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The Face of Treachery - Gav Thorpe

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The Face of Treachery

Gav Thorpe

Artificial eyes scoured the firmament, seeking a telltale reflection of radiation, looking for a pinprick of light, searching for the merest hint of heat in the coldness. The enemy were out here somewhere, lurking in the shadow of Isstvan VI’s rings. Ice and dust particles provided ample cover for a starship, a hindrance compounded by the residual plasma clouds and radiation from the battle just fought.

Six vessels prowled the void. At their head was the battle-barge Dedicated Wrath, its flotilla of two strike cruisers, one grand cruiser and two destroyers spread across hundreds of thousands of kilometres of space. They approached Isstvan VI warily, unsure how many of the enemy had escaped the initial battle. Plasma reactors on idle, they drifted out-system by inertia; what power they were expending directed to the banks of scanner antenna jutting from their prows.

On the bridge of the Dedicated Wrath Lieutenant-Commander Nigh Vash Delerax fixed his stare on the main screen. The huge display dominated the wall of the main bridge, covered with an anarchic maze of surveyor data and scanner sweep returns. Isstvan VI loomed large in the display, its gold and blue rings shimmering coldly in the faint light of the system’s star.

‘Industrious reports possible scanner return in quadrant eight-theta,’ reported one of the aides at the scanning console behind the Legiones Astartes commander. He was non-Legiones Astartes, though his body showed signs of augmetic surgery and his left eye was a bionic replacement that twinkled red in the bright glow of his screen. ‘Too big to be an asteroid, though possibly an uncharted moonlet.’

Delerax moved his gaze to the top of the screen, to the area mentioned. It was pointless, he realised; even his augmented eyes would not spot something before the systems of the battle-barge, especially since the visual display he looked at was itself a construct based on that data. If the Dedicated Wrath could not see the enemy, neither could he.

‘Tell Industrious to close to within fifty thousand kilometres of the source,’ said Delerax, pulling his eyes away from the screen. ‘Move Justified Aggressor to a triangulating point.’

‘Affirmative, lieutenant-commander,’ said the aide.

The thought that he might have found his prey sent a buzz of excitement through Delerax. He had spent many days fruitlessly searching the outer reaches of the Isstvan system and had almost come to believe that the enemy were not here at all.

His pre-cortical implant responded to his change of mood. With the tiniest of vibrations, the device triggered a wave of chemicals through Delerax’s brain. Immediately every sense was heightened. He could smell the sweat of the men at the consoles, the oil from the machinery. He could taste the static from the display screens and feel the soft currents of air from the overhead ventilators. The blue and white of his armour seemed brighter and every hiss, bleep and breath across the bridge echoed in his ears.

‘Industrious confirms contact,’ the aide said excitedly. ‘Positive transmission identification. It’s a Salamanders ship, strike vessel classification.’

‘At last!’ Delerax let out his pent-up frustration with a shout. He turned and stomped across the bridge towards the communications desk. ‘Signal the whole flotilla. Manoeuvre for immediate attack. Transmit the following to the enemy: This is Lieutenant-Commander Delerax of the World Eaters. Stand down your weapons and prepare to be boarded. Non-compliance will result in your destruction. You will receive no further warning.’

‘They’re making a run for it,’ the scanning officer called out. ‘Cutting away from Isstvan VI, gaining speed.’

‘Flotilla move to intercept,’ said Delerax. ‘Target engines at earliest opportunity. If they get away, you will answer to me!’

The World Eater’s implant was in full battle-mode now, sending jolts through his adrenal system, gearing up his whole body for the coming fight. The sensation was a curious blend of clarity and euphoria: a general sense of well-being that pleasantly dulled the lieutenant-commander’s thoughts while his instinctual reactions raced away, filling him with a barrage of sensation.

As the World Eaters flotilla powered up their engines the Salamanders cruiser turned out-system and darted for its next patch of cover – a cloud of asteroids some five hundred thousand kilometres from Isstvan VI. Like a pack of hounds the ships of the World Eaters gave chase, the more powerful engines of the Dedicated Wrath pushing the battle-barge to the front of the pursuit.

‘Prepare warp torpedoes, maximum spread,’ Delerax ordered as the Dedicated Wrath continued to close the range. If the strike cruiser was allowed to gain the sanctuary of the asteroid field the less manoeuvrable battle-barge would likely lose its prey; this was a kill that Delerax wanted for himself.

The Salamanders were still several thousand kilometres from safety when the gunnery captain reported that they were now within maximum torpedo range. Delerax held off the order to fire, judging the distance to be too great. He paced back and forth across the bridge, impatiently waiting for the moment to fire when the torpedoes would give the enemy the least time to react but catch the strike cruiser before it reached the asteroid field.

He listened to the range being counted down by one of the aides and occasionally glanced across to the main screen. The strike cruiser’s position was highlighted by a glowing reticule but the ship itself was still too distant to be seen, even with full magnification.

‘Our guest wishes to be updated on the current situation.’

Delerax turned to see his second-in-command, Captain Althix Kordassis, had entered the bridge. His blue-and-white armour was trimmed with gold, his right arm a mechanical prosthetic clad with plates painted to match his powered suit. Most remarkable was the look of disdain on his face as he spoke of the Warmaster’s representative.

‘He can monitor the comm-feed like everybody else,’ growled Delerax. ‘I’m busy.’

‘He wants a personal report,’ Kordassis said with a look of apology.

‘He won’t get one,’ snapped Delerax. With combat stimms flowing through his body he was in no mood for the petty requests of Horus’s ambassador. The thought of even looking at the Space Marine envoy that had been forced upon him made Delerax quiver with anger.

‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Kordassis.

‘Whatever you like,’ replied Delerax, turning back to the main screen. ‘This is none of his business.’

Kordassis waited a few moments longer before realising he would get nothing else from his commander.

‘I might as well stay here and watch the excitement then,’ said the captain.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Delerax. ‘Man the weapons station.’

When the range had closed to the optimum opportunity, Delerax gave the order to loose a full torpedo salvo. The battle-barge shuddered as the gigantic missiles were launched. They appeared instantly on the screen, four flares of yellow plasma against the stars that suddenly winked out of existence as their warp drives engaged.

Skipping in and out of warp space, the torpedoes left a trail of multicoloured flashes in their wake, describing an arc that slowly curved to the right as the Salamanders craft tried to evade them. Then they were out of sight, reduced to warp-echo registers on the scanners.

‘Twelve thousand kilometres to target,’ reported a weapons officer, reading from a glowing green screen. He was Skanda Vior, a World Eater too, and like Delerax and Kordassis was clad for battle in his armour. Unlike the officers, he had painted much of his armour red, a growing trend amongst the Legion; an acknowledgement of Angron’s warrior cult. Vior waited a few seconds.

‘Eleven thousand kilometres to target.’

The countdown continued and Delerax ceased his pacing at seven thousand kilometres.

‘Six thousand kilometres to target,’ said the weapons officer. ‘Switching to onboard data scanners; preparing for spread.’

A sub-screen flickered into life on the main viewer, showing an aggregate view from the torpedoes, rendered in a stark black and red monochrome. Strange shapes whirled and Delerax realised they must have switched view while the torpedoes were in mid-jump. A moment later they rematerialised in the real universe and the strike cruiser flashed into view.

It was long and thin, with a launch bay built on its dorsal superstructure. Pinpricks of plasma erupted like sparks from the flight deck as the Salamanders launched attack craft to intercept the incoming torpedoes.

‘Five thousand kilometres, spread launch,’ announced the officer.

The torpedo-generated image swirled into static for a few seconds as the missiles separated, each disgorging four hundred warheads at the Salamanders cruiser. When the relay returned the view was filled with a cloud of sixteen hundred glimmering projectiles. Explosions blotted out the stars as the Salamanders craft swooped and climbed and rolled through the mass, blasting away with cannons and lasers. As the warhead launchers continued to power towards the strike cruiser – each containing a five megatonne nuclear charge – the defence turrets of the Salamanders vessel opened up. Ripples of plasma blasts and flashes of high-velocity munitions streaked across the view, detonating even more of the warheads.

The torpedoes were close enough now to relay a direct-image. The construct-based picture was replaced by a near real-time view of the strike cruiser. It was dark green and banded with broad irregular stripes of yellow, the badge of the Legion visible against a huge white circle near its prow. Through the haze of detonations, it turned away, the captain trying to narrow the ship’s profile against the swarm of incoming warheads. Plasma engines shone like stars through the fog of explosions, distorted by a shimmer of energy fields.

‘Fool,’ said Delerax, smiling at the weapons officer. ‘A rudimentary mistake. One should turn into a torpedo attack, protecting the engines. A novice, no doubt.’

Blue and purple lightning flickered as the remaining warheads, several hundred of them, slammed into the strike cruiser’s shields. The vessel was engulfed by a blaze of detonations, so bright it appeared on the main display like a nova being born. More explosions followed as the shields overloaded and the remaining warheads struck the cruiser’s armoured hull. Plasma billowed from a ruptured engine duct.

A moment later the mini-screen vanished as the warhead launchers detonated.

‘Scanners confirm severe engine damage and moderate damage to the starboard gunnery decks.’

‘Signal the flotilla, close in for the kill,’ replied Delerax.

‘Receiving transmission from Legion command,’ declared a communications aide. ‘Strapped with a priority subsignal.’

‘On speakers,’ replied Delerax, not moving his eyes from the screen.

The bridge hissed with static and a series of coded beeps and buzzes sounded before a bass voice broke across the noise. Delerax’s attention was immediately fixed on the message, all other considerations forgotten as he recognised the voice of Angron, the World Eaters primarch.

‘The treacherous sons of Corax continue to elude that lumbering engineer, Perturabo. The Warmaster has seen fit to give me free hand at the hunt and I will bring down the scum of Deliverance within days. All ships are to return to orbit to conduct the search. To me, my savage hounds! We shall let loose our fury upon the Raven Guard and wipe them from history. Obey with immediate effect.’

‘Shall we break away?’ asked Kordassis.

‘No,’ replied Delerax. He looked at the strike cruiser limping towards the asteroid field followed by a trail of expanding plasma: a predator seeing its prey wounded and ready for the kill. ‘Let the others chase the Raven Guard back and forth across the mountains. A few more hours will make no difference. I have a Salamander to slay.’

Branne frowned and looked at the scanner report again. It did not make any more sense on the second reading. He turned to his companion, the Imperial Army praefector, Marcus Valerius.

‘A large residual trace of plasma and radiation, plus scattered debris clouds,’ said the Raven Guard commander.

‘A space battle?’ asked the praefector.

‘A large one,’ replied Branne. ‘Too large.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Valerius.

Branne handed him the report and walked over to the men working the scanner console, his armour’s heavy boots muffled by the thick carpet laid over the decking. ‘Have these readings been confirmed by the rest of the fleet?’

‘Yes, commander,’ replied the chief officer. ‘Within standard parameters, all sensor returns are showing the same across the fleet.’

‘What do you mean by “too large”?’ said Valerius.

‘Dozens of destroyed ships,’ said Branne. ‘More ships than the entirety of the Luna Wolves fleet.’

‘Imperial Army vessels turned by the Warmaster, perhaps,’ suggested the officer. ‘Oh, and were they not renamed the Sons of Horus?’

The praefector toyed with the red sash across his chest, a symbol of his family’s nobility. It showed signs of wear from Valerius’s constant fidgeting during the long warp jump from Deliverance to Isstvan. The praefector’s nervousness was understandable, though it irritated Branne considerably. Valerius had persuaded the Raven Guard commander to abandon his role as garrison leader of the Ravenspire to come to Isstvan and had vouched for the act with his life. Branne was more than willing to exact the price offered if the trap he suspected proved to be true.

‘Even so, it would indicate almost total destruction of the involved fleet,’ said Branne, ignoring the praefector’s correction. ‘That many destroyed ships indicate a much larger battle.’

‘How do we proceed?’ asked Valerius.

Branne considered his options. His fleet, composed of three Raven Guard vessels including his battle-barge and a handful of Imperial Army transports and frigates, had entered Isstvan perpendicular to the orbital plane. He studied the schematic display of the fleet’s position on a monitor; a projected course drew a dotted line around the Isstvan star towards the planets currently on the other side of the system.

‘Activate sensor dampening protocols,’ said the commander. ‘Rig reflex shields for silent approach. We’ll come in across the star to mask our signature. I don’t want to be seen.’

‘What about my vessels?’ asked Valerius. ‘We don’t have that capability.’

‘Get them to run as quiet as possible,’ said Branne. ‘Until we find out what has happened, I don’t want anyone else to know we are here.’

‘Quiet running will slow us down,’ said Valerius. He blinked rapidly, another nervous tic he had developed. ‘What if we are being too cautious and arrive late?’

‘Late for what?’ rasped Branne, out of patience with the praefactor’s constant hectoring. ‘The battle’s already happened, Marcus. Whatever occurred here is over.’

Five days closer to Isstvan V, where the majority of the fighting appeared to have taken place, Branne was in his quarters when he was passed word that the ship was receiving a transmission from Valerius’s flagship.

‘Send it through to my personal comm,’ said Branne, putting aside the data-slate of sensor readings he had been studying. The reports all confirmed the initial survey. A space battle, or rather several battles in a short period of time involving nearly a hundred vessels, had raged around Isstvan V and out-system towards Isstvan VI.

‘Commander Branne, we have picked up a signature code.’ Valerius’s voice sounded reedy and weak over the hissing comm-link. ‘It’s an Iron Hands identification transmission. A ship identifying itself as the Glory of Victory. It’s automated. Trying to track the signal for reply.’

‘Negative,’ snapped Branne. ‘Do not open transmission. Do you want everybody in the Isstvan system to know we are here?’

‘My apologies, commander,’ said Valerius. ‘However, a narrow-beam signal would be very hard to detect. Perhaps those on the Iron Hands ship can tell us what happened here.’

‘Negative,’ Branne said again. ‘Continue to monitor for other transmissions.’

‘But what if they need our help?’ said Valerius.

‘We can’t trust them,’ said Branne.

‘I don’t understand, commander,’ said the praefector. ‘We can’t trust the Iron Hands?’

‘My technicians have been analysing the readings from the battles,’ Branne explained. ‘It’s hard to be certain, but it seems that the fleet sent to deal with Horus split and fighting broke out. I fear it is not just the Luna Wolves that have turned against us. Until we know for sure who is loyal, we have to suspect everybody.’

Static filled the room as Valerius absorbed this revelation. Eventually the officer spoke again, his voice a barely-heard whisper in the hiss.

‘But if that is true, what of the Raven Guard?’ he said.

‘Your dreams may have had something to them after all, Marcus,’ said Branne.

‘So now we set full speed?’

‘No, not yet.’ Branne took a deep breath, only now consciously acknowledging a doubt that had nagged him since he had first begun to suspect the extent of the treachery at Isstvan. ‘We have to be careful. We may be the last survivors of the Raven Guard.’

Three days out from orbit of Isstvan V, Branne’s fleet ghosted in on minimal power, every spare watt of energy from the reactors diverted to the sensor arrays and communications systems, seeking answers to horrifying questions. The evidence was overwhelming: Horus had allies from within the fleet sent to bring him to order.

Branne spent most of his time on the bridge of his battle-barge, the Avenger. For the last two days he had hosted Valerius on board, to ensure that the praefector was within easy reach if things went amiss. The Imperial Army officer sat beside the communications console gnawing at a worn nail, cheeks sunken, his usually smooth skin dark with stubble. He stared at the screens with haunted, bloodshot eyes rimmed with darkness and Branne guessed that the nightmares still plagued the officer, though he had not mentioned them again since they had set out from Deliverance.

‘Picking up some garbled comm traffic,’ one of the attendants reported. Valerius sat bolt upright, turning on the bench to Branne. ‘World Eaters protocols. Trying to crack them now, commander.’

‘Who are they signalling?’ asked Branne.

‘General Legion broadcast, commander,’ the aide replied. ‘Also picking up registers of Word Bearers and Emperor’s Children signals. They seem to be communicating with the Sons of Horus.’

Valerius seemed to become even paler, if that was possible. He met Branne’s narrowed gaze with a wild look.

‘The World Eaters, Emperor’s Children and Word Bearers?’ he said. ‘All of them turned?’

Branne said nothing, finding such a treachery impossible to comprehend. He tried to think of some other explanation for what they had discovered but could not escape the truth. This was no simple rebellion; this was the birth of civil war.

He sat in his command throne, armour servos creaking and whining as his fingers tightened on the arms. Head bowed, he tried to clear his thoughts, to come up with a plan of action. What had happened made no sense and his mind kept coming back to an unanswered question.

‘What of the primarch and the Legion?’ he asked quietly.

‘No Raven Guard transmission detected, commander,’ said the communications orderly. ‘We’ve scanned all Legion frequencies and beyond, but no recognisable signatures detected.’

Branne sighed. His earlier fears had come true, and Valerius’s dire predictions also. The Raven Guard were no more.

‘Signal the fleet to prepare for new course orders,’ he said.

‘What?’ Valerius was on his feet. ‘Change course for where?’

‘Out of here,’ said Branne. ‘We’re too late.’

‘There may be survivors,’ said Valerius. He opened his hands imploringly towards the commander. ‘We have to at least get closer to find out the truth.’

‘That can come later,’ said Branne. ‘Our immediate task is to elude detection and leave the system in one piece. After that we can work out what happened.’

‘Commander, we are picking up a broad-beam transmission from the surface of Isstvan V,’ said the comms officer.

‘Directed to us?’ said Branne, taken aback.

‘No, commander, it is a general broadcast. Minimal encryption. You should hear this.’

‘Very well,’ said Branne, leaning back in his command throne.

The voice that boomed from the speakers was edged with madness, every syllable spat like a curse.

‘...nd then we shall crush the misguided sons of Corax completely. They think they can evade us forever? They are wrong! I will hunt down Corax and break him myself. The Raven Guard have nowhere left to run. In two days our victory will be complete and the last survivors will be crushed by the World Eaters. Blood demands victory, and we shall let it flow!’

‘That can only be Angron,’ said Branne when the transmission was cut. On the one hand, he was elated that Corax and the Legion still survived; on the other, it seemed that survival would not last much longer. ‘Can you source that transmission?’ he demanded, standing up.

‘Better, commander,’ replied the technician. ‘There are planetary coordinates attached to the signal, indicating where the World Eaters plan to attack, calling for orbital support.’

Pushing aside his doubts and confusion, Branne set his mind in motion. A strategy immediately sprang to mind, but it was risky. He reconsidered, analysing his options, but was drawn to the same conclusion. A third evaluation did not suggest any alternatives.

‘Marcus, I need you to signal your fleet,’ Branne announced. ‘Tell them to make full speed for Isstvan IV.’

‘Isstvan IV? Not Isstvan V? And won’t full speed make us instantly visible on every scanner within range?’

‘That is my intent,’ said Branne.

‘A decoy.’ Valerius spoke flatly, as if his last shred of emotion had been drained from him. ‘You want to use my ships and men as decoys.’

Branne nodded and said nothing. Valerius closed his eyes and pinched his nose, as if he had a headache. He nodded to himself, jaw clenched.

‘Very well,’ said the praefector, opening his eyes to stare at the Raven Guard commander with resignation. ‘I shall return to my flagship and make the preparations.’

‘No, you will continue to serve here,’ said Branne. ‘As we agreed, you do not leave my side.’

‘You still do not trust me?’ The praefector sighed heavily. ‘What more proof do you need?’

‘When the primarch is safe and our brothers aboard, I might trust you then,’ said Branne. ‘Until that time, you stay here.’

‘You plan an evacuation under fire,’ said Valerius. ‘I’ll have my transports send over as many shuttles and drop-ships as your flight bays can hold.’

‘That would be good,’ said Branne. ‘Let us hope that we need that many.’

With a growl, Delerax jabbed a finger onto the transmission key.

‘I do not care what problems you are having,’ he snarled. ‘Run the reactors at one hundred and twenty per cent.’

‘We risk plasmic extrapolation, lieutenant-commander,’ the engineer replied. ‘It could shut down the whole system.’

‘The greatest battle in the World Eaters’ history is about to take place on Isstvan V,’ said the lieutenant-commander. ‘Do you think I want to arrive late for that? You have your orders, I expect them to be obeyed.’

Delerax cut off the response and whirled towards the navigation officers.

‘And you!’ he snapped. ‘I want to hear no more about gravity wells and safe distances. Get me to Isstvan V by the shortest route. No excuses!’

The helmsman nodded nervously and turned his gaze back to the controls. Delerax continued to stalk the bridge, seeking any way to get to the battle even faster. Angron was due to initiate his final assault on the Raven Guard in six hours and Delerax was determined that he would be there to take part. Already the rest of the flotilla had been left half a day behind, unable to keep up with the battle-barge’s superior power. The Dedicated Wrath would be on hand to rain down fire on the remnants of Corax’s Legion, whatever it took. If all went well, Delerax would be able to join in the fighting directly. Drop-pods were being prepared for a combat launch.

The World Eater smiled at the thought of butchering some Raven Guard. Kordassis noticed his commander’s expression and joined him beside his chair.

‘We will have our chance this time,’ said the captain. ‘The slight against us at the dropsite will be expunged.’

‘Did you not hear the Warmaster’s words?’ Delerax replied quietly, a sneer twisting his lips. ‘To take part in the fleet battle was a great honour, essential to our victory.’

‘It was an insult,’ said Kordassis. ‘The primarch saw it for what it was and did the right thing. To simply obliterate a foe from afar lacks glory. What honour is there when one cannot see the life fade from the eyes of a fallen enemy or smell the blood spilling from his wounds?’

‘None,’ agreed Delerax. His implant buzzed in response to his mood, sending a jolt through his thoughts. ‘The cowards of the Raven Guard will be shown the true face of war.’

‘And what of the Warmaster’s ambassador?’ whispered Kordassis. ‘What if he chooses to interfere again?’

‘He is but a single warrior,’ said Delerax. ‘He is no longer relevant.’

‘I understand,’ said Kordassis. ‘Do you want me to deal with him now?’

The thought entertained Delerax, a murderous impulse stimulated by his implant. He quivered as he pictured Horus’s representative lying mangled at his feet but fought through the urge to kill.

‘No,’ he told Kordassis. ‘There is no reason to risk the Warmaster’s displeasure, as satisfying as it might be. Just be ready should I need you.’

‘I’ll be ready,’ said Kordassis with a grin. ‘Have no worry about that.’

Delerax checked the chronometer again. Four hours until the assault began. He was pleased, knowing that he would reach orbit in time to take part. The drop-pods were prepared for immediate launch, his twenty-strong bodyguard ready for the attack.

The lieutenant-commander sat in his chair trying to remain composed. It was a hard task; visions of what he would do to the Raven Guard kept flickering through his thoughts. His implant responded again and again, rewarding his thoughts of killing with surges of chemical stimulants.

‘Receiving word from Legion command,’ announced Kordassis. He gave an angry growl as he read the message. ‘An enemy fleet has been detected in the vicinity of Isstvan IV, lieutenant-commander. The fleet is being ordered to depart and engage them.’

‘Depart?’ Delerax snarled. ‘Now? What of the assault on the Raven Guard? We cannot let the Legion attack without orbital support.’

‘The orders come directly from the Warmaster,’ said Kordassis, directing a meaningful look at the lieutenant-commander.

‘I take my orders from our primarch,’ replied Delerax.

‘Legion command has confirmed the orders,’ said Kordassis. He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘They are authorised by Angron.’

‘Let the rest of the fleet deal with the problem,’ said Delerax. ‘They do not need us there.’

The internal communicator crackled into life and a mechanical voice cut across Kordassis’s reply.

‘I have monitored a transmission from your Legion commanders,’ it said. ‘Why have we not yet altered course to deal with this emerging threat?’

Clenching his fists, Delerax resisted the urge to smash the speaker. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as his lobotomiser initiated another flood of hormones and chemicals through his brain. With some effort he unclenched his fingers and flicked the comm switch.

‘I was denied at the dropsite, I will not be denied again,’ he told Horus’s liaison. ‘It is also tactically unsound to have no orbital support for the assault.’

‘That will be dealt with by other fleet vessels,’ said the other Space Marine. ‘Your orders are clear,
lieutenant-commander. Obey them.’

‘Then let those other vessels deal with the situation at Isstvan IV,’ snapped Delerax. ‘The World Eaters should be protecting their own.’

‘You are part of an alliance, lieutenant-commander,’ replied the voice. Its sterile calmness, its assured tone, enraged Delerax more. ‘We each do our part for victory. Your part at this moment is to join the rest of your fleet moving to Isstvan IV. Do not forget you are Legiones Astartes. Maintain discipline and obey your orders.’

Branne felt uncomfortable as he watched the glowing blips on the sensor return moving from orbit around Isstvan V. Not until he had come to the system had he known apprehension, but it had become his permanent companion since he had realised the extent of the treachery that was unfolding here. At least he maintained some semblance of composure, unlike Valerius.

The praefector lurched between near-catatonia and panic. At the moment he was asleep, muttering to himself with head laid on a display screen. He twitched and mumbled, fingers dragging along the metal of the console on which he was slumped. Branne could only guess at the nightmare that plagued him, and was thankful that Legiones Astartes were not vulnerable to such terrors.

‘The World Eaters fleet is moving away,’ announced one of the scanner technicians.

Branne looked back at the display and saw the signal returns drifting further from Isstvan V, heading in-system.

‘It worked,’ he said. Branne nodded towards the fitful praefector. ‘Wake up Marcus.’

One of the aides shook the Imperial Army officer gently. Valerius rose from his dream with a moan and looked around the bridge, eyes fearful. He settled after a few moments and focussed on Branne.

‘What is happening?’ he asked, scratching a stubbled cheek with ragged nails.

Branne directed Valerius’s attention to the screen.

‘It worked?’ said the praefector, disbelief written on his features. His expression changed to a broad grin and he looked at the Raven Guard commander with wide eyes. He laughed. ‘They took the bait. They took the bait!’

‘Yes, they did,’ said Branne. ‘We have less than two hours to get into position. In one hour we will move to full drop formation. Brief your shuttle crews.’

‘Yes, I will,’ said Valerius, staggering towards the door.

‘Before you do, might I suggest you take a moment to make yourself presentable to your men,’ said Branne.

Valerius looked down at his dishevelled uniform and ran his fingers over the bristles on his chin. He nodded and straightened his sash. With a nervous cough, he left the bridge, walking with slow, deliberate strides. When he was gone, Branne turned his attention back to his crew, glad to be free of the distraction.

‘Any more comm intercepts?’ he asked.

‘None that are good, commander,’ said the crewman in charge of the communications array. He swallowed nervously and could not meet Branne’s eye. ‘World Eaters signals suggest they believe the Legion to be below ten thousand strong. Angron is all over the frequencies, declaring the destruction of the Raven Guard.’

‘We will not allow that to happen,’ said Branne. He turned to the sensor console. ‘What orbital assets have the World Eaters kept?’

‘None, commander,’ replied the technician. He wiped sweat from his bald head and leaned back in his seat. ‘None that we can detect.’

‘Perhaps this is just an elaborate trap,’ said Branne, thinking aloud. ‘They could have ships lying in wait for us. Maybe they’ve been monitoring us all along and this is to draw us in.’

‘Unlikely, commander,’ said the aide. ‘At this range, even on lowest output we would detect any plasma readings. It’s only our dispersion reflex shield that stops us being detected. The World Eaters don’t have those.’

‘That makes no sense,’ said Branne, returning to his command throne. ‘Why leave a gap in their defences? Are any other vessels moving to provide orbital support?’

‘Negative, commander,’ said the scanning officer. ‘The only other vessel in the vicinity is a World Eaters battle-barge, and it is changing course to follow the main fleet.’

Branne was immediately suspicious. It was not only a foolish oversight, it was inconceivable that a Space Marine would make such a mistake.

‘Ground defences in that area?’ he asked.

‘None that we are aware of,’ said the officer. ‘Archives on Isstvan V are quite up-to-date. The mountainous region is almost devoid of population, no defence installations. We are too far away to detect anything without revealing our location.’

As unsettling as the apparent lapse was, it was an opportunity that could not be thrown away. Branne checked the display again, calculating scanner ranges and speeds for the enemy vessels. They were already too far away to respond to the presence of the Raven Guard fleet. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that the World Eaters would attack. Angron was known for his lack of patience and might well launch his assault ahead of schedule. Stealth had again proven its worth. Now was the time for swiftness of action to show its value.

Branne swung in his chair towards the communications team.

‘Signal the fleet. Drop reflex shields and divert all power to engines and navigation. Inform all flight decks and drop-bays to prepare for immediate launch. Air crews to their craft. This is our chance to strike. The enemy will know that the Raven Guard are not yet dead!’

Metal rang on metal, filling Delerax’s chamber with noise. Steel plate buckled and tore as he pounded his fists into the wall, every impact sending a shower of metal splinters into the air. He grunted and growled as he punched, every smashing blow delivered with a snarl. His mind was aflame with his anger, his implant feeding his rage with a cocktail of stimulants.

He barely heard the sound of the comm alert through the thundering of his hearts. He ignored it and continued to vent his ire on the battered wall, slamming the cracked knuckles of his gauntlets into metal until he was pulverising the rockcrete bulkhead beneath.

A more insistent noise broke through his frenzy: the battle alert. The communications system bleeped again.

Shaking from frustration, the World Eater almost destroyed the communications panel with his stabbing finger. The speaker spat sparks but still worked, the voice of the chief scanning officer filtering through the rush of blood in Delerax’s ears.

‘Lieutenant-commander, we have detected an enemy fleet achieving orbit around Isstvan V. They are en route for the Legion’s position!’

‘Turn to engage, all power to engines!’ Delerax snarled. He did not care how the ships had eluded detection, or who they were. He felt a surge of vindication, his anger dissipating.

He ran from his quarters and headed for the bridge, pounding along the corridors until he reached the mechanical conveyor. His personal comm-system chimed in his ear.

‘Lieutenant-commander, what are your orders?’ asked Kordassis. ‘Sensors report a Raven Guard battle-barge and two cruisers in escort.’

‘Attack!’ Delerax snarled as he stepped through the opening doors of the conveyor. He prodded the button for the bridge. ‘Make all speed to intercept the flagship.’

‘Is that wise? We are outnumbered.’

‘Show some pride, Kordassis. We have been made to look like fools by Corax’s cowardly subterfuge. We attack, as World Eaters should.’

There was the sound of another communication connection for a few moments before Horus’s representative spoke into Delerax’s ear.

‘Why have we changed course, lieutenant-commander?’

‘Have you been asleep? The Raven Guard are attempting to escape.’

The conveyor jolted as it reached the level of the bridge and headed towards the prow of the battle-barge.

‘That is not your concern, lieutenant-commander,’ said Horus’s representative. ‘The matter is being dealt with.’

‘How?’ snapped Delerax. ‘We are the only ship with a hope of intercepting the evacuation fleet.’

‘Your orders have not changed, lieutenant-commander. If you persist in this disobedience I will have you removed from command.’

‘This is my ship, I will not be threatened by the likes of you,’ Delerax replied. He pulled the comm-bead from his ear and dashed it against the metal wall of the conveyor. The doors slid open a few seconds later and the World Eater strode out into the corridor and turned towards the bridge.

Inside, Kordassis was waiting, fully armoured, helm hanging from his belt. The scars on his face twisted as the captain smiled.

‘Not listening to your minder?’ said Kordassis.

‘What can he do to stop me?’ Delerax loomed over the navigation officers. ‘How long until we reach the Raven Guard ships?’

‘Twenty-six minutes, lieutenant-commander,’ the man replied. ‘Twenty if we overcharge the reactors.’

‘Do it. Every minute wasted gives the Raven Guard a chance to escape Angron’s assault.’ He turned his attention to the communications officer. ‘Any message from Legion command or the primarch?’

‘Negative, lieutenant-commander,’ the technician replied. ‘They may not even be aware of the fleet’s arrival.’

‘Signal them with the news and pass on that we are en route to engage the enemy,’ said Delerax. He addressed all of the bridge crew, looking at Kordassis. ‘We shall be lauded in the World Eaters’ roll of honour for today. It is we that shall bring about the destruction of Corax and his Legion!’

‘Contact established with the primarch!’ Valerius’s announcement that Corax still lived brought a cheer from the other members of the bridge staff. ‘The drop-ships are landing now.’

Branne nodded his understanding and looked at the main display. The course of the World Eater battle-barge was being tracked by a red dot. It was heading directly for the Avenger.

‘Time until the evacuation is complete?’ he asked.

‘Thirty minutes, at least,’ came the reply from Valerius.

‘Too long,’ Branne muttered. He opened up the fleet frequency with an armoured finger. ‘This is Commander Branne to all vessels. We will remain in position for extraction. The evacuation is your only concern.’

A series of acknowledgements came back. It was a gamble. The fleet was too low in orbit and too close together to properly engage the incoming World Eaters ship, but if they dispersed, the lift to orbit would take even longer. Once every shuttle and drop-ship was back on board, the Raven Guard could fight off their attacker and leave.

‘First craft laden and taking off,’ reported Valerius.

There was a laugh from one of the communications aides.

‘Listen to this!’ he said, channelling a signal to the bridge’s speakers.

‘...ng away! Fall upon them, my World Eaters, do not let them escape!’ A bestial, rage-filled howl rang around the bridge. ‘Corax! I know you can hear me! Come back and fight like a Space Marine, you coward! I have promised your blood to my blade and your head to the Warmaster, and I shall deliver both. Face me, you dishonourable bastard!’

Angron’s voice devolved into snarls and wordless pants. Branne signalled for the officer to cut the signal.

The minutes ticked past slowly. Branne sat in his command throne, dividing his attention between the chronometer and the position of the enemy battle-barge. It was going to be close.

‘Corax is aboard the last drop-ship,’ Valerius said. He slumped back into his seat and looked at Branne. ‘Do you trust me now?’

The Raven Guard commander crossed the bridge and gently grasped the red sash across the praefector’s chest.

‘Your life is yours,’ said Branne. He let go of the sash and soothed away the crease he had made. ‘Your family’s honour is upheld. I am sorry for my distrust, Marcus.’

Valerius sighed and smiled.

‘It does not really matter, does it?’ he said, tugging at the sash. ‘Honour, loyalty, family. Horus will care for none of that.’

‘And that is why they are more important than ever,’ said Branne. ‘Especially loyalty.’

Weapon bays opened along the length of the Dedicated Wrath revealing banks of macro-cannons, plasma drivers and missile bays, like a savage hound baring its teeth. Along the dorsal superstructure, bombardment turrets swivelled, their cannons extending from armoured towers. Retro-thrusters fired along the battle-barge’s length as it reduced speed for the attack, its course curving gracefully to starboard so that its massive broadside would be brought to bear.

On the bridge, Delerax stood behind his command throne, his fingers gripping its back. The display was alive with signals showing the position of the Raven Guard vessels and their returning drop-craft. The World Eater had calculated his angle of attack to bring him between the enemy battle-barge and the returning flotilla of landing craft.

He heard the growl of the bridge doors opening and turned to see Horus’s representative enter. The Space Marine wore his helmet, as he had done in every meeting since coming aboard. His armour was painted in blue livery, but was otherwise devoid of any organisational markings.

‘Cease your attack, lieutenant-commander.’ The order came in a calm, clipped tone from the Space Marine’s external address system, and had the ring of artificial modulation to disguise it.

Delerax laughed and turned back to the main screen.

‘Corax and his Legion are doomed,’ he said. ‘See for yourself. In less than ten minutes, we will open fire and destroy them forever.’

‘I speak with the authority of the Warmaster,’ said the Space Marine. ‘Cease your attack immediately.’

‘That authority counts for nothing here,’ said Delerax. He turned and squared off against the other. ‘If you want your orders to be obeyed, return to the Alpha Legion where you belong.’

‘It is has been decided that Corax has still a part to play,’ said the Alpha Legionnaire. ‘It has been decided that for the moment he will be allowed to live.’

‘Decided by you?’ Delerax’s question was harsh with scorn. ‘Who are you to make such a decision?’

‘I am Alpharius,’ said the Legionnaire.

‘Remove yourself from my bridge, or I will have your corpse removed.’

Delerax glimpsed Kordassis to his left, pulling a bolt pistol from its holster. The World Eater smiled at the Alpha Legionnaire. His smile faded as he felt the cold touch of a muzzle against his cheek. He turned his head a fraction to see Kordassis holding his pistol to Delerax’s head.

‘What is this?’ the lieutenant-commander hissed. ‘What are you doing, Kordassis?’

‘I am not Kordassis,’ said the Space Marine holding the bolt pistol. ‘I am Alpharius.’

Delerax twisted and made a lunge for the traitor’s gun. Muzzle flash blinded the World Eater and an instant later he felt the side of his skull exploding.

Branne stood in the docking bay watching the drop-ships landing. The first were already disembarking their passengers. With weary steps, the survivors of the Raven Guard filed down the ramps onto the deck.

They were a terrible sight. Most showed signs of injury. Their armour was a patchwork of colours; here the silver of an Iron Warrior shoulder pad; there the grey breastplate of a Word Bearer. Their armour was cracked and broken, bloodied and stained, and every face Branne looked upon was etched with fatigue. Glassy-eyed, the last survivors of the dropsite massacre trudged across the loading bay, welcomed by smiles and cheers from Branne’s warriors.

The last of the shuttles touched down. Branne approached it as the docking ramp lowered. The first Space Marine out was a bizarre sight, his armour a mess of colours and bare ceramite. Only his shoulder pad bearing the Legion’s badge remained from his original suit. He took off his helmet and tossed it the floor.

‘Agapito!’ Branne laughed. He slapped a hand to his true brother’s chest. ‘I knew you would be alive. Too stubborn to let something like this kill you.’

Branne looked closely at his brother, amazed by his outlandish appearance. A new scar ran from his right cheek to his throat, but beyond that it was the same face Branne had known for his whole life. Agapito returned the smile wearily. His deep brown eyes regarded Branne warmly. He reached a hand behind Branne’s head and pulled him closer. The two touched foreheads in a sign of respect and comradeship.

‘I see you have not managed to stay out of trouble, Branne.’

The commander stepped back from Agapito to see Corax descending the ramp. The primarch towered over his Legiones Astartes, his black armour showing as much wear and tear as that of those under his command.

‘I was monitoring your transmissions,’ said Corax. ‘Why did the enemy abort their attack?’

‘I have no idea, Lord Corax,’ said Branne. ‘Perhaps they thought better of the idea, taking on three vessels at once.’

‘Where are they now?’ asked the primarch.

‘They’ve withdrawn to a hundred thousand kilometres,’ Branne replied. ‘They don’t look as if they’ll try to attack again.’

‘Odd,’ said Corax. He shook his head as if dismissing a thought. ‘Signal the other ships to make course for Deliverance.’

‘Yes, Lord Corax,’ Branne said, holding his fist to his chest. ‘And where are we to head?’

‘Terra,’ replied the primarch. ‘I must have an audience with the Emperor.’

Blood and brains leaked from the side of Delerax’s skull. The World Eaters lieutenant-commander could feel his life leaking away with it. He could not move his legs and arms, and could feel nothing below his neck. It was an effort just to breathe.

He swivelled his eyes up to Kordassis, wondering who it was he looked at.

‘Why?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The Alpha Legionnaire loomed into view, stooping over Delerax. The World Eater could see his ravaged face reflected in the dark eye lenses of the Alpha Legionnaire’s helmet. That blank mask betrayed nothing of the Space Marine’s thoughts or mood. His metal-edged voice seemed distant as Delerax drew a last, rattling breath.

‘In times such as these, even the most trusted face can conceal an enemy.’

About The Author

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series, and the ever-popular novel Angels of Darkness. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven's Flight and Honour to the Dead, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Age of Darkness in 2011 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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