on their chests like base primates or put back their heads and let loose silenced howls.
Each new apparition made Hef shudder with recognition, as though he was looking at the chambers beneath Ravendelve where he and the Raptors had been kept until the Horus sympathisers had attacked. He tried so hard to push the memories back, to focus on the mission at hand, but as each new leering monstrosity and anguished wretch was revealed he could not think of anything else.
‘We will avenge them,’ Branne said, sensing the unease of his warriors.
It seemed an odd thing to say, given the nature of many of the warriors that accompanied the commander. Other than armaments, battleplate and livery, the only difference between some of the Raptors and the prisoners was which side of the force wall they were on. If these poor unfortunates had to be avenged, what did that mean for the Raptors?
A burst of gunfire from ahead brought welcome distraction from the unsettling train of thought. Hef bounded forwards as a squad of Raptors broke through into another part of the complex with melta bombs, and met by a storm of bullets and heavier weapons fire.
Racing along the freshly opened tunnel, Hef glimpsed fur and horns and scaly skin, but paid each new horror no heed, and with the others he burst from the front line of Raven Guard. His arms had grown longer in the last months, part of the continuing process that had stretched bones and cartilage and bolstered muscle and organs, and he almost raced on all fours in his desire to get at the foe.
He bounded past bodies of the guards, some of them oddly mangled, twisted and broken like dolls where they had been discarded. He noticed in passing no bolter wounds or blade cuts on the bodies; they had all been butchered by hand.
A missile detonated just ahead, smashing a Raptor from his feet in the blast, ripping another in half. The fire coming from up ahead was more accurate than before, shots pounding into the chests of the power-armoured legionaries while las-bolts flickered from the doorways with surprising vehemence.
Turning a corner, Hef came face to face with a giant of a man, as tall as a Space Marine and just as broad. He was half-naked, chest bulging with scarred muscle. Hef struck with his chainsword out of instinct, but the warrior moved just as quickly, ducking the blow and driving a fist into the lieutenant’s gut. Another punch crashed into Hef’s jaw, sending him reeling backwards. A bolt-round slammed into his attacker’s shoulder, tearing out a fist-sized chunk of flesh. It did little to stop the man as he lunged after Hef, who was retreating back to the corner of the passageway while more of his kin advanced in support of the attack.
‘Cease firing!’ Branne’s bellow rang along the metal-lined corridor. ‘Fall back! Cease fire!’
Hef could not understand why they would not press the advantage but he followed orders without hesitation, stumbling away from his adversary as the man stooped to pick up the chainsword knocked from Hef’s grasp. The Raven Guard could not even remember dropping the weapon, and shame burned as he retreated.
Sporadic fire covered the Raven Guard retreat as the Raptors regrouped in a central passageway.
‘What is the First Axiom of Victory?’ Branne shouted, standing at the junction.
Hef was starting to recover his senses from the bloodlust and confusion. The Raptors formed up around their commander to either side of the side-tunnel. Branne stood with his back to the wall.
‘Be where the enemy desires you not to be,’ a reply echoed back.
‘This is Commander Branne of the Raven Guard, identify yourselves!’
‘Branne?’ There was distant muttering that Hef could not quite make out. ‘Show yourself!’
The commander glanced at Hef and the others. He considered the demand for a few seconds, frowning with indecision. Eventually he poked his head around the corner as the warriors on the other side of the corridor eased their weapons into firing positions.
‘B
ranne! By the pits of Kiavahr, it bloody well is!’ came the other voice.
The commander stepped out into the open, lowering his weapons.
‘Napenna? I’ll be a tech-priest’s mother! What… How…’
Hef saw now that his foe was not one of the guards but actually another Space Marine, as were the handful of others that had defended the side corridor. Two were lying dead on the ground, another one nursing a badly bleeding arm. There were two unmoving Raptors amongst them.
The one called Napenna slapped a hand to Branne’s chest. A strand of long blond hair stuck to his sweaty face but Hef could see a tattoo on the warrior’s cheek, of the Legion’s raven emblem gripping the cog of the Mechanicum.
A Techmarine.
Napenna stepped back, brow furrowing as he looked at the gathering Raptors. His men closed in, captured lasguns and autoguns looking small in their giant fists. All were dressed only in loose leggings, barefoot and bare chested.
‘It seems I am not the only one with an explanation to give,’ said the prisoner. ‘How long have you been here? Why did you not release us sooner?’
‘I am not sure I get your meaning, friend,’ said Branne.
‘You released and armed the subs before you found us?’ Napenna waved a hand at Hef and a few of the other mutated warriors. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Not more than thirty minutes ago.’ Branne glanced at his companions. ‘These are my Raptors, Napenna. From the Legion.’
‘They look just like the subs,’ said one of the other prisoners.
‘Subs?’ asked Hef. ‘What are subs?’
The other legionary looked uneasy for a moment.
‘It’s what we call the ones that have been experimented on,’ he explained. ‘The ones they turned into…’
‘Subs? Subhumans?’ Hef felt like he had been struck, a knot of pain in his chest. Anger flared at the insult but he fought back the urge to lash out.
He was not a beast, he told himself, but he could not imagine what the Raptors must look like to an outsider. Mustering what dignity he could, Hef brought his fist up to his chest in salute. ‘I am Lieutenant Navar Hef of the Raven Guard. You are?’
‘Iaento, Blood Angels,’ said the other warrior. He did not return the salute, but looked at Napenna. ‘You never mentioned these… warriors before.’
‘Never seen them,’ said Napenna. He looked at the commander and Raptors with suspicion.
‘A lot has changed,’ said Branne. ‘Why did you attack us?’
‘When the cells were opened I figured out that there was an attack and mustered the few of us left,’ said Napenna. ‘I thought the commandant had sent in a squad of su– of his experiments to kill us before we could be freed.’
‘Could you not see we were Raven Guard?’ asked Branne. There were mutters from a couple of the other legionaries and a harsh bark of a laugh from Iaento. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Your colours are not the badge of loyalty they once were,’ said the Blood Angel. He looked at Hef and then at the chainsword he had taken. With a shrug of apology Iaento handed back the weapon. ‘I think this is yours.’
‘If the Legion is here, where is Lord Corax?’ Napenna said with some urgency.
‘He is going to take down the planetary commandant,’ replied Branne. ‘Why?’
‘I think Lord Corax is heading right into a trap.’ Napenna looked pained. ‘The commandant was one of us, until Isstvan. A Raven Guard.’
Fourteen
Carandiru
[DV +2 hours]
The commandant’s compound was not without serious defences. A flurry of ground-fired missiles greeted Corax a few kilometres out. He saw them coming and destroyed most with bursts of long-range bolter fire as he closed on his objective. The last came at him from below and detonated on proximity, sending shrapnel into the primarch’s armour but causing no serious harm.
From the obscuring cloud above the expanse of armoured towers and turret-protected bulwark two interceptors descended to meet the incoming primarch. Corax could not match the jets for sheer speed or firepower and his armour wailed a cacophony of warnings as missile locks and targeting arrays latched onto his presence.
The flare of missile launches forced the primarch to descend, watching the contrails of two incoming projectiles. He had only a few seconds to react, plummeting as fast as he could towards ground level where the augurs of the fighters might lose him against the backwash of signal from the surface. The missiles jinked with him, steering with long vanes, but though he could not outpace them Corax was not without his own advantages.
He almost stopped in mid-air with a thrust from his flight pack, dipping a shoulder to drop like a stone, swiftly enough that the first missile passed over him without detonating. He could only spare a glance as it raced on, faster than the speed of sound; the other missile was still heading in his direction. He tried ascending, boosting himself up under gravity pressures that would have broken even a Space Marine, but it was too late.
The missile detonated about ten metres to Corax’s left, showering high explosive and shards over the primarch. The worst pattered off his armour but the complex metal primaries of his flight pack suffered damage, causing him to shed slender shining feather-blades in his wake.
The interceptors were closing still as more anti-air fire from the ground sprang up from defence turrets, lancing around the primarch with blasts of deadly las and explosive shells. Even if he could land in the teeth of the turrets’ fire, he would be an easy target for the ordnance of the jet fighters. Corax had to destroy them before he could take the fight to the ground. The primarch boosted himself towards the oncoming aircraft, accelerating hard, almost breaching the sound barrier himself, his armour vibrating all over as he pushed his battleplate to its limits.
Arms back, wings rigid, head set, he powered up to meet the aircraft as two more missiles detached and raced towards him. There was nothing to do but weather their bursts, making minute adjustments of position to bank away at the last moment so that the greater part of the blasts erupted against chest and shoulder rather than flight pack.
The pilots switched to the rotary cannons within the blunt noses of their planes, slowing to draw jagged lines of tracer fire across the primarch’s path. Armour-piercing rounds slammed into the ceramite and plasteel encasing him, sending shards of broken material shimmering into the air. He could feel wounds along his left arm and leg like pinpricks – stinging but not threatening.
The pilot of the closest interceptor tried to pull up, realising the primarch’s intent, but the plane was not as manoeuvrable as Corax’s flight pack – he thrust a fist in front of him as he slammed through the port wing. Fuel tanks erupted as he burst out above the plane. The pilot’s face beneath his goggles was a mask of horror as he looked back at the ascending primarch while his craft stalled into a terminal spin.
The other fighter came past on a raking run, cannon spewing shells, the salvo flying wide of the mark. Killing the power to his pack for a moment, Corax turned sharply, firing the gravitic repulsors again to turn the climb into a dive, streaking after the second aircraft.
The pilot had lost sight of his target and was turning hard, brakes flaring along the wings as he tried to bring his craft around to find his prey. Corax judged his swooping pass perfectly, outstretched fingers ripping open the cockpit canopy and tearing through harness and flight suit.
The man simply fell out of the banking interceptor, his screams lost on the wind.
With the two aircraft destroyed, the ground fire returned with a vengeance, blanketing the sky with airbursts and flashes of laser. Corax jinked and wove his way between them but the weight of fire was too much to avoid entirely. Fragments richocheting from armour plate scorched by the zip of energy beams.
Corax slowed a fraction to assess the target. The greatest concentration of communications aerials and sensor
dishes was on a multi-building structure at the heart of the compound. He steered towards this, deducing it to be the nerve centre of the complex.
If the commandant was anywhere, it would be there.
Quad-cannons boomed out a welcome as he descended, forcing Corax to take a wider route to his target. He landed atop one of the outer defence emplacements, crashing through the ferrocrete roof, crushing men and gun breech alike in the collapsing debris. On the ground, he broke into a run, sprinting across to the next emplacement even as its heavy cannon moved in his direction on a whining turntable. Two blasts from his melta turned the breech to slag. An explosive bolt slammed the gunner, now missing an arm, out of his seat beside the cannon.
Corax sprinted on, heedless of the pistol and rifle fire from other guards pinging from his backpack. The headquarters building consisted of a central tower a few storeys in height, joined by thick-armoured walkways to four outlying bunkers. Razor wire and metal stakes proved no obstacle as the primarch leapt over the intervening barrier with long strides, not even needing the assistance of his flight pack.
A segmented gate like that of an armoury garage started to roll open on the bunker to his left, revealing blocky, armoured figures. At first he thought they were warriors in Terminator armour, but they were bigger still. Dreadnoughts was his second guess, but the trio of warriors that emerged were hulking brutes in plates of armour rather than full war machines.
Plasma erupted from the guns of the closest, searing past Corax’s face. Turning to face the oncoming warriors he heard another of the bunkers opening and glanced back, to see two more of the gigantic soldiers coming at him from the opposite direction.