by Gav Thorpe
‘That’s different,’ he said before Nathian could voice his accusation, but the words sounded weak, a flimsy excuse, and the traitor knew it.
‘So different, my lord. So very different.’ Nathian bared his teeth, brow furrowed with rage. ‘The difference is that I am honest about what I have done here. You will never stand in judgement of me again, Corvus. None of you!’
He took in a shuddering breath and turned back to the console. His hands activated several controls and then he whirled back to confront Corax. Now there was real madness in his gaze, a mania that made Corax shudder.
‘You don’t rule my fate. Nobody does!’
Corax’s eyes moved to a small screen with a flickering message on the display.
REACTOR SAFEGUARDS DISABLED.
‘That is your grand plan?’ said Corax. ‘Self-destruction? You know I will kill you.’
He saw that Nathian had a bolt pistol in his hand. ‘No. No, you will not.’
‘That is not going to do me much harm, is it?’ said Corax.
‘Oh, this is going to hurt you for a long time to come, Corvus. Maybe the rest of your immortal life.’
And with that, Nathian pressed the muzzle of the bolt pistol under his own chin and pulled the trigger.
The bolt cut up through his mouth. A millisecond later, the top of Nathian’s head disappeared in a fountain of blood, bone and brains, and he collapsed back onto the console.
Corax’s face was spattered red. Jaw clenched, he wiped the gore from his features, unable to tear his gaze from the ruin that he had once called comrade, disturbed in a way that he had not been since he had looked into the eyes of the Night Haunter and seen a dark reflection of himself. Were death and despair the only gifts he had to offer?
Then his eyes flickered to the reactor display. It was at eighty per cent of critical function and had been building for some time – ever since the New Men had been killed, Corax assumed. Nathian’s tirade had been nothing but a play for time.
The other door hissed open and Arendi dashed in. His puffy eyes searched the room for threat before they settled on Nathian’s corpse. They then moved to the countdown display and widened.
‘I heard a shot.’
‘The traitor has set the plasma reactor to overload,’ Corax confirmed as he crossed the chamber.
‘I always thought he was a spiteful bastard.’ There was understandable concern in Arendi’s voice. ‘How long do we have? Should we evacuate?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Corax. He carefully punched in a command, bringing up a code-protected access display. The primarch’s fingers tapped out numbers on the runepad and then the screen went blank. A few seconds later an acknowledgement scrolled into view.
REACTOR SAFEGUARDS ENABLED. SAFE OPERATIONAL MODE RESTORED.
‘You already knew the code?’ Arendi stared at Corax with awe, mouth open.
‘No,’ replied the primarch. ‘Nathian was never an original thinker. The pass-code was his prisoner number from Lycaeus. Lucky first guess.’
‘I...’ Arendi shook his head, confused and then waved away his concerns. ‘Well, it is good that we’re in no immediate danger. I wouldn’t have believed even Nathian could turn on you, if I hadn’t seen some of the things I’ve seen these last few years. It looks like he couldn’t handle it, even then, whatever his justifications were.’
‘He was weak,’ said Corax. ‘I knew it, and I should never have ignored it.’
‘Seems to me he had a moment of weakness, you’re right. But you’re an idiot if you think it was easy for him. Anyone that’s survived until this point, on either side, has shown a strength of sorts, be it for good or bad.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve called me an idiot, Gherith,’ Corax said quietly. ‘Nathian made the mistake of underestimating me as well.’
‘You think...’ Arendi looked at the headless body. ‘You think I’m like him?’
‘I am detecting a fair amount of insubordination in you,’ the primarch said.
Arendi looked wounded at his words. ‘I know things have changed a lot, but I never knew you would put yourself above criticism, Corvus. If I speak out of turn, it’s because I’ve learnt that softening words is a waste of time. Mean what you say, as the saying goes. If you want prim and proper Ultramarines doing as they’re told, or zealous Word Bearers hanging off your every word, you shouldn’t have tried so bloody hard to make us rely on ourselves. If you want Raven Guard, you have to take the rough with the smooth. I remember when you weren’t so keen on formality.’
The former commander seemed to be testing Corax. He had called him ‘Corvus’, just like Nathian, harking back to those older times. Why was he goading his primarch? Maybe there was something else happening here...
‘It was you that told me about this place,’ said Corax.
‘It was.’ Arendi looked around at the screens and nodded. ‘Good thing I did. These “New Men” freaks could have been a big problem, if the traitors had perfected the gene-techniques.’
‘And so it was coincidence that Nathian was here, waiting to trap me?’
‘I wouldn’t call it coincidence, but I don’t know what you’re implying.’
The primarch gestured to the walls around them. ‘A facility dedicated to manipulating and mutating the Legiones Astartes gene-seed? And of all those that might discover it, it falls to me, the one primarch that has learnt more about the origins of our kind than anyone else? That stretches credulity. I think that whoever created this place knew I had access to secret knowledge. How else would they get me here, except through one of my own?’
‘Why are you looking at me like that, Corvus? I brought you here to end this.’
‘End what? My fight? The resistance to Horus? It’s too neat. Victories do not come this easily anymore.’
‘I should warn you – I’m about to use that word a third time, Corvus,’ Arendi muttered, backing away. ‘And some others you might not like.’
Corax stepped closer, looming over the Space Marine, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘How did you get off Isstvan, Gherith? What happened to the others? Where are they now?’
‘I don’t understand you, lord.’ Arendi took another step back, retreating into a console.
‘This place was not the secret you were keeping from me. The librarian saw it, in your head. Something you were not telling me. Nathian has made me think about it again. We were lucky to get away from Isstvan with our lives. Nathian did a deal with Lorgar in return for his. How did you get away, Arendi, when so many didn’t?’
‘I can’t believe...’ Arendi slumped, jaw trembling, eyes downcast.
‘How?’ Corax was implacable, barely keeping his anger in check.
‘We used them!’ Arendi blurted. ‘We – myself and the other Raven Guard – were meant to take the lighter and wait for the others. They were attacking the main facility, a feint while we slipped unseen into position. We used the Salamanders and Iron Hands as a distraction and made our escape.’
He stepped back from Corax, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed.
‘You sacrificed them?’ Corax said, shocked.
It was not the answer he had been expecting, but it was small comfort. The truth was almost as harsh as the primarch’s fear had been. Yet for all that, Corax could hear the hurt, the honest guilt, in Arendi’s words.
‘There were more traitors at the landing field station than we had thought.’ Arendi turned haunted, imploring eyes to the primarch. ‘We had to leave. Had to. If we had waited, nobody would have escaped.’
The primarch looked at the headless corpse and considered two different fates. Arendi, who had continued to hope, and Nathian, who had given in to despair.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It was a difficult choice for you.’
Arendi took a breath and straightened, still not meeting the
primarch’s eye.
It was a worry. Perhaps Arendi had not betrayed his primarch or the Raven Guard, but there were oaths of brotherhood that he had broken. The trust of comrades that he had betrayed. If Lorgar had spun his golden words to Arendi, would he have fared any better than Nathian?
Could any of them ever truly be trusted?
So said the cautious part of him, at least, but Corax knew that in treacherous times it was easy to see traitors everywhere. Could he trust Arendi? No, but then he no longer truly trusted himself. Risks had been taken and confidences had to be earned. If Arendi had wanted Corax dead or in Nathian’s clutches, then he could have simply left him to be bested by the New Men.
The only reason to let Corax survive as it had transpired would be to get another traitor close to the primarch. Could such a convoluted suspicion be true?
Caution and paranoia, a grey area easily crossed. No, Corax had no reason not to trust Arendi, and the damage done by the knowledge of Nathian’s treachery becoming known could be offset by the example set by Arendi and his companions.
Hope was too valuable an asset to sacrifice it to paranoia.
‘One other thing, Gherith.’
‘Lord Corax?’
The primarch did not have to trust Arendi, but he could choose to. For the moment, at least.
‘Thank you. For keeping faith with me.’
Epilogue
Carandiru
[DV +2 days]
‘I’m not sure this is right,’ said Branne. The words were spoken quietly but the weight of his disagreement spoke at far greater volume.
Corax looked down at the commander and then across to the squads of Raptors forming up on the ramps leading to the underground complex where the failed New Men were still imprisoned.
‘We cannot leave them alive,’ Corax said heavily.
‘No, lord, but...’ Branne waved a hand at the Raptors. ‘Why them?’
The primarch studied the groups of misshapen warriors gathering around their squad leaders. Nearby their clean-limbed brother-Raptors watched in silence, standing guard over files of enemy soldiers being led out of the compound.
‘This was your assigned battlezone, commander,’ said Corax. He kept his voice quiet and calm, but he was not immune to Branne’s misgivings. ‘I know it seems cruel but it has to be this way. No special treatment. That’s what we said.’
‘Monsters to kill monsters,’ whispered Branne. ‘Is this what we’ve become?’
Corax did not share his thoughts as he watched the first of the squads descending into the complex, bestial and deformed. He replayed Nathian’s final act of spite in his memory.
Perhaps, he thought, this was what we have always been.
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. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.
An extract from Angels of Darkness.
With the whine of the shuttle’s engines dying behind him, Astelan stood on the landing apron looking at the large, ornate gates in front of him. They were wrought from black metal in the design of a winged sword that was mirrored on each side.
In the dark, cavernous room beyond, he could see ten giant figures swathed in thick white robes. They were standing in the shadows between the guttering circles of flame cast by tall candles set around the chamber’s walls. Each figure bore a two-handed sword, held upright across its chest and face, the sharp edges of the weapons glinting in the erratic light. The ruddy glow flickered off thousands of skulls adorning the walls and ceiling of the vast sepulchre, gleaming in eyeless sockets and shining off polished lipless grins. Many were human, but most were not: a mix of subtle, elongated features; brutal, bucket-jawed aliens; eyeless monstrosities; horned, twisted creatures and many other contorted, inhuman stares looked down upon the assembled Dark Angels.
The solitary toll of a bell brought the assembled guard to attention. The great gates in front of Astelan opened inwards, another clanging of the bell drowning out the hiss of hydraulics and creak of ancient hinges, and he took a few steps forward. Suited in his heavy black power armour, he was still taller by a few centimetres than the assembled Space Marines. He wore no helmet, and his dark eyes calmly gauged the gathered warriors from beneath a heavy brow, the candlelight reflecting off his shaved head. He looked back at the Space Marine who had accompanied him on the shuttle, the one who had been referred to as Brother-Chaplain Boreas. He too wore heavy white robes, but unlike the honour guard, Boreas was still armoured. His face was concealed behind a helmet fashioned in the shape of a death’s head skull, decorated by tarnished gilding. The dead eye-lenses of the helmet regarded him without emotion.
‘I did not expect an honour guard,’ Astelan said, glancing at the Dark Angels who stood unmoving around him.
‘You were right not to, they are here to honour me, not you,’ Boreas replied quietly and evenly, his tone slightly distorted by his suit’s vocal projectors. He then raised his voice to address the others in the room. ‘Form up for escort!’
Five of the Space Marines turned and took up position in front of Astelan, while the others fell in behind the newly arrived pair. At another command from Boreas, they started a slow march forwards. Astelan felt Boreas shove him from behind, and he fell into step behind the others. As they passed from the chamber into a wide but low corridor panelled with slabs engraved with names, Astelan felt a flicker of recognition.
‘We just passed through the Memorial Gates, did we not?’ he asked Boreas, who did not reply. ‘I am sure. It all seems so familiar. The reception chamber used to be hung with banners of the families of Caliban whose lords had fallen in battle.’
‘Perhaps once, but not any more,’ Boreas conceded.
‘But how can that be? I saw from the transport that this is not Caliban, it is some form of space station,’ Astelan said. ‘And the Memorial Gates were used to get to the tombs in the catacombs beneath the citadel. It was a place for the dead.’
‘That is correct,’ Boreas said.
Perturbed and confused, Astelan carried on in silence as the Dark Angels led him further and further into the bowels of the disturbing place. Their journey was lit by torches that burned with smokeless flame, held in sconces at regular intervals along the walls. Other corridors branched left and right, and Astelan knew from memory that they were passing through the tombs of the ancient rulers of Caliban. And yet he could not reconcile the sight he had seen upon his arrival with his memories. He was on an armoured fortress hanging in space – he had seen the many towers and emplacements built upon what he had taken to be a gigantic asteroid.
They turned left and right on occasion, weaving through the labyrinth of tunnels, surrounded by tablets proclaiming the names of Dark Angels who had died in heroic combat. They seemed to go on forever in all directions. Underfoot, the dust was thick, having lain undisturbed for many years, perhaps decades or centuries. Small alcoves set into the walls held relics of the past – ornately decorated shoulder pads, the hilt and half the blade of a broken power sword, engraved skulls, a tarnished gauntlet, glass-fronted ossuaries displaying the bones of those who had fallen in battle, a plaque beneath declaring who they were in life. He felt draughts and chill breezes on his face emanating from side chambers, and occasionally heard a distant sigh, or the clank of a chain, all of which added to the macabre aura of the crypt, which did little to ease Astela
n’s unsettled mind.
Turning right at one particular junction, a peripheral movement caught Astelan’s eye and he glanced to his left. In the shadows he saw a diminutive being, no higher than his waist, almost hidden in the darkness. It was little more than a small robe, but from the depths of the black hood two eyes glittered with a cold, blue light as the strange creature regarded Astelan. As suddenly as he had spotted it, the watcher in the dark faded back into the shadows and was gone.
His confusion growing as they continued to march into the bowels of the sepulchre, it took Astelan a moment to realise that they had stopped. The other Dark Angels turned and filed out by the way they had entered, leaving him and Boreas in a circular chamber roughly two dozen metres across, its circumference lined with windowless iron doors. All of the doors were closed except one, and Boreas directed Astelan towards it with a pointing finger.
Astelan hesitated for a moment and then strode forwards into the room beyond. He stopped suddenly as soon as he entered, stunned by what he found inside.
The room was not large, barely five metres square, lit by a brazier in the far corner. A stone slab dominated the centre of the room, pierced by iron rings from which hung heavy chains, and to one side a row of shelves was stacked with various metal implements that menacingly caught the light of the glowing coals. There were two more robed Space Marines awaiting them, their faces hidden by heavy hoods, their hands concealed beneath studded metal gauntlets. As one took a step forward, Astelan caught a glimpse of bony white under his hood.
The door slammed shut behind Astelan and he turned to see Boreas had stepped inside. The Chaplain removed his skull-faced helmet and held it under his arm. His piercing eyes regarded Astelan just as coldly as the flat features of the armoured skull had done. Like Astelan, his head was also shaven and marked with faint scars. His left cheek was tattooed with a winged sword, Chapter symbol of the Dark Angels, and his forehead pierced with service studs.
