by Gav Thorpe
‘Hail them and I’ll ask,’ said Agapito.
The communications officer did as requested. Agapito monitored the continuing bursts of laser fire from the batteries as his gunners systematically targeted small sections of the enemy’s armour, directing focused pulses of fire to penetrate metal and ferrocrete many metres thick. A few minutes later the officer attracted Agapito’s attention with a raised hand.
‘I have Rathvin, a captain of the Third Company, commander,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Personal channel,’ replied the commander, tapping a finger to the bead in his ear. He heard the crackle of the connection. ‘This is Commander Agapito of the Raven Guard, Rathvin. I have been personally despatched by Lord Corax to speak with you.’
‘And welcome you are too, Commander Agapito.’
‘You seem pretty occupied with getting somewhere. This sector is swarming with traitors, why did you drop out here and risk discovery?’
‘As you say, commander, the whole sector is rife with Horus’ men, like rats in the bilge hold. We hoped they might not pay attention to a little ship like us. We were wrong. But never mind. We got here anyway.’
‘This place is lifeless, what made you come here?’
‘We have to pick up something for the Wolf King.’
‘Important enough to be killed over?’
‘Tell you what, Raven Guard, when you are finished with those Word Bearers tricksters, follow us in. I’ll show you why we came here.’
Branne met Rathvin on a large asteroid in orbit over the fourth world.
It was literally a barren rock. With their gunships maintaining position a few hundred metres overhead, they moved in long leaps across the surface until they spied a metal column. No more than two metres high, it was almost impossible to see against the dark grey.
‘Here we are, Commander Branne,’ Rathvin said. His tone was solemn now as they bounded over to it. Branne’s auto-senses picked up a low yield radioactive register.
‘You came for a metal pole?’
‘It is a key-totem, you ignorant prison-son outlander,’ Rathvin replied, though without genuine rancour. ‘Watch and be enlightened.’
Now close, Branne could see that the column had faint runes inscribed in rings around it, and he detected a buzz of circuitry within. The Space Wolf operated a plate on the surface, moving it aside to reveal a fine mesh grille. A puff of vapour from his mask indicated that Rathvin had expelled a little of the air inside his helm. Tiny crystals drifted into the meshwork before the Space Wolf slid shut the aperture.
‘Gene-coder,’ he explained.
The tracery of sigils lit up, their yellow glow sharp in the vacuum. A rumble beneath Branne’s feet caused him to step back as the ground shifted.
Rocks parted to reveal a clinically white tunnel heading directly down into the rock, lit by a row of lumen strips along the ceiling. Rathvin started heading down before the gateway had finished opening. Branne hurried after him.
About forty metres down they came to a solid wall, as plain and white as the rest of the tunnel, save for a single badge in the shape of the VI Legion’s sigil. At a touch, a horizontal hairline crack appeared to either side. It widened a moment later, the upper and lower parts of the portal sliding effortlessly into the rock.
Beyond was a small, semi-circular chamber, an alcove no more than a metre deep. Inside was a pedestal about a metre and a half high, made of the same metal as the key-totem. A faint buzz and blur at its top betrayed the presence of a stasis field. When Rathvin stepped forwards, the haze dissipated to reveal an axe with a slender crescent-bladed head on an angled handle.
Rathvin plucked the weapon free, lifting it easily in one hand, swiping back and forth a few times.
‘All this way for an axe? It’s nice, but not worth losing a ship over.’
Rathvin said nothing. He spun on one heel, the axe held level. The head slid smoothly into the wall until the haft hit the rock, like a hot knife through tallow. Rathvin tugged it free, revealing a slender wound no more than half a millimetre thick.
‘It’s a really nice axe, you Ravens would say,’ said the captain. ‘Good for any foe. Even... Well, any foe. And our king desires it for a special occasion.’
Branne said nothing, but wondered why the Space Wolves would hide away such a weapon. When they turned back to the surface, he had a small revelation.
‘That doesn’t look like it was made on Fenris.’
‘I never said it was, Commander Branne.’ Rathvin put the axe over his shoulder and started up the corridor. ‘With your permission, I would like audience with the Ravenlord.’
Three
‘The Avenger’s more like a meeting hall than a battle-barge these days,’ Branne grumbled to Hef as they watched the small contingent of Space Wolves enter the briefing chamber Corax had adopted to hold his various audiences.
He glanced at Hef, who stared at the Space Wolves without blinking. It was hard to read the lieutenant’s expression these days, but Branne noticed Hef’s claws opening and closing with agitation.
The Space Wolves stopped just inside the room and looked around the chamber. Their gaze lingered on the Raptors a while longer than he expected.
‘The primarch is waiting,’ Branne said pointedly to Rathvin, irritated by captain’s expression as he passed an eye over the Raptors, as though an effluent system had become blocked and left a malodorous air in the hall. ‘Is there a problem?’
Branne noticed that Hef had moved behind him, putting the commander between him and the doorway.
‘What is it, Hef?’ the commander asked. ‘Stop loitering like a nervous potboy. And look at me when I address you.’
The lieutenant dragged his eyes from the new arrivals, glanced at Branne and then looked away, unable to hold his superior’s gaze.
When he spoke, he did so with deliberation, carefully articulating each syllable around his misshapen fangs. Branne hoped that was the only reason for the slow, stilted manner of his subordinate, but it was hard not to recognise the gradual degradation that had been suffered by the warriors under Branne’s command. Hef had fared relatively well, but it was sadly only a matter of time before his own twisted body became his worst enemy.
‘I feel... exposed.’ Hef stepped back, moving again as Branne took a sidestep to keep the Space Wolves in view. ‘They should not see me. Us. Not see the roughs.’
‘I see. Well, forget about them. Corax is not ashamed of your appearance, and you shouldn’t be either.’
‘It is not shame, but caution. Space Wolves won’t understand us.’ Hef moved from foot to foot, unable to keep still. It was uncharacteristic of the calmness that had earned him his officer’s rank. ‘Judgement on what we became.’
‘Who cares what some Sons of Russ think, Hef? Look him in the eye, let him see what you are. If you stand strong, they’ll respect you.’
‘Better not to stir the pan, commander.’ Hef retreated a few more steps, indicating his desire to leave. ‘With your permission, commander?’
‘No,’ said Branne. ‘I want you here. Stay at the back if you wish.’
Hef reluctantly nodded his ungainly head and moved behind the other Raptors, a distorted shadow of black fur and armour.
Branne returned his attention to the visitors, who had just finished introducing themselves to Corax. Branne had brought down one of Corax’s throne-like chairs and installed it in the briefing hall. The primarch sat, but he did not seem comfortable, perched at the edge as he leaned towards the Space Wolves.
‘Tell me what you know of Beta-Garmon, and the war that rages there.’
Rathvin shrugged.
‘Not much, Ravenlord. We have heard what you have heard, of the greatest of battles setting the system aflame.’
‘You have had no detailed instructions from your Legion?’ Corax frowned. ‘Are you in communicati
on with your commanders? How did you receive orders to retrieve the artefact from SV-87-7?’
‘The Sons of Russ are not at Beta-Garmon, Ravenlord,’ said Rathvin with a shake of the head. ‘We fight at Yarant Three.’
Corax’s frown deepened. Branne turned to one of the consoles and brought up a small star map to locate the system. It was only three hundred light years from their current position.
‘Russ is at Yarant?’ Corax murmured, his brow creasing. ‘Against whom does he fight?’
‘Many foes. Alpharius has pursued us for years, and has brought some friends for the final reckoning.’
‘The Alpha Legion,’ Corax said carefully. Branne sensed the tension coming from the primarch – a feeling he shared. ‘With Alpharius himself? You are sure of this?’
‘Who can be sure of anything in these dark times, Ravenlord? The Rout fight at Yarant, and warriors from the Alpha Legion, World Eaters and Thousand Sons are ranked against them. So we were told.’
‘If Lord Russ fails, those armies will be free to reinforce Beta-Garmon,’ said Valerius, who had been taken back into the council of the primarch with the return of the Therion Cohort.
‘It’s still an open battle,’ said Arendi. ‘Is that the sort of engagement where we are best suited? If we could isolate the traitors’ supply line–’
‘Our brothers are trapped,’ Rathvin interrupted him. ‘That is all. We go to Yarant to die with our king and Legion, as far as you are concerned.’
‘That seems wasteful,’ said Branne. ‘Dying, I mean.’
Rathvin move his gaze to Branne, his expression fierce.
‘Many traitors will die first, I promise you, commander.’ He looked back at Corax. ‘You would be welcome, Ravenlord, to fight beside the Wolf King. As your man says, if you wish to influence the fight at Beta-Garmon, you might do well to make haste to Yarant Three. The Lord of Winter and War seeks an opportunity to strike a most unexpected blow.’
‘I unwittingly led my Legion into a trap and seventy thousand legionaries died,’ Corax said, eyes narrowed. ‘Why would I willingly lead the survivors into another?’
The Space Wolf shrugged again.
‘We are going to Yarant, Ravenlord, as my primarch ordered. Your business is your business.’ He glanced at his companions and received assuring nods from them in return. ‘But may I ask a question of you?’
‘Of course, what do you wish to know?’
‘A brother of ours, Arvan Woundweaver, do you know where he is?’
‘I have not heard of him before this moment, captain. Should I have?’
‘I had hoped you might,’ the Space Wolf said, his expression grim. ‘It seems that great Woundweaver is missing. He was sent to look for you, the mighty Ravenlord.’
‘To look for me?’ Corax sat back. ‘Do not give up hope yet that your brother lives. He did not find me, but I have made it my purpose not to be easily found. He might have already returned to Russ.’
‘It is unlikely,’ said Rathvin. ‘He swore an oath to fulfil his mission, as did I.’
‘What mission? Why was this Woundweaver seeking me?’
There was a pause and Rathvin looked at his brother legionaries again.
‘I can hear you subvocalising over the vox,’ Corax said sharply. ‘And I have learned a little Fenrisian from your gene-father over the years. Speak plainly, and quickly. What is a “watch-pack”, exactly?’
‘Emissaries,’ said the Space Wolf, but Corax was not satisfied with this and stood up. Rathvin retreated several steps. ‘Guardians of truth, then, Ravenlord. Messengers for Malcador and our liege. To ensure the Emperor’s will was upheld, that all stayed true to the cause.’
‘I see. Guard dogs.’ Corax loomed over Rathvin; his shadow engulfed the legionary. ‘Do you remember where I was born, captain? Do you think I would take kindly to such things? Why me? Why the Raven Guard? What doubts did your lord have?’
‘None! Watch-packs were sent to every primarch – Woundweaver was to find you. I was to locate Horus and seek his counsel, but events at Isstvan... Well, let us say that Horus’ loyalty stopped being a matter of doubt, eh? I heard of his turn before we ever came close to the system, and we were left fighting alongside some Iron Hands until a summons from the Wolf King brought us here.’
Corax withdrew, mollified by this answer.
‘Very well,’ said the primarch. ‘Should Woundweaver find me, I shall send him to Yarant.’
‘You will not come with us?’
‘Not directly. But I will aid my brother if I can.’
‘Then we shall look to your assistance, Ravenlord.’
A few formalities were arranged – vox-codes and channels, security protocols should the Raven Guard and Space Wolves meet again. Corax wished Rathvin well and bade him to convey the same to Russ, and then the Space Wolves departed. Corax was again in deep thought, his dark stare directed through the far wall.
‘We could save them,’ said Arendi. ‘The Space Wolves.’
‘It seems that their many enemies have finally caught up with them,’ said Corax. ‘We need room to operate properly. If Beta-Garmon is too congested for us, Yarant will be no better. I said we shall assist if we can, but I will not throw us into pointless battle.’
‘Not pointless,’ said Arendi, insistent. ‘We can rescue the Space Wolves.’
‘Enter a warzone, a system filled with traitor ships, attain orbital dominance over a particular region of a world and lift away the remnants of a Legion without becoming trapped ourselves? How do you suggest we achieve that, Gherith? How would we put our hand in that particular furnace and not be burned?’
‘Perhaps we should have asked those that did it once before,’ said Arendi. He looked at Branne and then Valerius. ‘I was not there, of course, but I hear it was a most spectacular achievement. Any suggestions?’
Branne kept his gaze fixed firmly on the primarch but he caught a momentary flash of discomfort on the face of the vice-Caesari. Agapito spoke before Branne could answer.
‘Circumstances aligned perfectly for our extraction,’ said the other commander. ‘Fortune as much as planning.’
Corax turned his gaze to Branne too, black orbs that burrowed into his thoughts.
‘Do you wish me to pull together a rescue mission, my lord?’ Branne said evenly. He looked at Valerius. ‘Would the Therions be prepared again to assist?’
‘I am at the disposal of Lord Corax, as ever,’ said Marcus. ‘In whatever capacity he desires. I am the instrument of the Emperor’s will. If he wishes us to deliver the Space Wolves from harm, we shall.’
‘Of course,’ Corax said quietly, his expression unreadable. He visibly focused, eyes quickly scanning the room. They settled on Branne. ‘Make some preparations, talk to Rathvin, see what you can find out about the situation at Yarant.’
‘We’re really going to do this, my lord? Again?’
‘I will consider all options, commander. All options.’
Navar Hef watched the Space Wolves depart, but still he could barely breathe. He was sure they stared at the Raptors as they left, certain their hands moved closer to their weapons at what they saw.
He turned his head to look at the other Raptors and found the gaze of Neroka fixed on him. The other Raptor, his face so perfectly formed in contrast to the monstrous visage of Hef, tilted his head towards the primarch and raised his eyebrows.
Hef shook his head.
Neroka frowned. His next look spoke volumes and Hef could read the intent instantly. If you don’t say something, it implied, then I will.
Reluctantly, Hef nodded. Neroka looked doubtful and the lieutenant scowled and nodded more forcefully.
While Arendi led his Black Guard away, Branne turned and dismissed his Raptors. The others turned and filed out in perfect step, but Hef stopped just at the door. Would Neroka really see throug
h his threat? It seemed likely, and the longer Hef left matters as they were, the more it would fester. If for nothing else, he valued their bond more than he desired to avoid the consequences of confession. But was now the right time? The primarch had more than ever on his mind; he really needed nothing else to occupy him. The future of all of them hung in the balance; the decisions Lord Corax made over the following days would decide the course of the Legion.
Branne looked at him with a furrowed brow, of concern rather than anger.
‘What’s wrong, Hef? Are you in pain?’
The lieutenant hesitated. It would be simple enough to feign a convenient discomfort, admit himself to the apothecarion for a few days. The Space Wolves would be gone by then, the matter not quite as provocative.
Cowardly thoughts. Unworthy of a Raven Guard. He thought of Branne’s words earlier, his utter faith in the Raptors and their loyalty.
‘I need... I need to talk to you and Lord Corax,’ Hef said slowly. ‘There was an incident you must hear about.’
Branne’s gaze moved to the primarch, who sat alone, eyes fixed on a point on the floor.
‘Perhaps another time,’ said the commander. ‘Lord Corax is occupied at the moment.’
Hef almost deferred to Branne but a stab of guilt turned in his gut and he shook his head.
‘No, I must talk to you now.’ He lumbered past Branne towards Corax. ‘My lord!’
The primarch dragged himself out of his reverie and his dark gaze fell upon Hef. It took all of the lieutenant’s will not to flinch at that inhuman stare. He stopped in front of his master, gaze downcast. It was impossible to know where to start and Hef’s tongue failed him, thick and useless in his mouth.
‘Speak, lieutenant,’ Corax said, his voice gentle, coaxing. Hef forced himself to look up and, rather than the interrogating gaze of a warlord, he found himself looking into deep pools of sable, familiar and comforting.
‘I have... I have committed a terrible act, my lord. A terrible act.’
‘Tell me.’ Corax’s voice was neither stern nor soft. ‘Unburden yourself, Hef.’