by Gav Thorpe
He watched as Agapito stood at the bottom of the ramp, counting off the squads as they ran into the Stormbird amid the thunderous falls of boots on metal. As the last of the legionaries passed him, Branne noticed something on their shoulder guards, a small device painted under the Legion symbol. It was a grey skull, almost as dark as the black of their armour. Now that he noticed it, Branne saw it in the insignia of all the company’s warriors. He waved aside one of the squad leaders as he jogged past.
‘Sergeant Nestil, a word,’ said the commander.
‘Yes, captain,’ said Nestil, coming to attention in front of Branne.
‘What does this mean?’ asked Branne, prodding a finger towards the small sigil.
‘Isstvan veteran, captain,’ replied the sergeant with no hint of reluctance. ‘There was no official campaign badge or honours issued, captain. We thought it would be good to remember the fallen.’
‘You have all taken this on?’ said Branne.
‘All of us that fought there, yes, captain, at least in the Talons,’ said Nestil. He glanced towards Agapito, and Branne took his meaning.
‘Whose idea was this?’ asked Branne.
‘I’m not sure, captain,’ admitted Nestil. He looked away, glancing again at Agapito. ‘It was just one of those ideas that seemed to catch on.’
‘Sorry to delay you, sergeant,’ said Branne, waving Nestil to carry on.
Not good, thought Branne as he watched Agapito follow Nestil up the ramp onto the Stormbird. A commander being close-lipped about what he had done and legionaries giving themselves honours. The dropsite massacre had caused serious damage to the Raven Guard, even more than the seventy-five thousand dead legionaries.
STRAPPED INTO HIS berth beside one of the viewing ports, Alpharius had a good view of Terra as the Stormbird dipped away from the Avenger. It had been a fortunate turn to be included in Corax’s honour guard and would provide, he hoped, a good opportunity to see the defences being prepared to welcome Horus. Aside from whatever else he might be asked to do, his role in the Raven Guard was to gather intelligence for the final, inevitable assault on the Emperor’s stronghold. Everything he could learn now would give the Warmaster and his allies a valuable warning of what to expect.
‘What is that?’ one of the legionaries asked from further down the compartment. Alpharius turned to see the other Raven Guard straining at their harnesses to look out of the starboard windows. ‘It’s bigger than a star fort!’
Alpharius could not see clearly from his position but glimpsed a massive vessel in low orbit. It seemed to stretch on and on, a gilded construction shaped like an eagle with outstretched wings, bedecked with fortified gun towers, lance batteries, missile tubes and bombardment cannons. So vast was the orbiting station, its faint shadow could be seen on the cloud layer wreathing Terra. The flicker of void shields surrounded the immense floating edifice, dappling the gold of its heavily-buttressed superstructure with purple and red. Smaller ships – some of them mighty battleships in their own right – were dwarfed by its presence, its turret-encrusted docks large enough for cruisers several kilometres long.
‘That’s Phalanx,’ said Sergeant Nestil. ‘Base ship of the Imperial Fists. Impressive, isn’t it? Never mind a battle-barge, that’s what we should’ve taken to Isstvan.’
It certainly was impressive, but no surprise. Everyone had heard of Phalanx and its presence in the Sol system was to be expected. Horus was well aware of the star fortress’s capabilities and defences already, and no doubt had devised a way to counter them. This was not the object of Alpharius’s mission. Of more interest to the Alpha Legionnaire was a golden-hulled cruiser rising out of the dock neighbouring the Avenger. Though he was not sure, it looked like a vessel belonging to the Legio Custodes, the Emperor’s elite protectors. He wondered where they were going, when all other effort was being directed towards the defence of the Master of Mankind.
And then everything outside turned white as the Stormbird dropped into the thickening Terran atmosphere, enveloping the craft in bright flames. As they descended, the visibility momentarily cleared, revealing a vista that sent a thrill through Alpharius.
Large platforms could be half-seen amongst the dense cloud, drifting serenely through the air surrounded by swarms of shuttles and cargo-lifters. The closest floating city, its name unknown to Alpharius, was glimpsed between breaks in the whiteness, a mass of towering buildings, winding roadways and landing aprons. Sunlight glittered from coiling spires made of multicoloured glass and dazzled across the mirrored plates of photo-receptors and vapour condensers.
The splendour of graceful lines and arcing bridges was marred by blocky aberrations: gun towers and bunkers surrounded by scaffolding that was thick with workers. As the Stormbird banked onto its final course, Alpharius’s augmented eyes could see flashes of yellow armour amongst the robes and overalls of the work teams: Imperial Fists supervising the construction of the defences.
The nose of the Stormbird dipped and cloud again swathed Alpharius’s view, blotting out the vision of the hovering city. The engines whined as the craft slowed for its landing, and banked once more, circling over the Lion’s Gate starport that spread darkly across the bare rock of Terra’s surface in a vast maze of ferrocrete and plasteel. Alpharius had a glimpse of landing platforms that stretched for kilometres, shadowed beneath control towers and defence laser turrets.
The Alpha Legionnaire was glad that his arrival was in the guise of a friend and wondered if, at some point of the future, he would be returning here as a foe. He had made dozens of combat drops during his long years of service, but seeing the immense barrels of the orbital defence cannons and the flicker of power fields, he knew that whichever Legion ultimately had the task of securing Lion’s Gate would suffer heavy casualties.
Even as he thought of the assault that was sure to come, Alpharius’s mind was analysing the growing defences. Any insights he could glean from this opportunity to examine Dorn’s fortifications first-hand might prove invaluable to Horus, and so in turn were of significant worth to the Alpha Legion. His eye caught the telltale capacitors and conduits of power field generators, while he calculated the zones of fire of the smaller rings of protective pillboxes and automated lascannon mounts.
With a thud and a hiss of hydraulics, the Stormbird extended its landing gear, breaking Alpharius’s thoughts. So engrossed had he been in his intelligence-gathering, he had quite forgotten where he was. Alpharius took a deep breath as the Stormbird touched down, rocking slightly on its gear, clouds of smoke and plasma-wash billowing around the craft.
He was on Terra, the capital of the Imperium, home to the Emperor.
AS PROMISED, THERE was a contingent waiting for the arrival of Corax. As the primarch descended the Stormbird’s ramp, he saw a group of thirty gold-armoured Custodians. In height and size, they were the match of the Legiones Astartes, if not bigger, though Corax was taller still. Every warrior of the Custodian Guard was armoured uniquely, their heavy gorgets decorated with eagle devices, winged skulls and other icons, their high, conical helms topped with flowing scarlet crests. Clusters of studded red leather pteruges hung from their belts and high shoulder guards, tipped with pointed gold weights, and their wide greaves and heavy vambraces were chased with intricate designs that matched the rest of their armour. They held guardian spears with red power field-clad blades held across their chests, carried behind tall shields emblazoned with designs of the Imperial aquila and laurel-crowned skulls.
With them stood an ageing man Corax recognised immediately: Malcador the Sigillite. The Regent of Terra wore a voluminous robe, unadorned in stark contrast to the ornamentation of his guard of honour. His weathered, ancient face was half-hidden behind the fold of his hood. The gusts of wind blowing across the open landing apron tugged at the rim of the hood, showing glimpses of reinforced pipes connected to a collar around the Sigillite’s throat that disappeared into the swathe of his garments. In his hands he held a black marble staff taller than himself,
its head a soaring eagle shaped in gold, wreathed in flames that sprang from the rod itself. The Emperor’s regent leaned heavily on his staff of office but nonetheless managed to maintain an air of statesmanlike authority.
Malcador bowed his head in greeting and Corax returned the gesture as his guard of honour filed into ranks behind him.
‘I hope they are for ornamentation and nothing else,’ said Corax, directing a purposeful gaze at the armed Custodians.
‘Purely ceremonial, I assure you,’ replied Malcador. ‘I apologise for the formalities you have been forced to endure, but you understand that we cannot afford any laxity in our security in these times.’
‘It seems a primarch’s word is no longer his bond,’ said Corax as he stepped forwards, the Custodians moving to form two lines of escort around him and Malcador, encircling the primarch’s entourage of Raven Guard.
‘Only for some, Corax,’ said the Sigillite. ‘A number of your brothers remain true to their oaths of allegiance. Your loyalty is greatly appreciated.’
The primarch laughed, but there was no sign of humour in the Sigillite’s expression. Malcador continued to talk as they walked from the landing apron.
‘Rogal asked me to assure you that he will be joining us tomorrow as he promised. We are very keen to hear everything you can tell us about Horus’s forces and perhaps what you think he intends to do.’
‘I can add little to the discussion,’ said Corax. They passed under an arching silver gateway a hundred metres high and headed down a ramp leading to a line of silver-hulled shuttle craft. They looked like giant scarabs, with steel wings that fluttered under the vibration of idling engines. ‘It sounds like there are other survivors.’
‘Of course,’ said Malcador, waving for Corax to precede him onto the ramp of the closest atmospheric shuttle. Inside, the main compartment was furnished like an austere lounge, with low couches and tables on a carpeted deck, the walls covered with hangings depicting scenes from the Unification Wars. Corax assumed it was Malcador’s personal transport. The Sigillite sat down on one of the long couches and instinctively waved a hand for Corax to do the same. The primarch declined with a shake of his head, knowing that the furniture was totally unsuited to someone of his height and weight. He leaned against the bulkhead instead, head dipped beneath the shuttle roof.
‘There are not only those like yourself who escaped the ambush,’ the Sigillite continued, ‘but also brave warriors who have recently arrived from within the traitors’ ranks.’
‘And you can be sure of their loyalty? Misdirection and falsehood seem to be Horus’s primary weapons at the moment.’
‘We are convinced of their continuing support for the Emperor,’ said Malcador. ‘They will have a very important role to play in the waging of the war to come.’
‘The war has started already, if you haven’t noticed,’ growled Corax. He had noticed Captain Noriz using a similar turn of phrase, implying that somehow the massacre at Isstvan had been an end point rather than a beginning.
The two of them were alone in the shuttle, the Custodians and legionaries being directed to the other transports. With a growl, the engines of the craft throttled to full, the hull trembling as the ornithopter’s wings sprang into blurred life. The shuttle lifted quickly away from the starport and turned northwards, rising to clear a range of mountains that thrust up from the ground. The mountains were as much artifice as natural phenomena. Corax could see vast galleries and windows several storeys high cut into the crags and ridges, betraying the labyrinthine structure hidden beneath the snow-capped peaks.
Corax sensed Malcador studying him at length, but the two of them sat in silence for some time as the ornithopter sped over the mountains, shuddering slightly in the buffeting winds. Occasionally the primarch glimpsed one of the other shuttles through the oval windows, their shining fuselages glimmering against the white and grey of the sheer-sided peaks.
‘And what is the opinion of the Emperor?’ Corax asked, realising that Malcador had yet to mention him specifically. ‘Dorn said that he had been placed in charge of the defence.’
‘The Emperor is very aware of the situation and Dorn has his full support,’ replied the regent.
‘That’s it?’ said Corax. ‘His Warmaster turns half the Legions against him and all he has to say is that Dorn has his full support?’
‘He is entirely absorbed in another matter, one which overshadows his thoughts even more than this distraction with Horus. If his current endeavour is successful, this rebellion will be short-lived.’
‘I have come to Terra to seek audience with the Emperor,’ said Corax. He glanced out of the window and saw cranes and earth-movers remodelling a massive shoulder of the mountain below, crafting immense revetments and fortifications from the naked rock. Swarms of thousands of labourers were at work.
‘It is with regret that I must warn you that is highly unlikely,’ said Malcador, his gaze unwavering as Corax turned his stare back on the Sigillite. ‘His current project requires all of his attention. I have seen him only a handful of times since we learned of the events at Isstvan. Dorn has not spoken to him at all, receiving the Emperor’s instruction only through me. I cannot give you any guarantee that our master will grant you an audience.’
The firm expression on Malcador’s face forestalled any further comment Corax might make on the matter. Though he did not say as much, the primarch believed that he would be seen by the Emperor. No matter what Malcador said, there could be no endeavour so pressing that the Emperor could not find time to speak with one of his primarchs at this dark hour.
Then a thought occurred to him, which would explain why Malcador was being slightly evasive and seemed so convinced that Corax would not get an audience.
‘The Emperor is aware of my arrival?’ asked the primarch.
‘No,’ said Malcador. ‘I have been unable to contact him since you first entered the Sol system.’
‘Unable or unwilling?’
If Malcador took any offence at the question, he did not show it. His reply was calm, his face earnest.
‘The Emperor wages a different sort of war to the ones you and I have ever seen,’ explained the Sigillite. ‘To attempt to contact him whilst on one of his… expeditions, would be to endanger his cause. When he has returned, he will be immediately informed of your presence, rest assured.’
‘You make it sound as if the Emperor is not on Terra.’
As before, Malcador hesitated, though Corax did not sense any duplicity in him, merely reluctance. The regent’s thin fingers slowly tapped the haft of his staff as he contemplated his answer.
‘That is not a thing I can easily quantify,’ said Malcador. ‘Forgive my vagueness, but I am not at liberty to discuss the Emperor’s plans, nor am I in a position to fully comprehend them. It would be indiscreet, a betrayal of my position as regent, if I were to furnish you with information that the Emperor has not chosen fit to share with you himself.’
What Malcador was saying unsettled Corax greatly. Ever since his return to Terra after the victory at Ullanor, the Emperor had shrouded himself in secrets, when once he had walked freely amongst his sons and shared his plans and visions. Malcador spoke with such a reverent tone that Corax was left in no doubt that the Emperor’s current campaign was indeed very important, but the Sigillite’s assurances that it was more worthy of attention than Horus’s treachery rang hollow. The Imperium, the spreading of Enlightenment, had been the Emperor’s great scheme, and now it was all for nothing. Surely he would have to emerge from his cloistered endeavours to lead those still loyal to him?
As the squadron of ornithopters swept along a high-sided valley, Corax wondered what he would do if he could not speak with the Emperor. After the debacle at Isstvan, the primarch was not sure of anything, including his ability to effectively command. He needed the Emperor’s guidance now more than ever, and the thought of returning to Deliverance without seeing his gene-father filled him with a subtle dread. With primarch turnin
g on primarch, Corax wanted to bend his knee to the Emperor once more and assure him of the loyalty of the Raven Guard.
THE FLIGHT UP into the mountains took the Raven Guard past the burgeoning fortifications being erected under the leadership of Dorn. The scale of the endeavour was vast, larger than anything Corax had witnessed before, and he had seen the rebuilding of worlds shattered by his Legion.
The mountains themselves were being shaped into great bastions, carved by explosive charges and monolithic machines into buttresses and keeps, curtain walls and towers. The shadows of the ornithopters flitted over many-tracked cargo haulers in convoys kilometres long, bringing loads of ferrocrete and adamantium, ceramite and thermaglas, plasteel and diamatite. With them came cranes with booms half a kilometre long, and shovel-fronted earth movers the size of tenement blocks.
Snaking multi-compartment crawlers edged along newly laid roadways, their cargo more workers to join the hundreds of thousands already labouring on the upper slopes. These caravans were in turn supplied by forage trucks and water tankers numbering in the hundreds. Everywhere was seen the blazon of the Imperial Fists and the splash of their golden livery.
‘My brother does not take half measures,’ said Corax, looking across the cabin to Malcador.
The regent roused himself from a half-slumber and glanced out of the window, barely interested by the gargantuan effort laid out below.
‘A wall unmanned is no defence against attack,’ said the Sigillite. ‘If Horus’s forces were to strike now, who would hold the ramparts and gates?’
‘I thought the White Scars were headed for Terra.’
‘Jaghatai Khan was ordered to return with his Legion, but we have had no contact with the White Scars since the warp storms began anew.’
Corax absorbed this news in silence, still looking at the edifice taking shape around him. Peaks were being toppled, the material thus created used to erect walls closing off the passes and valleys between. Huge lifters powered by dozens of rotors and thrusters hovered over the vales, carrying generators and building-sized capacitors to new defence laser silos. The barrels of these weapons were transported on flat-beds a hundred metres long, over bridges and through tunnels carved from naked rock.
