by Gav Thorpe
The ramp descended and a single figure emerged. Branne grunted, nonplussed, and Corax shared his surprise. The large shape of a Dreadnought descended, a bulky war engine almost as tall as the primarch and just as broad.
From the other Thunderhawk two Terminator-armoured figures emerged, both of them sporting multi-barrelled rotary canons and power fists. Upon their armour they bore back banners stitched with the insignia of the X Legion and other devices of their company. They fell in beside the Dreadnought, one to each side. Looking closely, Corax did not recognise the class of armour they wore – some specialist derivative of the Iron Hands.
‘I am Iron Father Kardozia,’ the Dreadnought intoned, its bass voice echoing across the flight bay. ‘Apologies that my form does not allow me to show proper deference with a bow.’
‘You... You are excused that formality, Iron Father,’ Corax replied after a moment. ‘This is Branne, one of my commanders. Branne, you may dismiss the escort.’
The commander hesitated for a second and then nodded. A moment later the Raptors, having received the order across the vox, presented their weapons in salute to the Iron Hands and then turned to file out of the bay doors.
Corax waited, unsure how to proceed. It seemed impolitic to continue the audience in the flight bay as though hosting a guest on the doorstep, but the Iron Father’s incarceration made other arrangements difficult. Corax, for the first time since he had grown to his full size, suddenly appreciated the vexations others must have undergone when confronted with the reality of playing host to a primarch.
‘Follow me, Iron Father,’ he said. Better to make no particular remark on the Iron Hand’s internment. ‘We can speak in one of the briefing halls.’
‘That would be accommodating, Lord Corax.’
The Dreadnought’s feet thudded on the deck as Corax turned towards the doors and led the party to the adjoining corridor. Fortunately, he had long been accustomed to navigating his way around the Avenger in a manner that suited his size, and so was able to lead Kardozia to the prepared audience chamber without unnecessary diversion. On entering the hall the two Terminators, who had not spoken nor been identified during the journey, took station on either side of the large doors.
Branne set himself at the controls of the large holoslate that dominated the wall of the briefing chamber, while Corax stood to one side. Pneumatics hissing, the Iron Father settled a couple of metres from the primarch.
‘My Navigators report that your ship is alone, Lord Corax,’ Kardozia began. ‘I am surprised to find a primarch in charge of such a small force, even as I am heartened to learn that the rumours of your survival on Isstvan have proven true.’
‘It is the nature of the war that we fight on many fronts,’ Corax replied, unwilling to concede any more strategic information than was necessary.
‘That is a truth we have all been forced to accept,’ said the Iron Father. ‘My command and I were not at Isstvan, and I cannot say whether I would wish that we had been there or not. So terrible to have been absent from the battle, yet we are alive to continue the fight, unlike so many of our Legion brothers.’
‘The loss of the Gorgon is a hard burden,’ Corax said carefully, not quite sure where the conversation was leading. ‘It is to the credit of the Tenth that their desire for battle endures even now. And, by account, they continue to be a force that Horus would be foolish to ignore.’
‘That is our hope. We are few in number, three squads in all, but we have done what we can to disrupt Horus’ preparations for an attack on Terra. Now that his advance seems imminent I thought it best to move to the defence of the Throneworld.’
‘You believe Horus is making his final move, Iron Father?’ Branne asked.
‘We have patrolled the warp lanes in this and neighbouring sectors since we learned of the treachery at Isstvan, commander. Pirates, you might call us, picking on such merchants that aid the enemy, ambushing warships within our potential to destroy. Over the last months the size of the flotillas passing through have grown and grown.’ The Dreadnought swivelled its sarcophagus to face the primarch. ‘A new offensive has begun already, Lord Corax.’
‘So you intend to fight at Terra. I must inform you that it is, for the moment at least, not my plan to return to the Solar System.’ Corax knitted his fingers together and held them to his chest. ‘You are welcome to join our force, subject to my command, and continue the war from behind the advance of the enemy. Or, if you desire, you may continue on your way without delay.’
‘Though I had resolved to make the journey to Terra, the battle of which I speak is not for the Throneworld, not yet. Though confronted by overwhelming force of late, we have not been without targets of opportunity. These smaller supply ships and renegade traders have furnished me with fresh knowledge. The attention of the Warmaster seems to be turning towards the region of Beta-Garmon. Legions loyal to the Emperor and those that turned have been committing ever greater forces to the battle for an important conduit system.’
‘Beta-Garmon?’ Branne shook his head and started working on the hololith controls.
‘I know it,’ said Corax. ‘One of the core jump worlds, a perfect system from which to launch the final attack on Earth.’
‘Then you agree that it is imperative Horus cannot be allowed to take Beta-Garmon,’ said Kardozia. ‘I would be honoured to fight beside the warriors of the Nineteenth Legion.’
‘Your assessment is flawed, Iron Father,’ Corax said slowly. ‘Or, at the least, presumptuous. I concur that Beta-Garmon is perhaps the most significant warzone prior to the invasion of the Solar System itself. I do not believe that the best way to contest it is to join the battle already underway.’
‘I am perhaps bound by a different logic of war, Lord Corax, but I cannot make sense of such a declaration. How does one win a battle unless one takes part?’
‘I have a few doctrines, on war and leadership, that guide my decisions. They are called my Axioms. Paramount is the Axiom of Victory. To be where the enemy does not desire you to be. If Horus pulls his forces towards Beta-Garmon you can be sure that he is confident of victory – whether swift or hard-fought. I have never known him to swing a blow without him knowing exactly how it would land. If he chooses Beta-Garmon, we must fight elsewhere.’
The Iron Father remained silent.
‘I understand that this may seem difficult, but do you concede the truth of what I say?’ Corax forced a smile. ‘You may disagree. I am always open to new counsel.’
‘To concede the battle to Horus simply because he desires it would be counter-productive, Lord Corax. A fulfilment of what the renegade Warmaster desires. His objective is to seize Beta-Garmon and thus stage an attack directly on Terra.’
Corax shook his head, his smile disappearing. ‘No, that is limited thinking, Iron Father. I mean no criticism of your method, but your conclusion is wrong. Horus desires to conquer Terra and it is this goal we must thwart. Nothing before that conflict is of consequence save as it affects that final battle. What worth the warrior who dies at Beta-Garmon if the traitors enter the Solar System?’
‘Better that we stay the Warmaster’s hand before it reaches Terra, or weaken his forces such that the last battle is beyond him.’
Corax stroked his lip with a long, slender finger, thinking how best to phrase his thoughts. While he was unconcerned with convincing Kardozia about the correctness of his strategy, the chance to voice his thoughts aloud, to pit them against a mind not shaped by his own Axioms, was a worthwhile endeavour in itself.
‘Consider not only the actions of our enemies, but also our allies. Horus desires battle at Beta-Garmon. By your account he has despatched considerable force there. Who contests the system against him?’
‘I cannot say for sure, Lord Corax. I am fortunate to have Brother Dalves, a warp-wielder, in my entourage. One of only a handful possessed by our Legion. Assisted by my astropath
he has detected or received, like your signal, many broadcasts from ships heading to the battle zone. I have also drawn my conclusion from the effort the traitors are evidently expending to take the system – if it were only lightly contested such measures would not be needed. Many armies have responded, I believe, as well as forge worlds and scattered warriors of my own Legion.’
‘And have you news of the Praetorian? Has Dorn moved from Terra to fight at Beta-Garmon? Do the Custodian Guard ride out to take the battle to Horus? Maybe the Emperor himself has set forth as well?’
‘I have not heard–’
‘If such a thing occurred, we would hear the clarions across the galaxy, storms or no. If the Emperor, Malcador and Dorn do not move towards Beta-Garmon, be sure they think the battle there is already lost. Horus does not fight battles he cannot win, nor do my other brothers nor my father. Why should I throw myself onto this pyre that the Warmaster has built?’
The Iron Father was silent for some time, remaining motionless as he analysed the primarch’s words. Corax knew that the warriors of the X Legion valued cold logic, the knowledge of metal rather than the emotion of flesh. Had he presented a logic that would sway the Iron Hand?
After a while, the Dreadnought stirred into life once more, rising up on straightened legs.
‘It seems that we have discord, Lord Corax. I cannot ignore the calls of my gene-brothers any more than if they came from the lips of the Gorgon himself.’ The Iron Father lifted a clawed fist in salute. ‘I know that others think we aspire to be machines, but we are misrepresented. The desire to eliminate mortal folly, and fleshly weakness, is not to dehumanise ourselves, but to be better men. Inside this metal case remains what is left of my body, the carcass that continues to hold my spirit. Being somewhat closer to machinehood than most of my brothers in the Tenth gives me a specific viewpoint. That spirit is the essence of what I am, what it means to be a defender of humanity. I do not fault your reasoning, but I wish it were otherwise. It seems to me that risks must be taken. We cannot concede every battle to the Warmaster without contest, even if we cannot hope to win. The struggle, the degradation of his armies, is a worthy objective in itself.’
Corax raised his fist to return the salute, neither disappointed nor surprised by the passage of the conversation.
‘If I had spare supplies then I would offer them,’ said the primarch. ‘But I wish you all speed to Beta-Garmon, where I am sure you will fight with distinction and honour the memory of my brother, Ferrus Manus.’
‘We fight not to honour his memory,’ the Dreadnought said, his vocalisers hissing in a metallic approximation of a sigh. ‘All that is left is vengeance.’
‘Branne, please escort the Iron Father back to his gunship. When he has departed, direct the bridge to make way for the jump-point as quickly as possible and then return to me.’
‘As you command, my lord.’ Branne set off towards the door, the Dreadnought stomping after him. The Terminator guards fell in behind their master and then Corax was alone with his thoughts.
The primarch activated the holo-slate. He had a perfect memory of the star cluster where Beta-Garmon was situated and had already calculated the different jump times and distances depending on whether he departed directly, or went via Rosario and through assorted other routes. Seeing the stars spread out in the three-dimensional display helped him clarify his thinking, just as speaking to Kardozia or one of his subordinates brought additional perspective.
It was thus, finger on lip, staring at the display, that Branne found him ten minutes later. The commander looked at the hololith system markers and frowned.
‘I thought we were not going to Beta-Garmon, my lord.’
‘We’re not.’ Corax turned his gaze to the commander. ‘We are in no position to reveal our true strength, or lack of it, nor confront a massed enemy in open battle, no matter how many allies wait for us. But if the war is there, perhaps it would be wise to be near Beta-Garmon all the same.’
‘To be other than where the enemy desires us?’ said Branne.
Corax nodded.
Though only a few light years from Corax’s original course, the diversion to Ukell and attendant deceleration and acceleration had put the Avenger several days behind its projected timeline. It was no surprise to find that the majority of the Raven Guard fleet had preceded the primarch’s ship and were waiting in the Rosario System when the Avenger arrived. Corax’s first action was to bring his commanders to the battle-barge for a war council, to discuss the news brought to him by Kardozia. While the ranking officers were brought aboard the Avenger, the other ships were despatched to Rosario itself to see to whom the planet currently owed its loyalties, what supplies could be scavenged and if there were any vessels or troops that could be commandeered.
The council met in the same chamber where Corax had hosted the Iron Father, each commander attended by a handful of their staff. The primarch knew them all by sight – as his force had become smaller and smaller it more closely resembled the uprising on Lycaeus. They operated more like cells than companies, individual operation and initiative over rigid structure and central command.
Branne was flanked by two of his Raptors – one each of the ‘smooths’ and the ‘roughs’ as they had unofficially called themselves. Representing the pure-gene detachment of the company was Xanda Neroka, the lieutenant markings on his Mark VI armour fresh and bright. Beside him hunched Navar Hef, a physical monstrosity of tufted hair, fangs and yellow eyes. There were fewer and fewer of the roughs: most had died in battle, while others had succumbed to their mutations. Of the survivors some, like Hef, continued to transform. A few had been confined to the lower holds, no longer masters of their own minds, though whether their madness was driven by knowledge of their fate or simple physical devolution was impossible to know.
Hef looked at Corax as he noticed his primarch’s stare upon him. So distorted was his face that it was impossible to read any human expression there, but the gaze that met the primarch’s still contained the spark of intelligence.
Agapito had the same square chin, brooding brow and flat cheeks as his brother, Branne, though an old scar marked him above the eye. Soukhounou was marked by tribal tattoos, pale lines and dots against his dark skin. Forced to survive on Isstvan for many months, Gherith Arendi was hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, his emaciation a permanent consequence, it seemed. Like Agapito he bore the mark of injuries from the Dropsite Massacre – three lacerations from left ear to shoulder. Corax knew well what manner of weapon could cause such a wound; Arendi had nearly lost his throat to the claws of a warp-tainted traitor.
It took an effort for the primarch not to move his gaze from Arendi’s scar to the claws of Hef. It was unkind to make such association, but also impossible not to.
The companies of his commanders had changed much since the Hawks, Falcons, Talons and Raptors had been formed. Initially they had been dedicated detachments of tactical, support and assault troops. With the Legion divided and rejoined and divided again many times over the passing years, independence and flexibility had proven more efficient. Each company was multi-purpose now, capable of self-supporting attack, and even breaking down into far smaller operational units.
The commanders were accompanied by allies not of the Raven Guard. Arcatus Vindix Centurio was first among the Legio Custodes that had escorted the primarch from Terra. Only half a dozen of his warriors remained. Nicknamed ‘the Emperor’s Eagle’ by the legionaries, he possessed a thin face with a sharply pointed nose, his blond hair swept back by a gold band.
Last was Captain Noriz, the Imperial Fist, who had become de facto representative of the waifs and strays of many Legions that had come together to heed Corax’s call to arms.
One was missing.
‘No news of Aloni?’ asked the primarch.
Branne shook his head and his expression soured.
‘Unconfirmed, but Lieutenant Vabus o
n the Revenant says the Spirit of Deliverance never made it to the jump boundary.’
‘Then we must proceed as if Aloni and his crew are lost. Arendi, you have no command. The Falcons are yours.’
‘With respect, my lord, I would prefer to remain directly on your staff,’ said the head of the now defunct Shadow Wardens, Corax’s personal retinue. ‘I think I best serve the Legion there.’
Corax raised an eyebrow but his former bodyguard did not flinch. Corax shrugged. There was little to be gained by awarding command to a warrior that did not desire it.
‘Very well, I shall consider alternatives.’ Corax sat down at the head of the long briefing table and clasped his hands together, resting them on the dark, varnished wood. Seeing them all together reminded him that he was fast approaching a moment of decision.
‘We face a turning point in the war,’ he told them. ‘The conflict narrows, focusing on the Solar System. It will not be long before Horus launches his decisive attack. We have known that it would come to this, despite all efforts. My strategy has been to bleed the traitors dry, to prise oppressed systems from their grasp behind their backs, to waylay and forestall their supplies to buy time for Dorn to fortify Earth. We have killed more than we have lost since Isstvan, but we cannot hope to amend for the blow we suffered at the hands of the treacherous.
‘So I face a choice. Do we continue on this course? Do I bring the Legion together as one force? If so, to which system shall I direct it? A great cauldron of battle erupts at Beta-Garmon. That is not our kind of war, not in our diminished state. But that is not to say we cannot assist in the effort of the Emperor’s servants there.’
The primarch noticed that Agapito was agitated, eager to speak. He gestured for the commander to share whatever news burned at him.
‘I think I know where the Night Lords have come from, my lord,’ Agapito said. ‘On a ship we boarded we discovered captives. Ultramarines among them.’
‘So?’ said Arendi. ‘Did you free these captives? Where are they now? What have they told you?’