Corax

by Gav Thorpe

  The ten Space Marines fell towards the road, activating their jump packs a few metres from impact to slow their descent. Even so, they hit the ground hard, ferrocrete cracking under their boots.

  ‘Caderil, up and left.’ Agapito was issuing orders without a moment’s pause, waving half their number with his second-in-command towards an elevated railroad station on the north-eastern corner of the junction. Heading directly to the right, the commander led the other four warriors into the shadow of a large silo. A momentary flick of his helm display to the local cartography confirmed that they were just over a kilometre from the main temple, outside its priority defence grid.

  ‘Follow me,’ he told the squad, igniting his jump pack as he headed towards his objective.

  The Mechanicum strategy-net was a pleasingly efficient way of conducting war, Corax concluded. He issued another set of orders to the lexmechanics and logisticians gathered around him on the lower level of the temple. Without hesitation, the augmented machine-cultists translated and disseminated the information to their sub-commanders fighting across the city. Neurally connected to the command channels, the platoon leaders acted swiftly, breaking away from the fighting where they were likely to be overwhelmed, gathering again where the enemy were weakest.

  Unlike the shrine at the top of the district temple, the command chamber was purely functional. Communications and monitoring servitors relayed information to the lexmechanics, who analysed the data-stream for pertinent information which they then passed to the logisticians updating the battle-space display. Systems that were more usually tasked with the marshalling of raw materials, fuel, manpower and production were equally suited to doing the same for soldiers and war engines.

  ‘Your strategy interface reminds me of one of the many battle simulations devised by my brother Guilliman,’ Corax remarked to Salva Kanar, who was overseeing the coterie of attendants. Just as then, the squads and men of the tech-guard acted by the will of Corax, effortlessly moved from one position to another as the primarch surveyed the scene depicted on a three-dimensional hololithic representation of Atlas, focused upon the Third District. Intelligence updates were fast and accurate, far more so than was possible with his Therion Cohort allies.

  ‘I have heard that the primarch of the Ultramarines constantly tested his war theories and stratagems during the Great Crusade in the artificial constructs of metriculator engines, as well as with real warriors,’ replied the magos.

  ‘Even the most sophisticated simulation is crude compared to real war,’ remarked the primarch. ‘Guilliman tried to learn everything he could from the experiences of his brothers when he first met them. I was constantly vexing him with complaints that he focused too much on distinct military units, not taking into account possible civilian participation. To him there was a line between combatants and non-combatants that I did not see. Before our first encounter Guilliman’s treatises had been swift to rule out casualty-depleted combat forces as incapable, since he was so used to wielding whole battalions and Chapters rather than handfuls of warriors. I demonstrated the error of these beliefs on several occasions, creating effective resistance out of meagre resources that Roboute had considered no longer viable.’

  ‘An occurrence to be proud of, I am sure,’ Kanar said evenly.

  ‘The cry of “no retreat” is meaningless to the Raven Guard,’ explained Corax, ‘a prideful boast rather than a sensible tactical doctrine. It was not until our third confrontation that Guilliman realised this for himself.’

  ‘To best one of the greatest strategos in the Imperium is no mean feat. We are blessed by your attendance.’

  ‘I make no such claim,’ Corax replied with a lopsided smile. ‘From the fourth simulation on, he had my mark and I could not beat him. He learns well, my brother, and he has far greater vision than me. While I was rescuing a single world from slavery, he was already building an empire of hundreds. I won battles against him, but never a war.’

  Corax allowed himself a moment of reflection. He had received no word from Roboute Guilliman since before the treachery on Isstvan, though he had assumed that the Ultramarines were fighting against Horus given their primarch’s unquestioning adherence to the Emperor’s commands in the past. They had been operating far to the galactic east, around their burgeoning realm of Ultramar, far from the carnage that Horus’s forces had wrought over the following months. Isolated by the vicious warp tempests – the Ruinstorm, as Sagitha had called it – Ultramar might as well have been in another galaxy altogether.

  However, the Navigator who had been imprisoned aboard the Kamiel had been able to provide more information regarding the XIII Legion. The Word Bearers had attempted to destroy Guilliman and his forces at the muster on Calth, and though their ambush had not quite succeeded in obliterating the Ultramarines as a threat, Guilliman’s warriors were sorely beset on the many worlds of their domain.

  There was unlikely to be any swift victory in the galactic east, and Corax’s determination to slow and counter Horus’s advance was being vindicated with every world prised from his grip, every potential ally hardened against the wiles of the traitor primarchs.

  It was this that lent such weight to the fight here on Constanix II. The resources of one world, even a forge world, were inconsequential in and of themselves in an Imperium of more than a million such planets, but every system that fell to Horus could tip the balance in the Warmaster’s favour.

  Unfortunately, the forces loyal to Magokritarch Vangellin benefited from the same strategic facilities as Corax, though they lacked a primarch’s brilliance to orchestrate the entire affair. Less than two minutes had passed before Corax was needed to make adjustments to his battle plan once more.

  ‘Your adepts have arrived,’ announced the metallic voice of Loriark from the doorway behind Corax.

  ‘Adepts?’ said the primarch as he turned.

  With the magos was Stradon Binalt, the chief Techmarine of Corax’s small force. His helmet was hanging on his belt and his expression was one of frustration.

  ‘Your pardon, Lord Corax, but you told me that the magi had given their permission for our work,’ said the Techmarine.

  ‘I was assured full cooperation,’ replied Corax, turning his gaze to Loriark. ‘Is there some problem, magos?’

  ‘Adept Binalt’s working methods are highly unorthodox, primarch,’ said the tech-priest with a shake of his head. ‘He tampers with complex mechanisms without the proper rites. Though there is much merit to your plan, it risks disabling one of our greatest combat assets if the correct procedures are ignored.’

  ‘We don’t have time for mumblings and censer-swinging, lord primarch,’ protested Stradon. ‘We’ve done it a dozen times before on ships. We know what we are doing.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Corax. ‘Magos Loriark, please ensure that my Techmarines can continue their modifications without interruption.’

  Loriark bowed his head in acquiescence but the hunch of his shoulders communicated his displeasure without words.

  Corax turned to Stradon. ‘All is well. Return to the arming bay and ensure the work is completed on schedule. By my reckoning, Commander Agapito will be making his move in a little under four minutes. You have twenty to be in position.’

  ‘We’ll be ready,’ said the Techmarine, leaving with swift steps.

  There was grave misgiving in Loriark’s posture and although Corax had no time for the superstitions of the Mechanicum, it was important that he did nothing to unnecessarily alienate his allies.

  ‘When the battle at hand is won, you may perform whatever rites and checks you deem necessary,’ he told the magos.

  Mollified by this concession, Loriark bowed and left. Corax returned his attention to the hololith. Vangellin’s forces were pushing into Third District from the east and north, just as Corax had planned. He snapped off a couple of commands to draw them further from the main temple complex, widenin
g the gap for Agapito to exploit. Beside the primarch, Kanar was looking pensively at the display as the red runes of their foes approached within two kilometres of the temple.

  ‘Relax,’ Corax told him, soothing the tech-priest’s worries with a calm tone. ‘We’ll know if the plan has worked in mere minutes.’

  ‘And if it has failed?’ asked Kanar.

  ‘Plenty of time to come up with another.’ Corax gently laid a reassuring hand on the magos’s shoulder. ‘Do you trust me?’

  Kanar looked up at the primarch’s face and saw only his honest intent, despite Corax’s concerns.

  ‘Yes, lord primarch, yes I do.’

  ‘Then send the signal,’ Corax said quietly, fastening his armour seals ready to leave. ‘Open a path to the temple. An invitation Vangellin cannot ignore.’

  He was passing command to Kanar and his fellow tech-priests. If they planned to betray him, then that would be the prime opportunity. But with such a small force at his disposal, the primarch had no other option.

  An explosion several kilometres away lit up the skyline of the First District at Atlas’s heart. Agapito knew it was the charges set by Sergeant Chamell’s team, destroying a refinery feedline on the far side of the main temple complex. He watched the fireball ascending into the heavens without magnification, his armoured suit running on minimal power as he and the two squads with him crouched atop the roof of an empty transit terminal half a kilometre from the main gates.

  Powered down, the Raven Guard were giant statues of black in the darkness, their armour running only essential support systems. With no display chronometer to keep track of time, Agapito mentally counted down from the blast, allowing Vangellin time to react and send out forces to counter-attack. Forty-three seconds passed before a flurry of anti-grav skimmers ascended through the lights of the temple and headed south towards the fresh blaze. Warning sirens echoed along the deserted streets as a column of russet-painted armoured quadrupeds emerged from the widening gate – ‘Syrbotus-class’, Corax had called them – followed by dozens of infantry heading out at a run.

  The Raven Guard commander waited patiently as the ten vehicles turned along a sidestreet, lumbering in the direction of Chamell’s attack. The red-armoured infantry followed close behind, lasguns glinting in the light of the refinery fire. The last of the column was almost through the gate when Agapito ordered the squads to move. At the edge of his vision, he saw Sergeant Korell’s squad moving in on a convergent course from the left while Caderil’s combat squad approached from the right.

  Their timing was perfect.

  Energy flooded through his armour’s systems and Agapito’s jump pack flared as he leapt across the road to the next rooftop, his warriors bounding along behind him. His tactical display glimmered into life, targeting reticules springing up everywhere he looked. Landing, he took three swift strides and jumped again, aiming for a crane gantry that straddled the next road.

  They covered the first three hundred metres in fifteen seconds, coming together again atop the corner towers of a keep-like outpost overlooked by the gate guns. To their right, out of sight, more detonations shook the buildings as Chamell’s concealed plasma mines took out the lead walkers. Agapito’s enhanced hearing and all-frequency scanner picked up the panicked shouts and garbled comm-chatter of the shocked skitarii.

  He led the Raven Guard on without any need for an order to be given – they all knew what to do.

  The twenty legionaries fell upon the rear squads of the column, frag grenades announcing their arrival as they plunged towards the road with jump packs and bolters blazing.

  Agapito landed squarely upon a soldier with a bionic arm, crushing him with his armoured weight. He lashed out with his sword, chopping through the midsection of another. The tower guns on the temple perimeter stayed silent, prevented from firing by their automated friend-or-foe protocols as the Raven Guard shredded the rear echelon without effort. Agapito could easily imagine the desperate tech-adepts inside the defence towers frantically trying to override those protocols.

  With more than fifty foes slain in a few seconds, Agapito ordered his squads to relocate, leaping back up to the rampart of the outer tower seconds before the cannons of the temple wall opened fire, obliterating a score more of their own fighters. Someone evidently had disarmed the protocols.

  Several heavily armoured walkers had turned back towards the attack on their column and were raising their turret guns towards Agapito’s position.

  ‘Split by fives, quadrants three and four,’ he ordered, activating his jump pack to launch himself towards the incoming walking tanks.

  The Raven Guard broke apart into their combat squads, fanning out to either side of the column, using the cover of the rooftops to close the distance as the walkers opened fire. Incendiary shells and plasma missiles slammed into the buildings, smashing ferrocrete and turning plasteel to molten splashes of red. The legionaries were too fast to track, sprinting and leaping towards the Syrbotae.

  Each squad fell upon a different target, melta bombs in hand as they plunged down onto the slab-roofed war engines. Stubby point-defence guns spat hails of bullets as the crews of the walkers tried to bring fire against their attackers, but the response was too slow; the legionaries were atop the armoured Mechanicum creations in moments.

  Agapito landed heavily as one of the machines reared up to meet him, amber warning signals flaring across his vision while impact compensators strained in the legs of his armour. Grunting through the dull ache in his knees he slammed a discus-shaped melta bomb onto a hatchway and stepped back. A second later the charge detonated, punching through the cupola to leave a ragged, white-edged hole. The charred corpse of a crewman who had been preparing to open the hatch fell to one side as Agapito pushed his plasma pistol through the breach and fired towards the driver’s compartment. The Syrbotus shuddered as though injured, and came to a stop.

  Two frag grenades went down into the hole to ensure that nobody survived to take the dead driver’s place.

  Around the commander the rest of the Raven Guard were blasting and tearing their way into the other Syrbotae. Las-fire from the accompanying infantry sliced from their power armour and pattered against the armoured hulls of their targets. Several of the legionaries turned their attention to the escorts, firing back with hails of bolts that tore through the armoured breastplates and padded suits of the unaugmented infantry.

  One by one the remaining Syrbotae were felled by detonations from within, crew slain and vital mechanics destroyed. From further down the road came a fresh storm of fire, aimed not at the Raven Guard but at their enemies. Laying down a barrage with plasma fire and rockets, Chamell’s warriors covered Agapito and his squads as they broke free, withdrawing once more to the rooftops.

  As expected, more forces poured from the temple gates over the following minutes. Open-topped transports carrying squads of heavily armed praetorian infantry, accompanied by multi-turreted crawlers, ploughed onto the streets, unleashing a storm of shells and lascannon fire as Agapito’s and Chamell’s warriors fell back from the attack, fading into the night.

  Gun towers further up the huge temple pyramid rained down balls of plasma and incendiary charges onto the city below, shattering buildings as the tech-priests spewed forth their spite, inconsiderate of the damage they were wreaking upon their own city. A few legionaries were caught in the open, armour broken by shell detonations, bodies seared by white-hot promethium explosions, but the commander led most of them to safety.

  Using rooftops and alleys to shield themselves from the vengeful machine-cultists, the Space Marines withdrew from their objective. To the Mechanicum defenders, it looked as though the Raven Guard assault on the gate towers had been foiled.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Above Atlas, Corax circled, his flight pack aided by the thermals rising from a score of burning buildings. He watched the sc
ene unfolding below with a calculating gaze: Raven Guard squads collapsing back towards Third District as skitarii regiments loyal to Loriark and his companions moved eastwards, holding the brunt of the counter-assault from Second District.

  There appeared to be a fatal error in the retreat, an opening that Vangellin evidently saw: a column of tanks and warriors advanced down a wide boulevard like a red spear aimed away from the rebel temple. A handful of Raven Guard lobbed plasma charges and fired missiles from the shelter of broken doorways and shattered windows, forcing the part-machine praetorians to bail out of their transports and giving the illusion that the attack had not been abandoned altogether. The legionaries retreated into the shadows before the return fire of blast-carbines and crackling lightning guns, drawing the magokritarch’s forces onwards for another few hundred metres.

  At the far end of the boulevard the ruddy sky shimmered, the night clouds lit by the flames of the burning city. There was a deeper haze between the advancing column and the Third District temple, almost undetectable even though Corax knew it was there.

  As though coalescing from the shroud of smoke that lay upon Atlas, the Warlord Titan Castor Terminus disengaged its newly adapted reflex shields, powering up its weapons.

  The immense walker straddled the boulevard like a colossus of legend, its white and pale blue livery stark against the night sky as search lamps blazed into life and cockpit canopies in its head lit up like gleaming azure eyes. Constanix did not have a Titan Legio of its own, but several war machines from the Legio Nivalis, the Ice Giants, were stationed amongst the planet’s cities. Modifying the war engine’s void shields with Kiavahran reflex technology had allowed the Titan to move unseen by the sensors of Vangellin’s forces, traversing four kilometres from its arming bay in the south of Third District.

  Castor Terminus opened fire with all four of its main weapon systems. A multi-barrelled las-blaster hanging from the right shoulder mount chewed through half a dozen tanks, lighting up engines and ammunition stores with a flurry of white beams. The macro-cannon of the left arm pounded out immense shells, obliterating dozens more of the onrushing vehicles. From the Titan’s crenellated carapace, micro-munitions dischargers launched hundreds of guided explosive darts into the air, the detonations of which rolled along the street like a hurricane of fire, engulfing everything in their path.