by Gav Thorpe
‘Well met, Lord Corax,’ the former Raven Guard sneered. The wind tousled white hair across his thin face. ‘You forgot the First Axiom of Stealth, brave leader. You came to me, exactly where I thought you would be.’
Corax tried to sit up. A sparking hammer smashed into his face, knocking him back. The lightning cannon crackled just a few metres away, ready to paralyse his armour with another blast the moment he tried to get free. There was satisfaction and monstrous intent in the eyes of the warrior holding it.
‘Of course, getting you here was the easy part, I suppose,’ Nathian continued. His voice was rasping, filled with bitterness. He glanced at the Emperor’s Children legionary. ‘Using some of the superior gene-serums from... Well, I won’t bore you with the details. These are the “New Men”, as Fabius called them. He’s an Apothecary, you know. Very clever.’ He waved a hand towards the hulking warriors. ‘I think the name’s a little understated, though. The aborted failures in the cells aside, they are far more than men now, aren’t they? We all are. “Legiones Superior”, maybe? I don’t know, I was never the best with words. I left that sort of thing to Agapito. He has the poet’s soul. Anyway, they don’t really have a name yet, so I’m afraid you’ll die in ignorance.’
Nathian walked away. Corax noticed a slight limp as the traitor Raven Guard disappeared back into the bunker. Around the primarch, the so-called New Men stepped forwards, raising their weapons.
‘Time to find out how well the Emperor really made you,’ said one of them, his bass voice modulated by the augmitter systems of his armour.
He fired a shot through Corax’s left forearm. The primarch gritted his teeth, not permitting himself even a snarl; the traitors would be granted no additional pleasure by his cries of pain.
‘Perhaps he needed to make you a little tougher,’ the warrior sneered.
Corax surged up, leaping towards him. He was a step away from grabbing the traitor around the throat when searing pain crashed through his skull. As agony flared along his neural pathways and down his spine he realised that a fresh lightning blast had struck him in the head.
His nervous system failed him, plunging him face first into the gravel-strewn rockcrete.. It took all of his effort to raise himself up, pushing with his left arm, ignoring the ache that throbbed down to his wrist.
A plasma blast smashed into his back, flattening the primarch with its detonation, melting the carefully forged feathers of his wings. Feedback from his armour blared warnings as coolants raced through the systems to stop the heat spreading further.
He was almost blind with the shock of the electrical hit and burning pain, barely able to focus on the ground just in front of him. Corax took in a shuddering breath, determined he would die on his feet, not on his face.
Another round smashed into his knee, cracking cartilage. He could not stop the cry that escaped from his lips. With a herculean effort he managed to flop over onto his back, wings closing beneath him.
He wasn’t sure what happened next. One moment the warrior with the lightning cannon was stepping forward, chainblade raised with teeth whirring. An instant later he became a ball of fire and metal splinters, hurled bodily away by the explosion, an arm spinning off across the ground.
The roar of jets dragged Corax’s eyes skyward and he looked up to see five black shapes plunging down from above, jump packs flaring.
The New Men reacted fast, turning their weapons on the incoming legionaries. A plasma bolt seared wide of its target but the traitor with the anti-tank gun found his mark, putting a round through the head of an incoming Raven Guard, turning helm and skull to a trailing mess of bone and blood.
The lead warrior landed on the hammer-handed soldier, plasma pistol vaporising the creature’s face a second before the Raven Guard crashed feet first into its chest, cracking open armour and sending both spilling to the ground.
The other New Men rushed to the attack as more shapes with jump packs landed, the headless corpse of the last crashing to the ferrocrete a few metres away. Missiles and battle cannon fire from their wheeling dropship pounded the bunkers, secondary weapons stitching smaller detonations across the armour of the New Men while fire from the encircling emplacements tore past and crashed against the Stormbird’s armoured fuselage.
The shock of the lightning blast was wearing off. Corax could feel sensation returning to his hands and feet. The Raven Guard fell as a pack onto their next target, hacking with power axes and blades, blasting with their pistols to drive the soldier away from their primarch.
Corax saw the plasma gunner turning his weapon on the black-armoured legionaries, recognising the glow of a fully charged weapon. With a snarl he forced himself from the ground and took a running leap, damaged flight pack flaring, slamming awkwardly shoulder first into the giant warrior. The plasma blast rocketed into the sky and the primarch followed it, his wings snapping out to carry them both up past the Stormbird, which was turning its weapons to the perimeter defences.
The comm crackled in Corax’s ear.
‘Lord Corax! This is Branne. The commandant’s compound is a trap!’
‘Thank you for the warning, commander,’ Corax replied through gritted teeth.
The New Man had a grip on one of Corax’s wings but the primarch extended both arms, prising away his enemy’s grasp. Inverting quickly, he threw the mutated warrior groundwards and pitched after him. The New Man’s impact threw up a cloud of dust and grit into which Corax dived without hesitation, slamming fist first into the brute, the blow carving through plate and into bone, splitting the augmented soldier from shoulder to gut.
‘Shall I send reinforcements, my lord?’ Branne sounded desperately worried.
‘No,’ Corax replied. He looked around. Two of the New Men were still alive, battling with the Raven Guard. The primarch ran towards the melee. ‘Maintain current missions.’
The New Man with the sorcerous rifle heard the incoming primarch and turned, raising his weapon. Now fully focused Corax saw the flash of the muzzle and the dark blur of the armour-piercing round coming towards him. Still accelerating, he swayed to his left, letting the projectile pass harmlessly over his right shoulder.
The traitor took a step back and hurriedly worked the breech mechanism of the heavy rifle. He chambered another round and lifted the weapon to his shoulder just as Corax reached him.
The primarch’s uppercut caught the New Man square under the helm, lifting him from his feet as his head snapped back, dark filth erupting as Corax’s fist parted metal and bone like air. He shouldered aside the flailing body as momentum carried the primarch into the last attacker.
The final New Man had the helm of one of the Raven Guard in an iron grip, ceramite cracking crazily and reinforced plate buckling under the pressure. The legionaries blazed with bolt pistols and hacked with their chainswords, futilely battering at the armoured behemoth.
Corax turned and landed feet first, snapping through both arms with mighty blows from his gauntlets, leaving the Raven Guard to topple backwards as the New Man stumbled away. A bestial half-roar, half-scream bellowed from the mutilated warrior’s vocalisers as he waved the stumps of his limbs helplessly, black gore splashing to the ground.
Another kick sent him reeling back still further. Corax boosted his next step, leaping up half a dozen metres before crashing down upon the inhuman warrior. Fuelled by the realisation of how close he had come to dying, Corax let his emotions flow, tearing and shredding, fists a blur as he reduced armour to fragments, skin to strips and flesh to tatters.
When he was done he stepped back. The New Man had been turned into a ruin of congealing black fluid and severed limbs, scattered about with pieces of ceramite and plasteel.
Breathing heavily, Corax turned to his warriors, who were now exchanging fire with human soldiers racing out onto the top of the bunkers.
The legionaries’ leader dragged off his dented helm and
took in a ragged breath.
It was Arendi.
‘Gherith? Why are you here?’ The primarch glanced up as the Stormbird’s engines changed in pitch, taking the gunship towards the outer defences. It was pocked with return fire but its cannons were still laying down a curtain of blasts along the emplacements. He returned his attention to Arendi. ‘You were supposed to be supporting Commander Soukhounou.’
The former bodyguard commander doubled over, coughing and retching. When he looked up at his primarch, Corax saw that Arendi’s face was covered with the spreading darkness of massive bruises. He grinned and then winced at the pain this caused.
‘Sometimes you’re an idiot, Corvus,’ said Arendi, using the name that few had since the coming of the Emperor. The primarch bridled at the comment but did not have time to reply before the legionary continued. ‘The others told me what you said. “Do you really think I need a bodyguard?” That was it, correct?’
Corax recalled saying those words on Isstvan V, after the Thunderhawk carrying them all had been downed.
‘Something like that,’ the primarch answered, feeling suddenly foolish for such bravado. ‘How did you know about... about all of this? Did you know about Nathian?’
‘Not as such, no,’ said Arendi. The Space Marine tossed away his deformed helmet. ‘There were rumours – some of the Legion sided with the traitors after the massacre at the Urgall Depression. There was some connection to this place but nothing solid. We were preparing to link up with Soukhounou when we caught a flash of open-band traffic. Something about a target approaching the commandant’s compound. I just figured that, as usual, you would get yourself into more trouble than you were worth. Branne filled us in. Sorry we did not get here sooner.’
The primarch looked away, taking in his surroundings. They were still out in the open and vulnerable to attack. The Raven Guard had despatched the first wave of soldiers from the roofs but more would be on their way.
‘Probably best that we move inside,’ he told the others, stepping towards the nearest bunker door. ‘Follow me. Clear the complex.’
‘And if we find that ill-spawned bastard Nathian?’ asked one of the legionaries.
‘Mine,’ Corax snapped in reply. He flexed his fingers in anticipation of them closing on the turncoat Raven Guard. ‘Another traitor that needs to be taught the folly of not finishing the task at hand.’
XV
Carandiru
[DV +2.5 hours]
The last two survivors fled down the corridor, not looking back. Corax dashed after them, long strides assisted by half-opened wings so that he seemed to glide between every step. Reaching his prey, he drove his armoured hands through their backpacks, shattering vertebrae, and lifted them both from the ground. Their panicked flailing caused him no difficulty.
Another door opened to his left as he tossed their twitching bodies aside. He turned to see several Raven Guard, weapons at the ready, with Arendi at their head.
‘Follow me,’ said the primarch. He turned his back on the new arrivals to head down the corridor towards the main chamber of the keep.
A cold rage burned through the primarch at the thought of Nathian’s betrayal. It was not the notion that a Raven Guard might side with Horus that drew his ire; intellectually Corax understood there would be warriors from his Legion who had fallen to the temptations of rebellion. With Nathian the treachery seemed personal. Corax had favoured Nathian over doubts keenly expressed by others, taking him in to the inner circle of the rebellion on Lycaeus and, later, bringing him into the Raven Guard against the objections of others.
Perhaps that was what angered Corax: that he should have known better. Nathian’s betrayal was the primarch’s pride staring back at him, an embodiment of Corax’s refusal to back down, so often a boon but on occasion a terrible vice.
With these thoughts burning through him the leader of the Raven Guard cut and smashed his way through the scarlet-uniformed soldiers he found in his path, barely giving them a second thought. He gave more mind to the cracks and holes and burns of his armour and the soreness of the wounds within; reminders of how close Nathian had come to killing his former master.
The inner sanctum was located underground, reached by several sloping corridors. Corax stopped to despatch Arendi and the remaining bodyguards to cut off escape, but the primarch knew that Nathian would be waiting for retribution. There had always been a nihilistic streak in the traitor, which Corax had hoped loyalty and dedication to new duty would erase.
Now that he was unfettered by oath or fraternity, Nathian’s less favourable tendencies had come to the fore.
Corax descended to the next level and then paused. Nathian had boasted that Corax had been easy to predict. Did the renegade have some other welcome planned for the primarch in his headquarters? It seemed very likely, but unless Nathian had created a whole brigade of New Men to wait in ambush with a forge world’s worth of experimental weapons – and evidence suggested that was not the case – Corax could not foresee what threat the former legionary posed.
The hydraulics of the door rumbled open at Corax’s approach. Through the doorway the primarch could see Nathian, his back turned, hunched in front of a bank of screens. Lights glimmered from his black armour and his face was lit by the images on the displays. Corax saw that they were vid-feeds from across Carandiru – scenes of battle around the various installations and monitors showing the populace overthrowing their guards in the internment settlements.
The door opposite hissed open to reveal Arendi’s stealthy warriors. Corax held up a hand and waved them back, preferring to enter the traitor’s lair alone. He was impervious to all but the most powerful weapons, but his legionaries were not.
Nathian turned as Corax crossed the threshold. He smiled, thin lipped, eyes filled with madness.
‘Nice of you to come after me,’ said the renegade. ‘Welcome to my abode.’
Corax glanced around the chamber. It was about twenty metres across, on two levels, with a broad walkway around the walls alongside consoles of comms equipment and scanning arrays, and a lower circular sub-floor in the middle furnished with chairs, tables and cabinets.
‘Messy,’ Corax said, curling a lip at the detritus piled on the floor and furnishings. Most seemed to be empty bottles. The primarch cocked a curious eye towards his foe. ‘Drinking? Really?’
Nathian shrugged.
‘’Fraid so, my lord. But have no fear, I’m perfectly sober at the moment. Do you know how hard it is to get drunk when you have all these special extra organs processing toxins out of your bloodstream?’ Nathian gestured towards his torso. ‘Another fine gift of the Emperor. A man who, if ever I’ve met one, needs to enjoy a good drink now and then.’
‘I am going to kill you,’ said Corax.
‘Of course you are,’ said Nathian.
‘But first you are going to answer my questions.’
‘If you like.’ Nathian said, stepping down into the sub-level. He slumped into an oversized chair, armour wheezing, the metal of the seat protesting under his weight. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
‘What happened to you on Isstvan? I thought you were dead,’ said Corax, ignoring the traitor’s taunts. ‘Why turn on me now?’
‘You abandoned me first!’ snarled Nathian with real passion in his voice and eyes. He stood up and jabbed an accusing finger at the primarch. ‘Buried beneath a pile of Word Bearers I slew with my own bolter and blade, you left me and dozens of others.’
‘I never left you. I was wounded. Your loyal brothers took me away.’
‘Before that,’ said Nathian, waving away Corax’s reasons. ‘When you quit the fight with the Night Haunter and Lorgar. You ran. You left us to die!’
Corax said nothing, jaw tightening at the memory.
‘I see you know what I’m talking about. I gave you everything – soul and body, life and death. I believed
in you, in the Emperor and his damned crusade. That’s what you did to me, Corvus. You made me believe in something, made me proud.’ Nathian sighed and turned away, fists clenched. ‘And then you left me, proving the lie of everything that had come before.’
‘It was not a lie. The treachery of Horus w–’
‘Horus? You blame Horus?’ The traitor whirled back, eyes bright and wide with rage, blood flushing his pale cheeks. ‘Horus was not there on the battlefields of Isstvan. You were!’ His voice dropped. ‘And Lorgar was there. He found me, and some of the others, hurt and discarded. And when he spoke the fog was lifted from my eyes – fog you have spun around me with your posturing and lies!’
‘Lorgar cares nothing for you.’
‘He spoke and we listened and it made sense, proper sense, for the first time in decades. The nature of the universe, the things you wouldn’t tell us for fear we would see that we no longer needed you. And his love... He loved us and told us so, and we felt the truth of it. And so the love we gave you that was never returned we gave to him instead.’
‘Pathetic,’ snapped Corax. ‘Absolutely pathetic.’ He turned slowly, gesturing at everything around them. ‘Self-indulgent, pathetic and weak. Everything I would expect of a traitor. You learned nothing from me. You grew up in a prison and now you become the jailer? You want to torture and maim those weaker than you? What vileness did Lorgar and the others pour into you? For the architect of these “New Men”, you’re nothing but an insane egotist.’
‘Really?’ Nathian’s voice rose in pitch and broke. ‘I found a use here. You had a use for me once.’ He laughed, baring yellowing teeth. ‘And besides, you call me insane?’
He bounded up to the outer walkway and stabbed at controls, bringing up a pict-feed on one of the larger screens. Corax felt a knot in his stomach and his mouth dried as he watched a squad of Branne’s Raptors breaking into a cell wing – warriors that his gene-manipulations had tainted.
