Raven's Flight Gav Thorpe A bloodstained hurricane swept across a desolate hillside, its furious roar a hundred thousand throats crying out in anger and agony. Crimson winds turned to a raging inferno, setting all ablaze. The sky burned and a multitude of dark shapes flocked into the air, their wings alight, sparks trailing from their dark feathers. Dying shouts became the cawing of ravens, a rising cacophony that drowned out the wail of the storm. Sweat soaked, heart hammering, Marcus Valerius broke from his torment with a scream stifled on his lips. Blood and fire. Always the same. Fire and blood. He pulled aside the sodden blanket, the recycled air of Deliverance drying his lips, crusting the salt on his brow. Valerius coughed and rubbed at his eyes as dim raven shapes danced in the shadows of his gloomy quarters. A faint echo of that desperate roaring rebounded from the bare metal walls, taunting him. Trembling, Valerius pushed himself from his bed and fumbled his way into the shower alcove. He pulled the brass-ringed chain and tepid water flowed over him, washing away his fatigue. He quickly scrubbed at his flesh with a rough flannel and massaged the water into his curled brown hair. Like most things on Deliverance, water was closely rationed. After his allotted forty-five seconds the stream stopped. Valerius skirted with the idea of using his second daily allotment but dismissed the notion. After a day in the stifling air of Deliverance’s artificial habitat his evening shower was essential in washing away the filth of the day. It was impossible for him to sleep without it. Not that sleep had come so easy these past days. Every night for seven nights the dream had tortured him. Blood and fire, fire and blood, and a host of ravens crying out in pain. Mind still occupied by these disturbing thoughts, Valerius rubbed a hand across his narrow chin, feeling stubble on his fingertips. He took a deep bowl and filled it from the waste water of the shower, placing it on a shelf beneath the small mirror fixed to the wall. He looked at his red-rimmed eyes and the lines on his young cheeks. It did not look like the face of a man not long past the thirtieth anniversary of his birth. The past seven days had taken more of a toll than fourteen years of fighting; first against the orks on Therion and then as part of the great army of the Emperor alongside the Space Marines of the Raven Guard Legion. He had slept more easily on a drop-ship as it crashed down towards a world that had refused Enlightenment; he had spent nights in foetid swamps in more comfort than he had found in his own bed of late. Valerius stropped his straight razor and drew it carefully down his cheeks, calmed by the motion. He paid particular attention to his thin moustache, carefully trimming just above his top lip. He took pride in his facial hair, a testament to his upbringing on Therion and as much a badge of his position as Praefector in the Imperial Army as any rank insignia. Having performed his morning ablutions, Valerius called for his page, Pelon. The young man came in with his master’s uniform. Pelon helped Valerius to dress, a well-ordered dance between master and servant. The page smoothed out creases in the silk shirt and tied golden braids into the Praefector’s shoulder-length hair. Pelon broke the usual silence. ‘You look tired, my master. Are the dreams still disturbing you?’ ‘What do you know of my dreams?’ replied Valerius. ‘Only that I hear you whispering and calling out in your sleep, my master,’ said Pelon. He held out Valerius’s knee-length britches while the officer stepped into them, fastening them with thick black laces. The Praefector gave a brief account of his nightmare, glad to unburden himself of the dreadful images. ‘Depending upon the warp tides, Lord Corax and his legionaries would have arrived at Isstvan seven days ago,’ Valerius concluded quietly. ‘Can it simply be coincidence that my dreams started then?’ The manservant did not reply as Valerius sat on the end of his bed and held up his feet. Pelon pushed on the Praefector’s traditional Therion riding boots. ‘Perhaps it is a message, my master,’ said Pelon. ‘Some of the old tales say that we can be sent omens in dreams.’ ‘Superstition,’ said Valerius, though his dismissal lacked conviction. ‘A message from whom? How would it get into my dreams?’ Pelon shrugged while Valerius stood. The Imperial officer held out his arms so that his manservant could wind a red sash about his waist and over his left shoulder, the tasselled tail hanging down his right leg. ‘Lord Corax is not a normal human, who can say what he can and cannot do, my master,’ Pelon said. Valerius thought about this as he hung a belt around his waist, dress sword in an ornate scabbard on his left hip. He remained silent as Pelon helped him with the black half-cloak, trimmed with scarlet viarmine fur, affixing it over the Praefector’s right shoulder. ‘I wanted to travel with the Legion,’ Valerius said. ‘I spoke with Lord Corax before he departed.’ ‘What did he say, my master?’ ‘He told me that this matter was for the Legions alone to deal with. It is a terrible time, Pelon. I can hardly bring myself to believe the truth of it. Part of me still hopes that it is not true. A primarch turning renegade, throwing aside his duties to the Emperor? I would sooner believe that gravity was a myth. ‘I saw the intensity of the primarch’s eyes. They burned with something I have never seen before. Warmaster Horus’s rebellion stains the honour of all the Legiones Astartes. Lord Corax swore to me that the Space Marines would put this right, without our help. Then he laid his giant hand on my shoulder and said “If I need you, you will hear my call”. What do you suppose that means?’ ‘I could not guess, my master,’ Pelon said, though it was clear he made some connection with the dream. Valerius let it pass. There was no need to check a mirror, the Praefector knew that his appearance was impeccable. A thousand times he and Pelon had performed the same dance, whether in a tent on a rain-swept plain while artillery thundered overhead, in the cramped quarters of a troopship forging through the warp, or back on Therion looking out over the family estates, the earthy but reassuring scent of the grox farms drifting through the windows. It was a ritual that had once given Valerius great comfort. No matter what happened, what life threw at him, he was restored, created anew as an officer of the Emperor. Today the ceremony was empty, as it had been the last seven days. It brought no comfort as the screams of the ravens lingered on the edge of his hearing and flames flickered behind his eyes. All the fine Therion tradition and all of the panoply of the Imperial Army did nothing to assuage his fears. His role, his duty, only increased Valerius’s anxiety. An impulse at the core of his being told the Praefector that something was amiss in the universe and that as an officer of the Emperor is was his destiny to act. Valerius headed out into the meandering tunnels of the old mines, Pelon by his side. Little could be seen of the grim origins of the labyrinth, the plasteel-clad walls obscuring marks of laser-pick and rock drill. Millions had laboured and died to fuel the greed of a few, but of their passing nothing remained. Lycaeus was no more. Valerius knew of it only from the old stories of tyranny and misery passed on to him by the legionaries of the Raven Guard; those that had been enslaved here and had joined the Legion after the Emperor’s arrival. Now the moon was called Deliverance, its rockcrete pinnacles and winding corridors a testament to the benefits of Enlightenment and the determination of Lord Corax. Valerius barely thought about the bloody past of this place, but now and then he remembered that the air he breathed was the same air that those indentured, pitiful creatures had once breathed, before Lord Corax had led them to freedom. The pair climbed several flights of stairs towards a shuttle pad and came to a viewing gallery: a hemisphere of armourplas where once the slavemasters had looked into the black skies and seen the fiery trails of the transports bringing their human cargo from the planet below. That world, Kiavahr, could not be seen at the moment. Sometimes it loomed large on the horizon like a resentful eye. Valerius’s own eye was drawn to the towering needle known as the Ravenspire, former guard tower and now fortress of the Raven Guard, his destination this day. Its sheer sides were blistered with weapon bays and punctured by the light-filled maws of its docks. A hundred searchlights cut across the abyssal blackness of the airless world, fixed upon the mineworkings that sprawled across the moon’s cratered surface, glittering from force domes that protected worker tenements and mineral refineries. The Ravenspire was quiet. All but a few hundred of the legionaries had left, following their Primarch Lord Corax to the Isstvan system. Valerius did not know the details – few if any did. It was this that so vexed the Praefector. The dreams might somehow be a call for help from the Primarch. How this might be so, Valerius did not know. All he had was a resounding conviction that he was needed at Isstvan, and that he should go there to whatever fate awaited him. The vaulted halls of the Ravenspire were eerily empty. The armouries were quiet, the launch bays dormant. The thud of Valerius’s boots seemed to echo all the more loudly than usual. Perhaps it was only his imagination. Commander Branne, leader of the Raven Guard still stationed on Deliverance, held his chambers high in the tower. He was alone as the Praefector and his companion entered, looking out through a narrow window into the starry sky. The commander was dressed in soft slippers and wore a simple black tabard embroidered with the sigil of his Legion. He turned and smiled as Valerius entered, waving him to a couch along one wall of the low-ceilinged room. Branne sat next to him, the sofa creaking alarmingly under his weight. Even sitting down, the Space Marine dominated the room with his physical presence. His bare biceps were the size of Valerius’s thighs, his massive chest stretching the fabric of the tabard almost to tearing. The Praefector felt like a toddling child. It was even worse when confronted by Lord Corax, who made even the legionaries appear small and frail. Valerius gulped back a moment of nervousness. ‘Is all well, commander?’ the Praefector asked casually. Branne’s expression was wistful. His face was crossed with several scars and he unconsciously ran a finger along one across his brow as he replied. ‘This used to be a guard room,’ he said. ‘I killed my first man here, when I was younger than your manservant. Throttled him with the strap of his rifle and took his gun from him. Of course, Corax was with me then. I saw him rip out a man’s heart with his hand and crush the skull of another with his fist.’ He looked around the room, seeing memories rather than cold plasteel walls. ‘It’s a bit lonely. I wish I had gone with the rest of the Legion.’ ‘Why didn’t you?’ asked Valerius. ‘Luck of the draw. Someone’s got to stay behind and watch the fortress. The commanders had a lottery and I lost, so here I am, missing out on the action.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ said Valerius, sensing an opening. ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Branne. He looked up as Pelon appeared with a tray carrying two goblets. He shook his head but Valerius took the proffered water. It had a chemical aftertaste, not at all like the fresh-running streams of his estate on Therion. Still, water was life and he drank swiftly to remove the dryness that had nagged him since wakening. The Praefector realised he was stalling, not wishing to explain himself. His words came in a rush, breaking through the dam of embarrassment that held them back. ‘I think that Lord Corax needs our help, on Isstvan, I mean. I fear that all has not gone well with the fight against Horus.’ Branne frowned. ‘What makes you think anything is amiss? Have you heard some word I haven’t?’ ‘Not directly, no. Look, this is probably not going to make much sense, I don’t really understand it myself. I keep having a dream of burning ravens.’ The furrows in Branne’s brow deepened but Valerius plunged on, his voice rising with anxiety. ‘It might be nothing, nothing at all, but it has plagued me for seven days now. I fear that it is some kind of warning perhaps. I cannot explain it well, it is something that I can just feel. All is not well at Isstvan.’ Branne’s confusion became scepticism. ‘A dream? You want me to ship out to Isstvan, against the primarch’s orders, because of a dream?’ ‘More than a dream, I am sure of it.’ ‘You are worrying about nothing. Three Legions, three whole Legions move against Horus. Four more will follow-up their offensive. No matter what those traitors have done so far, they haven’t the strength to contend against that. What force in the galaxy could Horus possess to fight such an army?’ ‘Perhaps you are right,’ Valerius conceded, though part of him was not convinced. ‘Maybe if I took my men there, just to be sure? If all is well we can simply return, a few weeks lost and nothing more.’ ‘I am right,’ said Branne. ‘Nobody is leaving Deliverance, least of all your Imperial soldiers. This is Legion business. We look to our own and we will deal with our own. You must be ready for Lord Corax’s return. We’ll be in the warp and heading off to some other world soon enough, if you’re thirsty for action.’ Valerius nodded in defeat, suppressing a sigh. In the face of such a blank refusal, there was nothing else he could do. Peace. A rhythmic hum muffled through artificial amniotic fluid. A calming voice, similarly distorted. The words are lost, but the tone comforting. Something beeps insistently in the background. A pale face appears, blurred through the incubator. The features are indistinct, the expression indiscernible. A hand is laid upon the glass of the pod: reverent, hopeful, nurturing. Even loving, perhaps? Fire and blood crashed through the peace: fire from the burning engines of the Thunderhawk gunship; blood from the tears in his armour, rapidly thickening to stem the flow. There was no pain. No physical pain, at least. The psychological pain, the horror of betrayal, burned like an open wound in his thoughts. Most of the crimson drying on his black armour was not his own. Pieces of shrapnel protruded from its ceramite skin – shards of armour from his bodyguard. Grisly lumps of flesh clogged the joints, slivers of bone trapped in strands of sinew and gobbets of muscle. He didn’t know the names of those that now stained his armour. He didn’t want to know. Corax pushed himself from the wreckage of the gunship, steadying himself with the aid of Vincente Sixx. ‘You should allow me to see the wound, lord,’ said the apothecary. ‘It is nothing,’ Corax replied, truthfully. ‘That same blast killed five legionaries. I would not dismiss such a thing so lightly,’ insisted Sixx. ‘My body recovers. We have far more pressing concerns.’ Captain Alvarex stumbled down the assault ramp behind the primarch, the ceramite of his armour pitted with craters from bolter detonations, ivory-coloured holes in his black livery. He tried to hide a limp but it was clear Alvarex’s left leg was injured in some way. The captain carried a stratnet transmitter, salvaged from the gunship’s command deck. ‘Casualty estimates are sketchy,’ the captain reported. Even over the comm his voice was faint, hesitant. ‘Tell me,’ Corax said. Sixx shook his head in disbelief as the captain replied. ‘Rough estimate is that seventy-five per cent of the Legion has already been lost. Losses may be as high as ninety per cent, lord.’ Corax groaned, hurt more by this news than the gouge in his flesh. ‘Give me a moment,’ said the primarch. He turned away from the Space Marines as they alighted from the downed Thunderhawk. Many kilometres to the west, the Primarch could see the fires burning on the Urgall plateau and the ring of hills around it. Tens of thousands of legionaries lay dead there. Tens of thousands of Raven Guard. Corax had never been afraid of anything in his life. Not the whips of the slavers, not hordes of orks or armies of dissidents. This was something different. This was Space Marines killing Space Marines. This was the birth of mankind destroying itself. Corax allowed himself a few moments of grief, to ponder the lives lost, the fallen brothers-in-arms who had been cut down by their traitorous brethren. He watched the smoke billowing into the sky, blanketing the horizon. He remembered the hasty exchange with Vulkan as the traitors had opened fire from the rear. The primarch of the Salamanders had wanted to protect the dropsite. Corax had argued otherwise, knowing that the field was already lost. It was not in his nature to stay in one place and allow himself to be cut down. With Vulkan’s curses ringing in his ears, Corax had ordered his Legion to retreat by any means necessary. Emergency rendezvous points had been broadcast over the comm-net; coded, but Corax wondered if the traitors had access to the Raven Guard’s communications ciphers. When the survivors had regathered their strength, the primarch would have the Techmarines establish new security protocols. In this way, with regret giving way to immediate needs, Corax pushed aside the empty gulf that threatened to swallow him. As his mind filled with dispositions and orders, he turned back to the remnants of his honour guard. A Techmarine, Stradon, fussed over a tangled mess of ceramite casing and steel feathers. Stradon looked up as Corax returned. The Techmarine’s helmeted head cocked to one side in dismay, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Your flight pack… I could cannibalise some parts from the Thunderhawk perhaps… Reverse-fit some of the attitude jets…’ ‘Leave it,’ said Corax. He cast his gaze over the Space Marines looking expectantly at their primarch. ‘It will be some time before this raven flies again.’ The valley was filled with a deep mist, but there was darker smog amongst the haze – the smoke of engines. Corax was crouched at an observation point high on the western side of the gorge, his four commanders with him. The primarch had removed his winged helmet and listened intently, his superhuman ears better than any autosense the technorati could yet devise. He could tell every vehicle by its unique timbre of roar and grind of gears: Rhino transports, Land Raiders, Predator tanks, Thunderstrike assault guns. This last told him who it was that advanced up the valley, for only one Legion employed artillery of that fashion. ‘Iron Warriors,’ announced the primarch. There were growls of disgust from the officers around him. Of those that had turned traitor, the Iron Warriors were reserved for especial hatred. The Raven Guard had always considered them brutal, simplistic in their tactics. Corax had never spoken his doubts openly, but he had not shared Perturabo’s approach to war. His former brother viewed conflict as a simple matter of exchanging punishment until one side capitulated. He was the sort that would stand face-to-face with a foe and trade blows, relying on obstinacy to prevail. More than once Perturabo had hinted he thought Corax cowardly for his preferred strategy of hit-and-run. Corax cared little for the criticisms of the other primarchs. Their Legions were larger than his, their Terran forces bolstered by populous home planets. Deliverance had not the vast resources of many other worlds and only a few thousand more legionaries had swelled the ranks of the Raven Guard. Such a situation had necessitated a certain approach to war, one that Corax had learnt well when he had led the uprising against the slavemasters. Though it was the Raven Guard who had become the superior-armed force, Corax had never forgotten the hard-learnt lessons of that guerrilla war. Had he done as Perturabo believed – or as Vulkan had decided – his warriors would all be dead. Through careful withdrawal under fire, some had escaped to rejoin the primarch. His four thousand legionaries were little compared to the might he had commanded only a dozen days earlier, but they were still Space Marines and they could still fight. Corax was determined that the dropsite massacre would not go unanswered. Perturabo’s warriors would learn that sometimes the concealed blow was the most lethal. Corax listened intently to the mechanical noises echoing along the valley, pinpointing each source. ‘Fourteen Rhinos, three Land Raiders, six Predators, three Thunderstrikes,’ the primarch told his officers. None doubted his word, his eyes and ears more accurate than any scanner they had remaining in their armoury. ‘Advancing in double column, six transports in the vanguard, half a kilometre ahead. Two outriding squadrons of bikes, twenty in total.’ The primarch looked up. The cloud in the highlands was low. He heard no jets. It was unlikely that the Iron Warriors had aerial forces, they would be virtually useless in this weather. Further up, beyond the atmosphere, their frigates and battle barges peered down upon Isstvan V with their long-range augurs, but finding a force as small as Corax’s would be all but impossible. It was a gamble, but Corax had to hope that the recon column – one of three that had been scouring the hills since the massacre – did not have attached orbital support. ‘When we attack, they will assume an arrowpoint defensive stance,’ Corax continued. ‘Land Raiders to the fore, Predators along the flanks, assault guns and transports as reserve. That is just the sort of fight these bastards like. Let’s not give them that.’ ‘Diversionary delayed attack, lord?’ suggested Agapito, Commander of the Talons, the Tactical companies that formed the fighting backbone of the newly reorganised Raven Guard. Corax nodded. He turned to Commander Aloni, freshly appointed leader of the Assault companies – the Falcons. ‘Agapito will set up a base of fire in the eastern head of the valley,’ said the primarch. ‘Give the Iron Warriors ten minutes to assemble their formation before attacking the rear. Agapito, I need you to draw their attention to you as much as possible. Hit them hard and hold your ground. Retaliation will be intense. You have to take it. If the enemy think you are going to fall back they will form up for pursuit, which will leave a rearguard right in front of Aloni’s companies. Don’t allow that to happen.’ The commanders nodded their understanding. Another officer, Solaro, spoke next. ‘What about the outriders, lord?’ ‘Use your bike squads to give them something to chase. Draw them to the west. Aloni, slant your attack from the east.’ There were affirmatives from the officers, followed by a moment’s quiet until Aloni voiced the question they were all anxious to ask. ‘And you, lord? Where will you be fighting?’ ‘I’ll attack from the south-east, as the second wing of the delayed attack.’ ‘Is that wise?’ asked Agapito. ‘You disbanded your bodyguard into the other companies.’ Corax stood up to his full height and unslung his heavy bolter, holding it easily in his left hand. The towering primarch smiled down at his officers. ‘That was for appearance. Do you think I actually need a bodyguard?’ The valley was alight with heavy weapons fire and bolter rounds. Two Rhinos were smouldering wrecks and a Land Raider burned fiercely from its engine compartment. The traitors’ return fire was intense, a stream of shells and blasts that seared away the concealing mists. Detonations wracked the boulder-strewn hillside where Agapito’s Talons poured fire on the Iron Warriors. Corax watched the exchange from a narrow defile a few hundred metres behind the Iron Warriors’ positions. He saw the crews of the Thunderstrikes readying their big guns and knew it was time to act. He had expected as much, but hadn’t wanted Aloni to attack too soon for fear of revealing the strategy. Corax felt no remorse at deceiving his own commanders – it was for their survival that the primarch had decided against them attacking early. He could handle this situation on his own. The primarch broke from cover, pounding across the pebble-strewn hillside with long strides. Surprise would be his first weapon. As the gravel sprayed underfoot, a lone Iron Warrior, his silver armour dappled with water droplets, turned towards Corax, perhaps somehow hearing the crunching footfalls over the din of the battle. The primarch acted without hesitation. Stooping in his run, he snatched up a shard of rock. With a flick of his arm, he hurled the stone at the Iron Warrior. As a dark blur it struck the Space Marine in the throat and erupted from the back of his neck, silently felling him. Corax sprinted onwards, readying his heavy bolter. The Thunderstrikes opened up on the Raven Guard, three enormous blossoms of fire enveloping the hillside. Corax could not spare a glance for the devastation caused, he was utterly focussed on his targets. Fifty metres behind the assault guns he stopped and took up a firing position, bringing the heavy bolter up to his left shoulder as an ordinary man might heft a rifle. He sighted on the closest Thunderstrike, eyes narrowed. He aimed at a point just above the armoured maintenance hatch in the vehicle’s flank, beyond which sat the primary engine relays. The first roaring salvo of bolts hit the exact mark, ripping through the armour plates. A moment later smoke was billowing from the Thunderstrike’s engines before a ball of fire engulfed the assault gun sending torn pieces of metal flying in all directions. Corax had no time to admire his handiwork. His following fusillade tore into the flexible armour of the next Thunderstrike’s gun mounting, smashing gears, jamming the cannon in place. Silver shapes spilled from the Rhinos and ran towards Corax but he ignored them. He primed three krak grenades, easily holding all of them in the palm of his hand. With an overhand toss, he lobbed the grenades onto the engine vents of the third Thunderstrike, shattering the grille and rupturing fuel lines. Soon the vehicle was ablaze along the left side of its hull. As the crew emerged smouldering from the hatches Corax gunned them down with raking fire. Bolter rounds were pattering from Corax’s armour, nothing more than a distraction. Taking in everything at a glance, the primarch turned his attention to a Predator tank slewing in his direction. Its lascannon sponsons swivelled towards him. Twin blasts of energy exploded around the primarch, hurling him to his back, his chest plastron a semi-molten slurry, the heavy bolter a mangled ruin in his hand. Pain flared across his chest but disappeared as quickly as it came. Corax tossed the heavy bolter aside and pulled himself to his feet as the Predator’s turret opened fire, autocannon rounds shrieking past the primarch. He broke into a loping run, shells ringing from his helmet and shoulder pads as he sprinted into the teeth of the metal storm. He cared nothing for the danger, except to embrace it. This was what he had been created to do and joy sang in his veins. Corax’s joy was further fuelled by a righteousness of purpose. He looked at the Iron Warriors and saw only cowardly bullies revealed in their true nature. The primarch had been raised fighting such tyrants. To find them within the ranks of the Legiones Astartes appalled him in a way that nothing else ever had. The slavemasters of Lycaeus had been human. They had been fallible. The Space Marines had no such excuse. They had been chosen for their strength of body and purpose. They had sworn binding oaths of service to the Emperor and the growing empire of mankind. They were liberators, not oppressors. With a feral roar, Corax leapt upon the Predator. Driven by his indignant rage, he drove his fist through the driver’s slit, crushing the skull of the Iron Warrior within. Jumping onto the turret, the primarch tore away the hatch covers, sending their jagged remains scything through the Iron Warriors squads advancing on him from the transports. The tank’s commander looked up in surprise as dim light flooded the interior of the Predator. Corax reached in, his gauntlet enveloping the Space Marine’s head. The helmet resisted for a moment before giving in to the titanic pressure, the tank commander’s skull collapsing between Corax’s fingers. Dropping to the ground, the primarch grabbed one of the sponson lascannons and braced a foot against the tank’s hull. With a heave of his shoulders, Corax tore the mounting free, the gunner within dragged halfway out of the hole. Corax brought his fist down onto the Iron Warrior’s back, the force of the blow cracking his armour and shattering his spine. The bolter fire was becoming too intense to ignore. Like a rain shower that suddenly becomes a hail storm, it had grown in vehemence. Four squads of Iron Warriors poured their fire at the primarch, legs braced, muzzle flares gleaming from their armour. The primarch hurled the remains of the predator sponson through them, crushing three Space Marines. The smoking trail of a missile cut through the air a moment before the projectile crashed into Corax’s left shoulder, sending shards of ceramite in all directions, staggering the primarch to one knee. He spat a wordless curse as he surged forwards once more, cutting to the left and right as balls of plasma and more rockets screamed around him. Corax covered the hundred metres in a few seconds, coming at the nearest squad from their flank. His fists buckled the faceplates of the first two Space Marines. As their bodies slumped, the primarch snatched up their weapons and stormed into the rest of the squad, a blazing bolter in each hand. The bolts hammered into the Iron Warriors, half a dozen more left on the ground before the ammunition belts were exhausted. Corax tossed the weapons aside. The squad’s sergeant leapt at Corax, a screeching chainsword in his right hand, bolt pistol blazing in the left. The primarch swatted away the whirring teeth of the chainsword and grabbed the sergeant’s elbow. With a twist and a wrench, he tore out the Iron Warrior’s arm and swung it around, the razor-sharp blades of the chainsword biting deep into the sergeant’s helmet. Corax threw the bloody limb aside and grabbed a grenade from the fallen sergeant’s belt, slamming his fist into the chest of another Space Marine, the explosive detonating in his grasp. Corax heard the whine of hydraulics to his right as he shook his numbed fingers. A Land Raider opened its assault ramp. Silhouetted against the ruddy light within, a squad of bulky Terminators advanced with purpose. They did not waste the ammunition of their combi-bolters but came forward quickly, flexing lightning-enveloped claws. More detonations and bolter fire rocked the Iron Warriors column as the Falcons attacked, Aloni’s companies descending on the traitors with jump packs flaring. The Talons pushed forwards from the valley ahead, lascannons and missile launchers cutting trails of death through the surrounded Iron Warriors. The Terminators hesitated in their advance as anarchy reigned around them. Corax reached behind him and pulled a fresh weapon from his belt. A long twin-barbed whip uncoiled in his hands, writhing with a life of its own. The primarch had requested the Mechanicum of Mars to fashion the lash for him. The irony of wielding such a tyrant’s weapon in a noble cause pleased Corax. Inside his helmet, the primarch grinned in anticipation. Flickers of energy sparking along its length, the whip flicked out in Corax’s hand and caught the closest Terminator with a thunderous crack, slicing him from shoulder to waist. His remains fell to the ground in three, wisps of smoke drifting from the neatly sliced body parts. The Terminators opened fire but it was too late. Corax’s whip slashed the head from another and cut the legs from under a third. Aloni bounded past in his ebon armour, his plasma pistol spitting incandescent blasts. Corax felt a surge of exultation and raised the whip above his head. ‘No mercy!’ The Raven Guard picked the dead clean of everything that could be taken. They worked their way amongst the fallen, slaying those traitors that still lived whilst Sixx and his fellow Apothecaries did what they could to attend the loyalist wounded. Weapons were ripped from dead grasps and ammunition taken from the belts and packs of the fallen. It was with some distaste that Corax had ordered such plundering, but the circumstances offered him no choice. If his warriors were to continue fighting, they needed supplies. They had to move swiftly, the attack on the column fixing the Raven Guard in one place. Corax wanted to be many kilometres away before any more forces arrived in the area. Survival was the key. Strike and withdraw and live to strike again. This gross betrayal would not go unnoticed. The Emperor would learn of what had befallen his Legions at Isstvan and his retribution would be swift, of that Corax was sure. He was determined that his warriors would live long enough to see it. Valerius could see the doubt in the eyes of his subordinates. They were wary. He knew he presented a less-than-inspiring image, cheeks drawn, eyes dark and haunted. For thirty nights he had snatched no more than a few hours of sleep, waking early every morning with the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils and the cries of the dying in his ears. His continued applications to Commander Branne had all fallen on deaf ears and the Praefector was desperate. He had to go to Isstvan. Nothing else would relieve his foreboding. Valerius watched the columns of black-masked soldiers marching onto the orbital shuttles, confident that he was doing the right thing. Massive rams lifted the craft out of the sealed hangars into the launch domes above. Beyond the faint blue sheen of the forcefield, plasma jets roared into life, taking the slab-sided shuttles into low orbit over Deliverance where they delivered their living cargo to the immense warp-capable transports of the Imperial Army. His command staff had done as he asked and the regiment had been mustered and supplied ready for the journey to Isstvan. Despite their compliance, Valerius had detected an undertone of confusion and unease amongst his officers and turned his attention back to them, pulling himself straight despite the weariness he felt in his bones. ‘Fifty per cent of the infantry and eighty per cent of the armour has been embarked, Praefector,’ reported First Tribune Marius. He referred to a wafer-thin data-slate before continuing. ‘Seven transports are squared away and ready to leave. The captains of the three others report that they will be warp-worthy within five hours. Frigates Escalation, Garius and Vendetta stand ready for escort service.’ Marius paused and exchanged a glance with the other Tribunes and Aquilons. Valerius guessed Marius had been nominated as spokesman for the command staff’s concerns. It was unlikely anybody would have volunteered for such a task. ‘What is it?’ snapped Valerius. Marius’s reply was reluctant and he again looked at his companions for encouragement. ‘Praefector, we have yet to receive orders confirmation from Commander Branne, nor launch vectors from the Ravenspire.’ Valerius cleared his throat, uncomfortable. ‘Such verification will be coming shortly. Continue with the boarding manifests.’ Marius and the others hesitated. ‘We are worried about your health, Praefector,’ said Marius. ‘You have not been well of late.’ Valerius summoned his resolve, drawing on the generations of breeding and military command that had paved his way to his position as a Therion Praefector. ‘I gave you an order, Tribune! Be prepared to leave orbit as soon as possible. This is my regiment, seconded to Lord Corax himself. Order confirmations and launch vectors will be forthcoming. I will travel to the Ravenspire to deal with any delay. Is there anything else?’ Marius opened his mouth and then closed it. The others darted angry glances at the First Tribune but remained silent. ‘Good, I am happy that I have made myself clear. Go and attend to your duties.’ Valerius received the salutes of the officers with a nod and watched them turn and disperse into the companies of Imperial soldiers forming up for boarding. He breathed out heavily, and could feel his hands shaking. It was just fatigue, he was sure. Nothing more serious. With another cough he called for Pelon to bring forward his aircar. He would have to go to the Ravenspire, and that meant another confrontation with Branne. Have the courage of your convictions, Valerius told himself. Even to himself, his words sounded weak. ‘This is insubordination!’ roared Branne, looming over Valerius. The Praefector could not help but shrink away from the intimidating bulk of the commander. He hated himself for showing such weakness, it was an affront to the uniform he wore. He was a loyal officer of the Emperor, not some tutor-yard weakling. Yet the Praefector’s protests died in his throat as Branne’s tirade continued. The commander paced across his private chambers, where the walls were hung with paintings depicting idealised scenes from the liberation of Deliverance. Lord Corax featured in all of them. ‘It is precisely because of this… this idiocy that command of the Imperial Army was given to the Legions. A few dreams and you’re ready to head straight into a highly-volatile warzone. Do you really think that Corax wants your regiment hanging around, something else for him to worry about? Leave aside the nonsense of these dreams and consider this. If what you say is true, what difference will one regiment make? Horus’s forces are Legiones Astartes! If the whole might of the Raven Guard, not to mention six – six! – more Legions, are not enough to quell Horus’s rebellion, what can your troops achieve?’ At this, Valerius smarted and he stepped forward, fist raised. ‘We’d actually be there! No, we are not Space Marines, we are not the Emperor’s favoured. We are simply men. Men that believe in the Imperial Truth, in the forging of this new Empire every bit as much as you!’ ‘Men are weak,’ replied Branne and Valerius exploded with rage, his frayed psyche finally giving vent. He did not shout; his voice descended to a spite-filled whisper. ‘It is not a normal man that leads this rebellion. Horus is a Space Marine, one of yours! The best of you, if that is to be believed anymore.’ ‘Be careful what you say next, Valerius,’ snarled Branne, fists balled by his sides. ‘It is not wise to stand in judgement of your betters.’ Valerius was shocked, speechless. He turned and stalked a few paces away from Branne, quivering with indignation. He had no argument that would sway the Space Marine. In a way, the commander was correct. His legionaries were far superior to Valerius and his warriors. They were created by the Emperor to be physically greater than any mortal human. Their armour was better, their weapons the best that the Mechanicum could create. But that was all that they were – soldiers, war-bringers, conquerors. Valerius calmed himself before turning back to Branne. He was about to offer a conciliatory gesture when Branne suddenly looked at Valerius with narrowed eyes. The Space Marine’s whole body tensed and for a moment Valerius was filled with an animal fear, that of a prey seeing the predator ready to pounce. ‘Perhaps there is some other reason you are so eager to travel to Isstvan with all of your warriors? Maybe it is not to Lord Corax’s aid that you would go, but to the rebels’.’ Valerius was horrified at the suggestion but Branne continued before he could offer any argument. ‘Perhaps you think you are too good to serve under the Legion? Is that it? Perhaps your dreams are a result of tortured pride, a symptom of a badly bruised ego? Maybe you feel that you would be better off serving Horus?’ ‘My pride is in this uniform,’ hissed Valerius, tugging at the sash across his chest. ‘You know why I wear the red? My father gave his blood for the Emperor! He fought and died beside the Legions when they came to Therion. This is a badge of my family’s dedication to the Emperor, a sign of the Emperor’s trust in my family. It means as much to me as that sigil upon your tabard. Do not dare to suppose that I would besmirch this honour!’ Branne was taken aback by the vehemence of Valerius. He blinked several times, as might a large dog when swiped across the nose by a feisty young pup. ‘The weakness of men?’ Valerius muttered, not daring to look at Branne. ‘Yes, the Legiones Astartes united Earth and conquered the galaxy. Behind their guns and swords, we forged across the stars and claimed so many thousands of worlds for the Emperor. You created the Imperium, of that I am sure. But without us weak, frail men, what would you be? Who pilots the ships that carry you, grows the crops that feed you, makes the weapons you wield and raises the children that will be your future generations? Not the Space Marines.’ Branne’s hesitation lasted only a moment and his scowl returned. ‘This is not a debate, Praefector. Were you a pilot, a farmer, a techpriest or a father, you could say such things. You are not, you are an officer of the Imperial Army and you answer to the Legion. I am ranking commander on Deliverance and I order you stand down your regiment. You may not leave for Isstvan. You are not welcome there.’ Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Valerius. He straightened and took a deep breath, thinking the unthinkable. The Praefector steadied himself and looked Branne directly in the eye. ‘And if I choose to go anyway?’ Branne’s stare was as hard and uncompromising as the suit of armour that stood in the corner of the chamber. ‘Deliverance has many orbital weapons.’ ‘Reminds me of Eblana,’ rasped Agapito. He peered out of the cave mouth as rain sheeted down, turning the grassland outside into a quagmire. ‘Aye,’ said Sergeant Lancrato, another of the Terran veterans who had been at the pacification of the marsh-city. He laughed at a recollection. ‘Remember Hadraig leading us into that bog? Up to our arses in mud, starshells overhead, mortar bombs landing all around us.’ Agapito did not join in his companion’s humour. His tone was sombre. ‘I’d rather have that stinking marsh than this. At least we knew where we were going, even if it was difficult to get to.’ ‘We can’t stay in one place, it would be suicide. You know that. We’ll hide out in these caves while we can and then move on.’ ‘Yes, I know that, but it galls me to run from these traitorous swine.’ ‘I also,’ rumbled a voice from the vast cavern. Corax emerged from the gloom, divested of his armour. The primarch was clad in a black undersuit, immense muscles criss-crossed with wires and circuits woven into its fabric. His dark eyes stared outside for a moment and then fell upon the two Space Marines. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ the primarch announced. ‘In this?’ Lancrato’s laugh was incredulous. ‘A strange time for a stroll.’ Corax gave a lopsided smile. ‘I never had fresh air before my first planetfall with the Legion. Can’t get enough of it now.’ ‘Where are you going, lord?’ asked Agapito. ‘To have a look around. It’s been thirty days since the drop and there’s been no word at all from the Salamanders or Iron Hands. We can’t risk any comms broadcasts, Horus’s followers may use them to locate us. I need to find out what’s happening, make contact with the other Legions. I may be gone for several days. It will be safe to remain here while the bad weather holds. If it clears before I return, move the force west to the Lerghan Ridge and I will meet you there.’ With that, the primarch strode out into the rain. Corax headed towards the Urgall Hills, swiftly covering the kilometres with easy strides at a pace he could sustain for many days. He avoided the more open plains and kept to the ridgelines and valleys, never exposing himself upon a horizon, circling around the remnants of villages and towns. He did not allow himself to think too much as he ran. There was little point to it. For thirty days he had asked himself why this had happened; wondered how Horus had turned so many to his cause. It didn’t matter how Horus had created this revolt, the pressing matter was that the Warmaster had. If an effective counterstrike was to be made, those that remained loyal to the Emperor had to come together. If they remained divided they would be picked off, one Legion at a time. The primarch occupied himself with thoughts of strategy, recalling everything about the topography and landscape of Isstvan V. He mentally overlaid the map with the forces of the Legions ranged against him, estimating their strengths, where they would be disposed and where there would be gaps in their defences. As dawn broke, the primarch reached Tor Venghis, a mount that overlooked the dropsite where so many of his warriors had been slain. From this vantage point he looked out across the Urgall Hills. Huge dropships dominated the landscape, blazoned with the liveries of the traitors: Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, World Eaters, Emperor’s Children, Death Guard, Alpha Legion, even the Word Bearers. Corax’s heart fell at the sight. So many had turned! It seemed impossible that those who only months before had fought valiantly alongside the Raven Guard were now hunting them down. Despite his earlier thoughts on the futility of understanding their treachery, Corax could not fight the urge to find out more. He needed to get closer, to walk amongst this devastation so that he might better understand it. So it was that the primarch of the Raven Guard stole into the Urgall Depression and drew upon that ability he had possessed since his first memory but had revealed to no one. He knew not how it came to be, but if he focused his thoughts, he could pass unseen amongst others. Long he had honed his power in the fighting against the slavemasters, walking through their defences in plain sight. His followers had not been aware of his special talent, but there had been plenty about their mysterious leader they had not known. It was not that he literally disappeared – more than one encounter with an automatic scanner had taught him that – it was that the minds of others ignored Corax if he wished it. Like a predator that only recognises the shapes of its prey, those that Corax wished to deceive simply did not register his presence. Such was their unconscious disbelief that they even refused to acknowledge a return on a scanner sweep or the glow of a thermal monitor. To any naked eye Corax could, for want of a better term, become invisible. Only one other knew of this – the Emperor. As he picked his way down to the depression the primarch thought about that day when the Emperor came to Deliverance, to be reunited with his progeny. He remembered the looks of adulation and adoration on Corax’s guerrilla warriors as the Emperor had stepped down alone from his shuttle. Corax’s memory was as sharp as a sword point, but even he could not quite remember the Emperor’s face, though it was clear he had not seen what had so struck the others with awe. The Emperor had seemed young in body, but his eyes were as old as anything Corax had ever seen. He was of no particular stature, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. ‘You recognise me?’ the Emperor had asked when the two had withdrawn from the others. He had been clearly surprised by Corax’s reaction. ‘As if from an old dream, yes,’ Corax had replied. ‘I thought you would be taller.’ ‘Interesting,’ had been the Emperor’s brief reply. It was then that the Emperor had explained to Corax what he truly was – a primarch, one of twenty created by him to lead Mankind’s conquest of the stars. Corax had not doubted a word of it, the presence of the Emperor made everything else fall into place. They had talked for a whole day, of the Emperor’s plans and the ongoing Great Crusade. Corax told the Emperor of what had passed on Lycaeus and of the continuing conflict with the planet below. That day they pledged support and loyalty to each other and the Emperor had smiled and nodded. As Corax had guided the Emperor back to his shuttle, the Master of Mankind had laid a gentle hand on Corax’s arm, his deep blue eyes gleaming. Corax remembered the warmth he had felt, elation coming from the Emperor’s parting words even though the primarch had made no mention of his peculiar ability. ‘You will never have to hide again.’ The primarch snorted at his sentimentality. He was hiding again, of that there was no doubt. He was not scurrying through some ventilation duct, or slipping past a guard post, but Corax suddenly felt as if all the years between then and now had been for nothing. He looked at the devastation wrought at the dropsite. The Iron Warriors were fortifying the hills, as was their wont. Columns of Space Marines, on foot and in their armoured vehicles, stretched as far as the eye could see. Under the dark clouds their camps sprawled across the Urgall Depression like a stain, but there was something else that darkened the grassy hillsides and wind-swept basin. Corpses. Tens of thousands of them. The traitors had left the dead where they had fallen, perhaps as a testament to their victory, perhaps unwilling to sweep away the shameful evidence of their treachery. The slaughter was unimaginable, even to one who had spent his entire life at war. So many dead; legionaries dead, by the hand of other legionaries. This was no mere rebellion, this was something far greater. Rebels raised their voices openly against those they despised. These traitors had plotted in the shadows and bided their time. Who could say how long Horus had been secretly working against the will of the Emperor? With a shock, Corax realised that he might have been an unwitting conspirator in this uprising. How many of Horus’s orders had he followed without question? How many times had he discussed his strategies, his plans, with the likes of Angron and Fulgrim? Cloaked from view, Corax wandered amidst the bloodied piles of flesh and shattered armour. He heard harsh laughter from the traitor camps and ignored it. He saw the colours of the Raven Guard next to that of the Salamanders. Company banners lay tattered and broken in the gore-slicked grass. Here and there he saw the livery of the traitors, flecks of bright colour amongst the black and drab greens of the loyalists. Corax could follow the course of the battle by the dead left in its wake. A fighting retreat here, a last stand around a banner there, a counter-assault against a position over there. Like a story, the scene played out, the Salamanders falling back into an ever smaller pocket of resistance, the Raven Guard breaking out in whatever directions they could. A psychotic charge from Angron’s World Eaters cleaving into the Salamanders’ defensive cordon; gun batteries of the Iron Warriors on the high ground; an encircling attack by the Word Bearers. Far away, the metal colours of the Iron Hands glittered in the rising sun, where Ferrus Manus had led them against the Emperor’s Children. Of his fellow primarchs, there was no sign. Corax knelt beside the body of a Raven Guard, his chestplate rent open, his ribcage splayed. His armour bore the markings of a veteran, one of those that had come from Terra and made Deliverance his new home. Corax had seen untold atrocities and, in the name of Enlightenment and the future had even committed a few. Of these he was not proud, but he was sure that his cause had always been just. He had seen the slavers throttle babies to punish their mothers, and bloodthirsty Khrave fall upon columns of refugees. Never once had any of it caused Corax the slightest hesitation. War was not glorious, it was a desperate, messy business. But it had been his business, one in which he had excelled. This massacre, it was beyond the pale. For the first and last time in his life, Corax cried. He cried not for the loss of life, though it was great. He cried not for the degradation that had been heaped upon his dead warriors, though it was obscene. He cried for all Space Marines, for the shame that Horus had brought upon them. They had been the Emperor’s trusted sword, and they had betrayed him. It mattered not that Corax himself had remained loyal. He was of the Legiones Astartes and the shame of one was the shame of all. ‘Will they ever trust us again?’ he whispered as a single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped onto the fallen Raven Guard. Should they trust us, was the next question, one that Corax did not want to ask and certainly could not answer. The Emperor made us gods and mankind followed us, Corax thought heavily. In us he poured the hopes and dreams of humanity, and we raised ourselves up above them. He gave us armies to command and the resources of the galaxy to draw upon. What have we done with that? When we first awoke, what did we do with the power he gave us? Set ourselves up as warrior-kings, with planets as vassals and star systems as our fiefdoms. Not all of us follow Horus, but none of us are beyond blame. Perhaps it is better not to trust us. Perhaps the galaxy is better ruled by normal men, who live and die and whose ambitions are not so grand. Depression weighed down Corax as he continued his search. There was no sign of Ferrus Manus or Vulkan, though he did not know whether that boded well or ill. There was but one truth to face. The Salamanders and Iron Hands were no more. If aid was to come, it would be from outside Isstvan V. The Raven Guard would have to fight on alone. The ensign’s tone was worried as he turned from his console aboard the bridge of Valerius’s flagship, the Remarkable. ‘Praefector, I’m detecting power surges from the orbital platforms in our grid. Weapons are priming!’ Valerius looked to his comms officer. ‘Get me an immediate relay to the Ravenspire, and put it through to my cabin.’ Without waiting for the response, the Praefector hurried from the bridge into his private chamber. He flicked on the vid-screen and paced back and forth across the narrow room as the display filled with multicoloured static. Commander Branne’s voice cut through Valerius’s agitation. ‘I warned this would happen.’ Valerius spun towards the screen and saw the Space Marine’s face filling the display. The commander’s expression was blank, giving no sign of what he was about to do. ‘Surely you cannot be considering opening fire on Imperial ships?’ ‘It is not my decision, Praefector. You have disobeyed a direct command from your superiors. What happens next is up to you.’ Valerius fought the urge to claw at his hair in frustration. He could hear the cawing of ravens even when awake, and the corners of the cabin seemed to flicker with flames. ‘The deaths of your men will be on your hands, not mine,’ insisted Branne. ‘How can you say that?’ shrieked Valerius. ‘It is by your command that they will be killed. You would slay them out of hand? I cannot believe that even you are that inhuman.’ ‘These are inhuman times, Praefector. In following your unconfirmed orders, your officers and men place themselves in conspiracy with your insubordination.’ ‘They’re just following my orders,’ growled Valerius. ‘To do otherwise would be mutinous.’ ‘Yet you choose to commit that crime on their behalf. I say it again – this is your doing, not mine.’ Valerius’s hands formed claws as he tried to grasp some argument or line of reasoning that would persuade Branne not to open fire. He could think of nothing. His entire claim to this endeavour was based on a dream that tormented him and a deep feeling of dread, and nothing more. Then it came to him. Valerius rounded on the screen with a last, desperate hope in his heart. ‘What if it is you and not me that is wrong?’ Branne furrowed his brow in confusion as he answered. ‘My orders were explicit, as were yours. The chain of command is equally clear. Any error is yours, not mine.’ ‘But think of the consequences! Think not of the arguments and reasons for a moment, but think only of what happens if we follow your path and not mine.’ Branne shook his head, unable to understand Valerius’s argument. The Praefector continued at pace, scrabbling after the words as a drowning man might lunge for a lifeline. ‘If you are right and I am wrong, what harm is caused?’ ‘If my worst suspicions are correct, you may aid the traitors.’ Valerius nodded at this, thinking as quickly as his fatigue-numbed mind would allow. ‘Then come with me. Bring your legionaries aboard and hold a gun to my head. I would be the first to pay if there is any hint of treachery in my actions. In that circumstance, what possible gain would there be for me?’ Branne shook his head again but said nothing, so Valerius plunged on. ‘And what if this is just a wild chase? What have we lost by acting? Nothing!’ The Space Marine remained unconvinced and Valerius moved in for his final argument. ‘But consider this. Think of the consequences if, against everything you believe and have been trained for, I am right. Think! If what I say is true, no matter how, then what is the price we pay for not acting? If you come with me, history might remember you as the commander that lost his pride because he allowed a delusional army officer to fool him? Your reputation might suffer, that is true. On the other hand, would you instead be remembered as the commander that stayed at home, too proud to listen to those that warned him of danger, while his primarch needed him?’ Valerius could see his words sinking in as Branne’s frown deepened even further. The Space Marine’s jaw worked incessantly as he turned the words over in his mind, analysing them as he might a battlefield situation, examining them from different perspectives. ‘I do not believe you,’ said Branne. ‘Though the consequences of inaction are far greater, the more likely risk is the loss of my honour, by a considerable factor. I see no benefit in your course of action.’ Valerius fell to his knees, hands held out imploringly towards the flickering image of the commander. ‘Lord Corax needs us! He needs you!’ ‘And if he doesn’t? If I go to Isstvan and he welcomes me with scorn?’ Valerius rose to his feet and pulled his hand across his chest in salute, fist grasping the sash. ‘I will give up the red and offer my life as forfeit for my mistake. I will take the dishonour, even to the ruination of my family.’ An internal broadcast cut across the transmission from the Ravenspire. It was the officer at the scanner arrays, his voice timorous, broken. ‘Praefector? Orbital batteries have locked on to our vessels! What should we do? Praefector?’ Valerius cut the link and stared at Branne. ‘It is your decision, commander. My fate is in your hands.’ ‘We will be avenged,’ Corax told his legionaries. Behind him the Ghular salt plains stretched for hundreds of kilometres, offering no sanctuary to his depleted army. They had fought as hard as they could, never getting caught, always moving. Now there was nowhere left to run. The Raven Guard were trapped, sheltering in the last cover that had been left to them while the traitors scoured Urgall. ‘Have you ever seen such a thing?’ asked Agapito. Corax shook his head. The might of the World Eaters Legion was arrayed against them. Tens of thousands of warriors poured up the slope, only a few kilometres away. From this distance they were lines of blue and white, though much tainted with red. Some of the World Eaters had taken to daubing the blood of the fallen on their armour, marring their Imperial livery in defiance of the Emperor. ‘He is with them,’ said Corax. ‘Who?’ said Alconi. ‘Angron, my headstrong brother,’ replied Corax, pointing into the mass of warriors. Amidst the blue and white armour strode a giant clad in red and gold, a great cloak of fur upon his back. Brazen chains were wrapped about his hands and wrists, a massive chainaxe in each hand. Corax could hear the savage war cries of Angron’s lobotomised warriors, their chanting flowing up the hillside as a challenge to the Raven Guard. Corax flexed his grip on his whip as he watched the World Eaters Primarch stalking forwards. He knew this was the end. He had barely three thousand Space Marines against the might of a whole legion. He would have to face Angron, and he knew he would fall to the World Eater. There was not another primarch that could best him in single combat, save perhaps Horus, and maybe Sanguinius. Corax was an immortal lord of battle, but Angron was war incarnate. The Raven Guard had seen him leading his troops through the breach at Hell’s Anvil and witnessed his talent for destruction during the Siege of Gehenna. No, there was not a doubt in Corax’s mind that Angron would slay him, and take great pleasure in the act. Corax recalled part of the conversation he had shared with the Emperor on Deliverance. The primarch was not sure he yet understood what the Emperor had been saying, for he had said a great many things that referred to the time before his Unification of Terra, references to ancient Earth and his own life that were far beyond Corax’s knowledge. ‘Each of those parts that they put into me, I gave to each of you,’ the Emperor had said. Corax had asked who had put what into the Emperor but he had shaken his head and refused to answer, telling Corax that it was not important anymore. Reunited with his primarchs, he would be whole once again. The Raven Guard’s leader wondered what part of the Emperor had been put into a beast like Angron. He shuddered to think what Horus had promised the World Eater in return for his betrayal of the Emperor. Conquest, no doubt, and glory in battle. Angron had craved these things more than any other primarch, though Corax and his brothers had all been created with a fierce military pride. What else, Corax thought. What do you gain from this rebellion against the Emperor? As Corax watched the hordes of the World Eaters streaming towards him, he guessed at an answer. Freedom. Freedom from holding back. Freedom from restraint. Freedom from guilt and orders. But freedom was not without its drawbacks. The primarchs and their warriors needed structure, needed purpose to focus their martial instincts. Without the guiding hand, once provided by the Emperor, now manipulated by Horus, the Legions were nothing more than a bolter without an eye to aim it. Was the wildness, the savagery of the army that raged towards him something that hid inside every Legion? Corax could not believe it was so. Duty, honour, loyalty. For the strong to fight for the weak, that was purpose. Freedom of the type craved by Angron was an empty existence, removed of all measure and boundary, so that no act had meaning because it served no further end. Corax had freed Deliverance from the slavemasters and then guided them into the fold of the Imperium. Perhaps he had merely swapped one master for another, but at least he was free to choose the master he would serve. Relieved at his conclusion – that he had not in him the means to become a tyrant like Angron – Corax relaxed and waited. Legionaries fighting legionaries was a horrific thing, but in his heart the primarch knew that he would rather fall to the hand of one of his brothers than suffer any other fate. The Space Marines had pounded this new Imperium out of the rawness of the galaxy and it was fitting that it would be them who would decide its fate, for good or ill. The first missiles from the World Eaters whirlwinds were streaking through the sky towards the Raven Guard. They refused to take shelter, proud to stand their ground against this enemy. The explosions tore through the squads, slaying dozens. Corax stood amidst it all as in the eye of a hurricane. His officers looked to him and drew strength from his bold defiance of the World Eaters. More vapour trails crossed the open skies, but something was wrong with their direction. They came from behind the Raven Guard. Corax looked up and saw broad-winged aircraft plunging down from the scattering of cloud, missile pods rippling with fire. A swathe of detonations cut through the World Eaters, ripping through their advance companies. Incendiary bombs blossomed in the heart of the approaching army, scattering white-hot promethium over the steep slopes. Corax looked on with incredulity as blistering pulses of fire descended from orbit, cutting great gouges into Angron’s Legion. The roar of jets became deafening as dropships descended on pillars of fire. Black dropships emblazoned with the sigil of the Raven Guard. The Space Marines scattered to give the landing craft space to make planetfall. As soon as their thick hydraulic legs touched the ground, ramps whined down and boarding gateways opened. At first the Raven Guard were in stunned disbelief. A few shouted warnings, believing the dropships to be enemy craft painted to deceive. The comm crackled in Corax’s ear. He did not recognise the voice. ‘Lord Corax!’ ‘Receiving your transmission.’ ‘This is Praefector Valerius of the Imperial Army, serving under Commander Branne, my lord. We have a short window of evacuation, board as soon as you are able.’ Corax signalled to Agapito. ‘Marshal the embarkation, get everybody on board and break for orbit.’ The Commander nodded and turned, growling orders over the comm-net to organise the Raven Guard retreat. With practised speed, the Raven Guard dispersed, the dropships launching in clouds of smoke and dust as soon as they were full. Corax watched them streaking back into the skies as shells and missiles fell once again on the Raven Guard’s position. An explosion just to his left rocked him with its shockwave. A moment later, Aloni was at his side. ‘Last transport, lord!’ Corax followed Aloni up the ramp, his boots ringing on the metal. As the ramp began to close, he looked out across the World Eaters army, baying like frustrated hounds. ‘We survived, lord.’ Aloni’s tone conveyed his utter disbelief at the truth of this. ‘Ninety-eight days!’ Corax felt no urge to celebrate. He looked at Aloni and the other Space Marines. ‘I came to Isstvan with eighty thousand warriors. I leave with less than three thousand.’ His words hushed the jubilant mood and a sombre silence replaced it, the only sound that of the dropship’s roar. Corax stood beside a viewing port, the deck rumbling beneath his feet, and looked at the hills of Urgall dropping away, picturing the thousands of fallen followers that he was leaving behind. ‘What do we do now?’ asked Agapito. ‘We do what we have always done. We fall back, rebuild our strength and attack again. This is not the last the traitors will know of the Raven Guard. This is defeat but it is not the end. We will return.’ The cloud obscured his view, blanking it with whiteness, and he thought no more about the dead.