by Gav Thorpe
The armourium of Ravenspire was far better equipped than that of the Avenger and progress had been relatively swift since the return to Deliverance. He hoped it was swift enough. From what he had heard of the progress on the new gene-tech, Lord Corax might be leading the Legion to war again within a few dozen days. He twisted the nozzle across both axes, satisfied with the freedom of movement on the joints. Picking up a rag, he wiped away a small residue on the fuel inlet valves and lifted the vent into place.
‘You said you had something to show me.’
Binalt drew a protective covering over his work as he stood up and turned to see Commander Agapito at the door.
‘Yes, commander,’ said Binalt. ‘Follow me.’
He led Agapito between the open-fronted workshops, where his fellow Techmarines and their non-enhanced assistants laboured in the glare of fluorescent tubes and welding sparks. Rows upon rows of shoulder plates and reinforced greaves hung on the walls. More complete suits of armour were being assembled in a larger space attached to the armourium, where a small army of servitors and attendants worked to fit power cabling and life-support systems into the refurbished suits.
‘This way.’ Binalt directed the commander to a solid blast door on the left. The Techmarine punched in a security code on the pad and the door lifted out of view with a wheeze of hydraulics. Beyond was the test-firing range.
Lights flickered into life as they entered, to reveal a narrow space a hundred metres long, painted white overlaid with a grid of thin red lines. At the far end stood three suits of armour in front of a wall heavily cracked and pock-marked by impacts. Binalt turned to a rack on the right and lifted up a bolter. He took out a box of rounds from a shelf underneath and loaded the weapon before handing it to Agapito.
‘Target the left suit,’ said the Techmarine. ‘Go for one of the shoulder plates.’
Agapito hefted the bolter up and aimed. With the cough of the launching charge, he fired, the bolt-round flaring into life for a second as it raced down the hall. It struck the left shoulder pad of the empty suit. There was another detonation, the crack echoing back down to the two Space Marines. Shards of ceramite scattered across the firing range, but as the dust cleared, the shoulder pad was shown to be mostly intact.
‘That is one of our standard rounds, against Mark IV armour,’ said Binalt. ‘As you can see, the effect is limited.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Agapito.
‘Yet at the Urgall massacre, the traitors cut down thousands of legionaries with their bolters,’ continued Binalt. The words sounded cold, but he remembered painfully the sight and sound of his fellow Raven Guard butchered in the ambush. He had felt helpless, the rounds from his bolt pistol barely scratching the armour of the traitors while their weapons cut through the Raven Guard without mercy. ‘I recovered pieces, fragments of the ammunition used by the enemy, from the armour of legionaries who withdrew successfully.’
Taking the bolter from Agapito, Binalt swapped the magazine for another and gave the weapon back to the commander.
‘I was also able to procure a few experimental rounds our brothers in the Imperial Fists secured from Mars before it was embroiled by division. We haven’t got the facilities to replicate them here, but I think I have devised a close approximation.’
Agapito sighted again and fired. This time, the other shoulder pad of the armour erupted into spinning fragments and droplets of molten ceramite.
‘Vengeance…’ muttered the commander. He lowered the bolter and looked at the Techmarine. ‘This is impressive, but also profoundly worrying. It means that the traitors had access to Martian developments before Isstvan.’
‘The roots of their rebellion have delved deeply, commander,’ Binalt agreed with a sombre nod. ‘We are not without countermeasures. Please fire at the central suit.’
The middle stand held one of the suits that had been modified by Binalt’s multi-plate, reinforced shoulder pads. This time, Agapito’s shot caught the armour’s shoulder guard flush on the rim. As with the last shot there was a great explosion of debris, but as the ringing died down, both Raven Guard could clearly see that only the outer layer of armour had been shredded; the inner plating was intact.
Agapito was quiet, staring at the armoured mannequins at the far end of the hall. He distractedly handed the bolter back to Binalt, attention still fixed on the damaged suits.
‘What is the matter, commander?’ asked the Techmarine. ‘Is something not satisfactory?’
‘I killed at least a hundred Space Marines on Isstvan,’ Agapito said quietly. ‘They were Legiones Astartes, just like us. Something I had never thought I would have to do.’
The commander shook his head abruptly, breaking his distant stare.
‘This war will not end easily. We must all get used to the idea now.’
THUNDER PEALED FROM Therion’s dark clouds and lightning split the violet evening sky, glittering from the glass walls of the Great Conservatory. Ten thousand panes of glass reflected the tumult in the heavens, bright even against the lights that glowed within.
The hippocants snorted mist in the cold, their shaggy coats thick with moisture as the coach driver urged them on through the strengthening rain. The road ahead was fast becoming a stream, water flowing down from the tree-lined embankments that flanked it as it speared across the estate towards the sprawling mansion. The driver was swathed in oilskins, only his nose and eyes visible as he turned to speak into the grille on the body of the carriage behind him.
‘Almost there, praefector,’ said Pelon, voice muffled.
‘Very good, Pelon,’ came Valerius’s tinny reply.
The Therion servant pulled up the lapels of his heavy coat and adjusted the cord under his chin that kept his broad hat from being whisked away by the wind. It was not an ideal arrangement, but Valerius had been adamant that they depart for his father’s palace as soon as possible. The rare storm had prevented them taking an airfoil, and a noble of Therion would never be seen travelling in a gascart, leaving the far more traditional means of the coach as the only option.
Broad-tyred wheels hissed through the puddles as Pelon slowed the carriage to negotiate a small bridge that humped over a foaming stream. The hippocants were controlled by a small box set into a pedestal beside the driver. As his deft fingers moved the levers, pressure bladders in the creatures’ harnesses reacted to the radio signal, inflating or deflating in sequence to guide the creatures left and right, urge them on or quell their momentum.
The gate ahead was open already and they passed beneath the arch of silver wrought as two coiling serpents: the ruling crest of Therion.
‘Take us straight to the west entrance,’ Valerius instructed over the tannoy.
Pelon steered the carriage over the gravel of the compound, the clawed feet of the hippocants throwing up stones to clatter against the bottom of the driving board. He brought them to a halt and then guided them forwards step by step until the carriage door was level with the raised brick walkway that led up to the columned entrance to the Great Conservatory.
Many of the windows were open despite the tempest. Pelon saw the telltale glimmer of weathershields glowing around the open frames. The sound of music and conversation could just be heard over the rain. Pelon engaged the brakes and dropped the anchor lines over the haunches of the hippocants before twisting in his seat to disengage the door lock. With a puff of pneumatics, the door swung out. Pelon dragged out a large rain canopy from under his seat and jumped down to the walkway in time for Valerius to step out under the vast umbrella.
‘Seems there’s a bit of a party going on,’ remarked Valerius as he strode up the rain-soaked pathway, Pelon trotting along beside, struggling to keep hold of the red and white canopy acting as a sail in the wind.
‘Your niece’s birthday, praefector,’ said Pelon.
‘Which one?’
‘Darius’s youngest, Nisella,’ replied Pelon.
‘Oh, her,’ said Valerius. ‘Such a pretty young thing
.’
‘Not so young now, praefector,’ said Pelon. They reached the short flight of steps that led up to the entranceway. ‘She is six years old now. A woman, not a girl.’
‘What’s that in Terran?’ said the praefector as he mounted the steps. ‘I don’t see why you insist on using the old calendar, Pelon.’
Because it served us well enough for eighty generations before compliance, thought Pelon, but instead he said, ‘That would be roughly seventeen Terran years, praefector.’
‘Time passes so quickly,’ observed Valerius as they passed under the glass awning of the entrance.
Liveried servants took the umbrella from Pelon and sponged down Valerius’s moist uniform without comment. They carried themselves with the easy manner of men who had served in the Cohort and the skull buttons on their lapels attested to the fact. They made no inquiry of the new arrivals and silently stepped aside to allow the pair entry. That Valerius wore the red sash of the Therion elite was proof enough of his right to attend the function. For an imposter to wear the red was the only capital crime left on Therion.
Pelon led the way across the deep carpets, the rain rattling on the canopy of glass above their heads. More attendants waited at the doors to the conservatory with gold trays holding spiral-stemmed glasses of wine. Pelon appropriated one for his master, but the praefector declined the drink with a wave of his hand and stepped through the door. Pelon downed the glass’s contents in one gulp and placed it back on the tray with a wink, earning himself a scowl of disapproval from the servants. Valerius’s manservant was not the least worried about their disapproval. As simple household servants they were far below an attendant to a praefector in the informal hierarchy of the serving class.
He followed a respectful distance behind Valerius as the praefector made his way across the conservatory. The festivities were in full swing. Gaily dressed women with jewelled hairpieces twirled and curtsied as they danced with men decked out in their fine uniforms braided and brocaded with gold, a whirl of sparkling colour and gems. Chandeliers hanging from the white-painted iron of the conservatory lit all with a soft blue glow, adding to the unreal atmosphere.
On a small side stage a quintet played a tune on hunt-flutes and rhintars, the slow tempo of their piece dictating the whole rhythm of the partygoers. Even those not dancing seemed to congregate and separate in time to the beat, taking measured paces with each skirl and strum.
Valerius was not in time to this rhythm, hurrying towards a set of spiral stairs that led to a gallery overlooking the proceedings. The praefector kept bumping into people or dodging to avoid them at the last moment, so his progress became a series of faltering steps punctuated by bowed apologies. Pelon closed the gap and assisted his master, picking up dislodged hats, dropped scabbards and canes, and smoothing ruffled skirts and jacket sleeves in Valerius’s wake.
A broad-chested man with thick sideburns and beetling brows emerged from the throng just in front of Valerius. He wore a red and black sash over his blue uniform, indicating he had served with the Cohort but was no longer a licensed officer. He slapped a hand to Valerius’s shoulder, almost knocking the surprised praefector from his feet.
‘Marcus!’ boomed the man, who Pelon now recognised as Raulius Tabalian, one of the distant family cousins. He was much larger of gut and jowl than when Pelon had last seen him, which had been at least five Terran years before.
‘I’m sorry, I have to speak urgently with my father,’ said Valerius, pushing past. Tabalian turned to one of his companions with a scowl.
‘Apologies, Equerre Tabalian, my master has very pressing concerns to discuss with the Caesari,’ Pelon said hurriedly as he came level with the man. ‘I am sure the praefector will find time to reacquaint himself with you soon.’
Valerius’s progress had caused quite a stir, rippling out from his path like a bow wave of distraction. Tabalian and several others followed him to the spiral stair, the crowd growing to nearly a dozen by the time the praefector was mounting the wrought iron steps. Pelon made his way through the press with as little shoving as possible and ran up the stairs to catch his master.
The ruling dignitaries of Therion sat on low couches overlooking the floor of the conservatory, even more marvellous in their finery than those below. The band finished playing and the half-dozen members of Valerius’s family rose to their feet with polite applause.
‘Look, father, Marcus is here!’ This came from a woman a little older than the praefector, his sister Miania. All eyes turned towards him as he stepped up to the gallery balustrade, tucking his helmet under one arm as he presented himself with a short bow.
‘Caesari,’ said the praefector, eyes fixed on the plushly carpeted floor.
‘Praefector,’ replied his father with equal formality.
Caesari Valentinus Valerius was one of the youngest to hold the office, just over seventeen years old; in his late fifties as Terrans measured time. He was even shorter and slighter than his eldest son, clean shaven and with thinning blond hair that was pulled back in a short knot at the base of his skull. His uniform was bedecked with frogging and medals; honours he had rightfully earned in the Therion Cohort alongside the Emperor and Raven Guard.
The Caesari extended his hand in greeting, the thumb and two other digits replaced by mechanical augmetics. Likewise his right ear was a prosthetic device, and he stood slightly lop-sided on his bionic leg. Marcus took the hand and briefly pursed his lips to his father’s knuckles before straightening.
‘Welcome back to Therion, my son,’ declared the Caesari, embracing Marcus tightly.
‘Do not hoard him to yourself,’ said Juliana, the Caesari’s wife. She prised her husband’s arms from her son and replaced them with her own, planting an audible kiss on the praefector’s cheek.
‘I have important news,’ said Marcus, freeing himself from his mother’s grip.
Pelon glanced over the balcony to see that the party-goers were all paying attention to what passed amongst the ruling family: glasses were held halfway to lips, conversations had dried away.
‘Get yourself a drink, Marcus,’ said Antonius, the younger of the Caesari’s two sons. He looked like a fairer-headed version of his older brother, save for the pockmark of a bullet scar on the right side of his chin. ‘Why so glum?’
‘Yes, son, settle and tell us what you’ve been up to,’ said Juliana, lifting up a wineglass from a shelf set upon the balustrade. ‘It’s been such a long time.’
‘Horus has rebelled against the Emperor.’
The praefector’s blurted words carried far across the conservatory, hushing the few discussions that had continued. From below came the clatter of metal and shattering of glass as a servant spilled his tray in shock.
‘What did you say?’ demanded the Caesari. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Sons of Horus are traitors,’ said Marcus. He snatched the glass from his mother’s hand with trembling fingers and swallowed the contents. When he continued, it was in a whisper. ‘The Warmaster seeks to overthrow the Emperor. Many of the Legiones Astartes have sided with Lupercal. There is going to be civil war.’
‘This must be a mistake,’ said Juliana. ‘Perhaps some of his Legion, but Horus himself…’
‘What of the Raven Guard?’ asked the Caesari.
‘This makes no sense,’ said Antonius. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It happened at Isstvan,’ said the praefector, the muscles in his jaw clenching at the memory. ‘I saw what happened. I and a handful of others are all that remains of the Therion Cohort. The Raven Guard, they are loyal. Lord Corax sent me here. They were all but destroyed, and it looks as if the traitors finished the job on the Salamanders and Iron Hands.’
The Caesari slumped back onto his couch, face as white as snow, mouth open in dumb shock. Pelon heard the chattering on the main floor and saw some of the guests heading towards the doors. He cautiously tugged at the elbow of his master’s coat.
‘Praefector, might I make a suggestion?’
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‘Be quiet, Pelon,’ said Marcus, pulling away his arm.
‘Some of the guests are leaving,’ Pelon said, pointing across the conservatory. ‘Rumours, master, can be damaging.’
‘Your man’s right,’ said Antonius. He turned to the Caesari. ‘Father, if this news spreads in the wrong way, it will cause hysteria and panic.’
The Caesari beckoned with a raised hand and his chief counsellor, Tribune Pellis, rose from his seat at the far end of the gallery.
‘Nobody is to leave yet,’ said Valentinus. ‘Confiscate all personal communication devices. Not until we’ve drafted an official proclamation. That includes servants. Have the veterans stationed at every exit, I want nobody coming in or out until I say otherwise.’
Pellis nodded wordlessly and withdrew. The Caesari was recovering from the shock and stood up. He gave Marcus a troubled glance and then began to pace, circling around the couch.
‘I assume Corax sent you to raise a new Cohort,’ he said, receiving a nod of affirmation from his son. ‘Manpower shouldn’t be a problem, we’ve been turning away volunteers for the last two years. We’ll need ships to replace the losses, though.’
‘Natol Prime, there’s a fleet there,’ said Antonius. ‘Old ships, returning with the Natol regiments, but they’ll serve well enough if you send word to the council there.’
‘Yes, and we can get help from the forge-world at, oh, what’s the damned place called?’
‘Some of the Mechanicum have allied with Horus,’ Marcus said before the question could be answered. ‘You mean Beta Cornix, father. Best to make sure which side they are on before you go to them.’
The Caesari stopped in his tracks and was again struck dumb for a moment with distress at this news, his expression almost imploring his son to retract what he had said. The unease passed in a few seconds and the Caesari continued his striding.
‘That will make weapons acquisition a problem,’ said Valentinus.
‘The forges of Kiavahr can supply any shortfall,’ said the praefector.
