by Various
He breathed deeply. The sight of such order gave him pleasure.
‘The entire galaxy should have been like this.’
Titus Prayto of the Librarius joined him at the rail. He wore his full plate, his head shadowed by an ornate technological cowl.
‘Librarian,’ said Corvo.
‘Captain.’
‘And what is your role in this charade, Prayto? Do you not undo our lord’s intentions, alienating the people as you stride about with witchfire in your eyes and your body cased in ceramite?’
‘An assassination attempt by the Alpha Legion. Konrad Curze so recently at large, here in the city. The creatures from beyond the veil embraced and welcomed by our kinsmen? Alienation is the least of concerns.’
‘You are another watchdog then.’ Corvo offered his drink. Prayto took it carefully in his gauntleted hand. His armour whined softly as he lifted it to his lips and drank half of it down. He handed it back.
‘Call me that, for that is what I am. My talents and those of the rest of the Librarius help to safeguard our lord and his brothers. There are three of the Emperor’s loyal sons here, together. Such a target. The Pharos lights the way for our enemies just as it does for our allies.’ They looked up at the Pharos shining in the red sky. ‘And what horrors I look for…’
‘You will find none in me.’
‘I will not?’ asked Prayto.
‘Surely, you have looked.’
Prayto gave a little laugh. He did not take his eye from the Pharos. ‘I have. You are what you say you are, a loyal son of Ultramar. You do not say much, though, and you are hard to read. You are a closed man, Captain Corvo.’
‘I find chatter tiresome,’ he said. ‘I prefer to leave talk to those who enjoy it.’
‘You put me in mind of the Lion.’
Corvo shook his head. ‘The Lion is a master of secrets. It is in the nature of the secretive to hold their own thoughts mysterious, yet to demand the revelation of the thoughts of others. I care as much for secrets and revelation as I do for conversation.’
‘This gathering is a chore for you, then.’
‘It is.’
‘Each to his own. Be careful you do not appear too aloof or ungrateful.’
‘Thank you, centurion,’ said Corvo. ‘I am always mindful of that. It is the burden of those who share my mindset. Talkers talk, and they do not understand those who do not feel the need to speak. To sidestep their concern, we are forced to perform against our inclination, engaging in pointless discourse, while they prattle on and do not listen to what we have to say anyway.’
The Librarian laughed again, louder this time. ‘A joke from you, Corvo?’
‘I am not without humour.’
‘No, no.’ Prayto was silent a space. He pressed his hands onto the balustrade twice. The metal clicked on the stone. ‘I will not detain you.’
‘Speak what is on your mind. I do not have your gift, but I know you did not follow me out here to talk of man’s temperament.’
‘I did not,’ he agreed. ‘I came out because I have a sense of what you intend to do tomorrow. I would give you some advice, if you’d take it.’
Corvo looked out over the city. Warning lights winked on cranes over the Via Decmanus Maximus. There, a new proscenium was being raised. He wondered what kind of victory it was for Ultramar, when more than a hundred worlds had died.
‘I am not surprised you sense my intention,’ he muttered. ‘It is at the forefront of my thoughts. What is this advice you have?’
‘I urge you to reconsider.’
‘I will not reconsider,’ said Corvo. ‘Our lord will understand.’
‘Of course he will!’ Prayto exclaimed. ‘But your peers will likely not.’
‘My deeds speak for themselves.’
‘Our deeds do not always speak the truth for us,’ Prayto countered.
Corvo downed his drink and left his glass on the stone rail.
‘That is not my concern. Only the truth is true, whether people believe it to be so or not. That is all I care for. Good evening, brother.’
He went back inside.
The coffin ship was hit several times and came down trailing fire, damaged braking thrusters on its port underside guttering. A lance beam slashed down from orbit, missing the craft by a hundred metres and demolishing a tower block. The shock wave staggered the lander, huge though it was, and it yawed dangerously, functioning jets shooting intense bursts of flame. It struggled upright, drifting out over the Via Longia toward the city centre, where the buildings were densely packed.
It was coming down too fast. Corvo didn’t think that it would manage to land intact. True enough, when it hit, it levelled entire civic blocks and sent out a wash of gritty dust that billowed through the dying city’s streets.
‘Report hard landing of enemy war engine transport.’
‘Acknowledged, Sergeant Phillipus,’ said Corvo. ‘I’m looking right at it.’
The coffin ship’s scorched umber bulk reared up over the buildings of Eurythmia, battered but still whole. Lighter enemy landers were following. Streaks of fire crisscrossed the smoking sky, more coming down now than going up. Corvo’s interdiction emplacements were being picked off. He tracked the assault crafts’ vectors, calculating where they would land.
‘Tertiary group, divert to Mnemsyne district, south side. Looks like a major landing. If engaged, hold and await further orders. Do not advance, or they will be coming down on top of you.’
Acknowledgements snapped back at him. The vox was still crisp, but that wouldn’t last.
‘Squads four, seven and nine with me. Crassus, bring up the Shadowswords. Let’s see what we’ve got here. If there’s anything in that coffin ship still alive, let us ensure it does not remain so.’
‘Theoretical, captain,’ Lieutenant Apelles voxed to him from inside the command tank. ‘You are in overall command, you should remain here, with me.’
‘Practical,’ Corvo responded. ‘I want to kill some of these bastards myself.’
No one argued with that.
‘Redeploy Apelles, take the remainder of the men with you. Await my order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was movement in the rubble and shattered buildings. Half of Corvo’s total company strength was there. The thumping growl of multi-fuel engines roared up behind. Corvo’s Land Raider pulled back, turned and headed away. Several squads of Space Marines followed it. Three super-heavy tanks in cobalt-blue moved forward when it was clear, their tracks grinding rubble to dust and tearing up the road surface.
Corvo’s group set out.
The Space Marines scouted ahead, moving fast. Quiet fell for a few minutes, the space between the last weapon-strike and the first real ground assault. It didn’t last. More and more craft streaked through the air. Plumes of dust rose where they landed.
‘I don’t understand this,’ said Sergeant Crassus from atop the lead Shadowsword. ‘They are not establishing proper beachheads. They’re coming down all over the place. Where is their discipline?’
‘Same place as their honour,’ cracked Brother Ligustinus, squad nine’s resident wit.
Corvo was also astounded at the sloppiness of the assault. He followed pict-feeds from the first dropzones – World Eaters rushed from drop pods as soon as they touched down, not waiting for their fellows, while the ragged Army units supporting the traitor legionaries seemed little better than a mob, pouring out of their transports right into loyalist gunfire. For now, this worked to Corvo’s advantage. His lieutenants directed XIII Legion response teams and local Army to where the enemy was most numerous.
He had to leave them to it. He had the situation on the ground and in orbit to monitor. And now this possibility of war engines…
Vox traffic increased exponentially, until it chattered incessantly at him: casualty repor
ts, the constant repositioning of his mobile command centres, the status of refugees in their shelters. He dearly wished to mute most of it, sticking to the close-range squad bands, but he had to see it all. His visor was so crowded with tactical information that he was left with only a small, clear space to look ahead. His bodyguards Glabrio and Aratus recognised his distraction, and walked close by him in support as his eyes and ears.
A tangle of wrecked vehicles, burning trees and collapsed city blocks forced Crassus to take the Shadowswords a longer route. After a moment’s consideration, Corvo had his men clamber through the ruins, heading right for the Titan lander.
‘Sergeant Crassus, find a good firing solution for the Shadowswords. Squad nine, stick with them.’
Voxed assent. Fifteen of his men peeled away, falling back to join the tanks. The Titan-killers rumbled around on the spot and lurched off down a clearer street.
Corvo came onto the Via Longia, Astragar City’s main avenue. The Mechanicum ship had landed perpendicular to the line of the city grid, its kilometre-long bulk scoring a fresh street through at least five blocks. The prow sat on the pavement of the Longia, atop a fan of shattered stone. Its high, humped back was crooked. Landing on such a surface without control had broken its spine.
The battle was becoming more fierce. A number of feeds went dead.
A moment later, Lieutenant Apelles’s voice crackled on the vox. ‘I’ve lost contact with Verulus. Fighting’s fierce in the northern deme. He’s probably dead.’
‘Acknowledged,’ said Corvo. ‘Assess situation there. Take command of his forces.’
Two command tanks left. Was it good theoretical to abandon the command bunker in favour of mobile targets, he wondered? This tactical situation was unexpected. No pre-existing theoretical told of how to slay one’s own legionary kin. He was forced to innovate.
They moved up to the coffin ship cautiously. ‘Be advised, Crassus, Apelles, approaching Mechanicum lander. No sign of enemy activity.’
They crept down the Via Longia, right up to the steaming flank of the vessel. After a moment’s consideration, Corvo chanced crossing the front with a squad of his men.
The ship leaned ten degrees out of true, its hull battered by atmospheric re-entry and weapons fire. Flames flickered in the buildings and rubble around it. It was quiet there, the crump of explosions and howl of landing jets muted by the high buildings around them.
‘Perhaps the war-engines are destroyed,’ said Glabrio.
‘I doubt it. I saw the same thing happen in the Coralan compliance,’ said Aratus to the younger warrior. Glabrio had not been with the Legion as long as he had. ‘Ships all smashed to wreckage, and the Titans came out anyway.’
‘I don’t see any sign that the doors are–’
Corvo held his hand up. His men froze, dropping into cover. ‘Hear that?’ he said.
A banging sounded from inside.
‘Theoretical – the doors are jammed,’ said Aratus. ‘No Mechanicum support. The only practical for the engines is to batter their way out.’
‘Crassus, get ready,’ voxed Corvo. ‘Are you in position?’
‘Via Macraggia is blocked, sir. We’re having to push directly through the buildings fronting Platea Lata.’
‘You are heading for the Agora?’
‘Yes, sir. Should get a good line right down the Longia once there.’
‘Be quick,’ said Corvo. ‘Do not leave yourself exposed. There is not much cover there.’
‘Sir…’ said Aratus.
The coffin ship’s doors vibrated as something pounded at them from within.
‘Fall back,’ the captain ordered.
They dropped back squad by squad, retreating down the Via Longia. Away from the crash site the city was dusty, the glass from broken casements slippery underfoot but otherwise oddly untouched. A roar, like that of a trapped animal, rumbled in the guts of the downed transport.
‘That’s not normal, is it?’ asked Glabrio.
‘Tricks. Psychological warfare,’ said Aratus. ‘Some of the Titan Legions do it on compliance actions. Growls rather than war-horns. Scares the hell out of the natives.’
‘Get back,’ said Corvo. ‘Crassus, are you getting a good line here? Can you hear it? Something about this is not right.’
The clanging from within grew to manic levels. With a grinding of torn metal, a giant chainfist emerged from the doors. A spray of sparks and red liquid came with it.
Glabrio gasped. ‘Is that…?’
The doors were wrenched apart. A torrent of blood poured from the interior of the ship, slopping up the buildings on the opposite side of the street. A wall of red seven metres high bore down the Via Longia in both directions, staining the walls almost to the second storey. Fierce, animalistic howling rent the air.
The Ultramarines ran. Corvo was bowled over by the sheer weight of the flood, his men scattered.
The red wave subsided as quickly as had come. Space Marines were sprawled across the road, all of them coated from head to foot in slippery blood. Corvo wiped at his helmet lenses, his armoured fingers clattering off the conductive crystal. Red smeared his vision.
‘Squads! Report!’
‘By the Throne!’ said Glabrio.
The shattered frame of a Reaver engine tumbled out of the door, its cockpit smashed, limbs lifeless.
And then its killer came.
Whatever the monster was, it was no longer a Titan. Terrible modifications had been inflicted upon it. The cockpit had become a brazen skull. Long horns swept back from its brows over the lower edge of the carapace. It moved with a sinuous grace alien to its machine body. A long, articulated tongue of metal probed the air between sword-long teeth, a tail of similar material curling around its legs. The Warlord, if that was what it still was, crushed its mangled sibling beneath heavy feet as it struggled out onto the street. It wrenched itself free of the broken doors and staggered into the buildings opposite, bringing them down in a cascade of rubble and dust.
‘Crassus!’ cried Corvo.
‘I’m still not in position, sir!’
The Titan’s head moved back and forth, for all the world like it was scenting the air. It hit upon something, let out an unearthly, blaring howl from its war-horns, and smashed its way through the ruins, heading west and away from the downed ship.
Corvo, sprawled in the gritty gore of the Titan’s afterbirth, watched it go.
‘What have those fanatics done?’ asked Aratus in disbelief. ‘What are we fighting?’
Corvo moved around the function – room to room, hall to hall – as if he were clearing a building in a firefight. Dancing was underway in the ballroom. In others, large tables were piled with food. More Ultramarines were to be found there than in the dance hall, as was to be expected. His brothers knew him by reputation if not in person, and greeted him briefly and respectfully. It was some time yet to the feast and the arrival of the primarchs. He engaged in polite conversation with the unaltered where it was unavoidable.
‘They say you killed a Titan,’ they would declare.
‘Not I. My men. It was my men. And it was no Titan.’
Many of his interlocutors left disappointed. He would not be drawn further on the event. Let others tell their stories. He had no stomach for boasting.
He caught sight of Captain Ventanus – the Saviour of Calth and Guilliman’s new favourite – attentively conversing with some functionary or other, a broad sash across the Space Marine’s chest thick with fresh honours. His adjutant, a sergeant by the look of him, was engaged with another group of humans close by. Adoration and laughter rose around him. Corvo wished that he shared their facility for small talk.
He found a server and took both of the jugs of brandy that he was carrying. He consumed them as quickly as decorum allowed, enjoying the faint buzz of mild intoxication for the few minutes befo
re his transhuman metabolism purged it from his body.
‘Brother-captain,’ said a Space Marine he did not know. The rank marks on his collar marked him out as a sergeant.
‘Brother,’ said Corvo.
The other legionary held out his hand. ‘I am Sergeant Tullian Aquila, 168th Company.’
‘Lucretius Corvo, 90th Company.’ He grasped Aquila’s forearm in a warrior’s handshake.
‘I know who you are, sir. I just wanted to come and greet you. I was caught in an engine battle at Ithraca on Calth. What you did greatly impressed me. Your action on Astagar is the talk of my company, or what’s left of it. It would have been good to have you with us. If there were only more of you and Captain Ventanus’s kind…’
Corvo held up his hand. ‘Please, you embarrass me. We all march for Macragge.’
‘We march for Macragge,’ Aquila replied automatically.
‘If you are here, then you too must have performed well.’
‘So they say,’ said Aquila.
‘You do not seem convinced.’
Aquila looked pained. ‘I fought hard enough, but I doubted we would survive. I almost despaired. That is not what the primarch taught us.’
‘We all despaired, sergeant. What else could we have done?’
Aquila shrugged. ‘But tomorrow, I will be honoured for my doubt as much as my achievement. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.’
‘If Lord Guilliman has chosen you for honour, then be assured – you are deserving,’ said Corvo.
‘Perhaps. But the doubt came first.’
‘Without doubt, how can we construct a foolproof theoretical? Without doubt there is only arrogance.’
Aquila was mollified by this. ‘Tell me sir, did you ever doubt?’
Corvo gave stared back, stony-faced. ‘In truth? No. Not for a second.’
The mark was a little over six days. Facing stiff resistance from Corvo’s forces, the traitors had laid siege to the city. Why they had not ended it with a single, decisive orbital strike was a matter for conjecture, but still they did not. Instead, probing assaults searched for the Ultramarines’ weaknesses. They displayed none.
