by Gav Thorpe
He noticed then that the aura surrounding Nathrakin’s corpse was thickening, the tendril of warp energy undulating from the warp portal moving more quickly.
The body twitched.
Corax felt a chill of anxiety as he heard a quiet chuckle.
Nathrakin’s mangled breastplate was moving, his abdomen splitting into a maw lined with adamantium teeth, ruby eyes pushing out from his pectorals. A thin, serpentine tongue slid over needle-like fangs as the Chaos champion sat up.
‘Chaosh cannot be deshtroyed,’ lisped the deformed mouth, lips of ceramite moulding from the armour. ‘It ish eternal.’
Corax shook his head in disbelief as Nathrakin pushed himself to his feet. With a shudder, a sting-tipped tail erupted from behind him, swinging up over his shoulder. The stump of his neck grew metal barbs, forming a bestial mouth. The black flames engulfed his hands once more.
‘Shubmit or be shlain. It is that shimple.’
Taking two strides, Corax punched the claws of his right fist into the fallen champion’s new face and lifted him up. Black fire streamed around the two of them as Nathrakin screeched and pounded his talons against the primarch’s head and face, tearing at skin and flesh and metal. Corax ignored the pain and staggered towards the open warp rift.
‘Chaos may be immortal,’ he snarled, heaving the Word Bearer towards the portal. ‘Flesh is not.’
With a roar, Corax threw Nathrakin into the swirling globe of energy.
It flashed bright as the Word Bearer seemed to stick to its surface. Daemonic faces appeared from within the shimmering sphere, laughing and leering. Clawed hands grabbed the sorcerer and dragged him deeper into its depths, until he was obscured by the crackling energy.
Corax struck out, smashing down the nearest stalagmite sustaining the rift. He whirled around the monstrous altar, claws crashing through the upthrusts of metal and bone, the portal pulsing more and more wildly as each was toppled. As the final jutting spike was severed, the rift imploded. Corax felt the shock of it at the core of his being, as though a fist had clenched around his heart.
The moment passed.
‘Lies,’ he muttered, turning away. ‘The Emperor told me that too – lies and deceit are the only weapons Chaos truly wields.’
Yet the words sounded hollow as he spoke them, for he also knew that the most convincing lies were those wrapped around a core of truth.
The wounds on his face itched and his shoulder was sore, but there was still fighting to be done. Iapetus was not yet claimed for the Emperor.
Corax attacks the corrupted Mechanicum constructs
Epilogue
Corax stood upon the bridge of the Kamiel, alone with Sagitha Alons Neortallin.
‘Iapetus is under my control and those who did this to you are dead,’ he told the Navigator. ‘The Mechanicum have a ship that I can use to rejoin my Legion. Know peace.’
The primarch hesitated, recalling the words of Nathrakin. He wondered what Sagitha beheld when she looked at him. What manner of creature did she see with that warp eye of hers?
‘A good man,’ she whispered, somehow in answer to his unspoken question. ‘A good and loyal servant of the Emperor. Nothing more, nothing less.’
A tear trickled down the Navigator’s scarred cheek as Corax placed the tip of a claw beneath her ravaged chin.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The Shadowmasters
The darkness was comforting.
Flames raging across the various districts of Atlas illuminated the heavens, but the streets between her towering tenements and looming manufactories were more shadow than firelight. Chamell had been born in the twilight of Lycaeus’s prison-mines; grown to adolescence in the fitful dimness of lumen strips, he had spent his childhood in the darkened cells and corridors. As one of Corax’s tunnel-runners, he had learned to navigate the narrow access shafts and maintenance ducts by sound and smell alone.
The darkness was home.
When Deliverance had been created, he had thought that the darkness had been dispelled forever. With the coming of the Emperor, with the arrival of Enlightenment, Chamell had been proud to stand alongside his fellow freedom fighters in that glorious radiance.
Now he fought in the darkness again, so that the traitors would not extinguish the light he had never seen as a child. Horus’s treachery threatened to bring tyranny and devastation back to those that had been saved from the terrors of Old Night.
With Chamell were three others – Fasur, Senderwat and Korin. All were Lycaeus-born, and all were peculiarly gifted. Chamell was nominally ranked as sergeant and the others as battle-brothers, but there was another name for the four Raven Guard warriors flitting from one pool of gloom to another.
Mor Deythan. The Shadowmasters.
Be where the enemy desires you not to be. So proclaimed the First Axiom of Victory. The Mor Deythan excelled at this.
Chamell and his fighters used their abilities to remain unseen. They drifted past the outlying pickets of the skitarii, passing so close at times that they could, if needed, strike down their foes in an instant. Such action was unnecessary; the sentries and patrols detected nothing. Their attention was focused elsewhere. Other Raven Guard and the Mechanicum forces allied to Lord Corax made their presence well known to the renegade tech-priests, drawing attention away from the danger that lurked close at hand.
The Shadowmasters passed through the enemy lines. They moved from one patch of darkness to another, almost to within firing distance of the great Mechanicum temple at the heart of the floating city. Already they had infiltrated the refinery pipeline feeding the edifice and placed their timed charges. Now they waited in the darkness for the detonations that would herald the next phase of the attack.
Chamell had been so proud to be chosen as a warrior of the Legiones Astartes. Hand-picked by the primarch himself, from amongst the thousands that had aided in the overthrow of the despots of Kiavhar, he had trained with the others, his body changed beyond recognition by the implants and therapies bestowed by the Apothecaries of the Raven Guard.
And then, upon the eve of his ascension to full battle-brother, they had come for him. Just as the Librarians had occasionally taken away one of the initiates who had developed latent psychic ability, so the Mor Deythan had claimed Chamell. They saw in him what others could not; they saw the secret gift of the primarch. The shadow-walk.
The charges blew, sending a fireball high into the skies above Atlas, and Chamell and his brothers moved again, their black armour blending perfectly with the umbra. They were nothing more than shadows themselves.
A directed electromagnetic pulse from Korin’s modified gauntlet overloaded the arc-light pylon at the end of the street, plunging the road into blackness. Moving quickly, the four of them planted handfuls of small but potent plasma mines, like farmers sowing a deadly crop – there was detritus and rubble aplenty to conceal the charges.
In the distance, blaring klaxons shattered the silence. They were followed by the growl of engines and the thud of heavy armoured feet on rockcrete. A few hundred metres away, more enemy warriors swarmed from the temple to seek out the perpetrators of the pipeline attack.
It was not long before the column approached Chamell’s position. He glanced up and saw familiar, dark shapes moving across the roofs of the buildings, bounding from one to the next in near-silence.
He whispered a few syllables in stalk-argot, readying the squad for combat. Fasur and Korin prepared their stripped-down plasma rifles. They packed the full punch of an unmodified weapon, but sacrificed charge time for lightweight design; enough to deter an armoured foe but not designed for prolonged combat. Chamell’s and Senderwat’s missile launchers were of equally slimline construction. Lack of ammunition was no great disadvantage – it was not in the minds of the Mor Deythan to engage at length.
Half-tracked transports and armoured walk
ers growled and stomped past the Shadowmasters’ position. Chamell drew upon the specialised training he had received all those years ago; he remained motionless, becoming one with the shadows. Gunners in cupolas looked straight through him as they passed, seeing nothing, swinging their weapons to cover other directions.
It was quirk of the gene-seed, the Apothecaries had explained. In every generation of Lycaeus-born Raven Guard, there were a handful that carried more than just the standard genetic code of the XIX Legion. This explanation had never quite sat right with Chamell or the other Shadowmasters – surely a mind as brilliant as Corax’s would be able to find the tiny mutation, the quirk that set the gifted apart, and isolate it for future exploitation?
Between themselves, they had their own whispered theories. A splinter of Corax’s soul within them, perhaps? Even though no one tended to speak in terms of ‘souls’ anymore, the fact that the primarch was capable of removing himself entirely from the perception of others was an open secret amongst the Raven Guard. So too was the existence of the Mor Deythan. No one spoke of either to outsiders.
Special reflex technology, they told everybody else. Miniaturised. Highly temperamental.
The truth was much simpler: darkness was their home, and in darkness the Shadowmasters could not be seen.
The great irony of their kind – an irony taught to them by Corax himself – was that in order to bring illumination to others, one needed to embrace the darkness. Not the darkness of the spirit; in his heart Chamell held true to the light, to the sun’s warmth that he had never known as an infant.
No, this was a darkness made by others. To break the darkness, one had to engage it, become easy with it, and destroy it from within. This the Raven Guard knew well, and the Mor Deythan better than most. While the plaudits and glory went to those that marched to war surrounded by the pageantry of the Legion, the Shadowmasters sneaked and slinked. In victory they made the light a little brighter, and that was reward enough.
Much like today. While Atlas burned, in the smoke and grime the Shadowmasters patiently waited for the right moment to strike.
When several of the half-tracks and walkers had passed, Chamell sent the trigger signal. Plasma erupted along the street, engulfing the lead elements of the column, cracking open ceramic plates and searing through metal and flesh. Half a kilometre away, Agapito launched his attack, his warriors descending upon the enemy with furious bolter fire and a storm of grenades.
Still the Shadowmasters waited while the traitor skitarii tried to reorganise, utterly unaware of the unseen foe in their midst. Chamell watched as Agapito’s warriors moved along the column from the rear. They took out each of the walkers in turn, methodically butchering and smashing everything in their way.
The enemy responded, sending out reinforcements from the temple to aid their stricken comrades. Agapito and his warriors began to withdraw, and the time to act had come.
Opening fire with plasma and missiles, the Mor Deythan struck from behind, tearing through the newly arrived skitarii. Caught between the escaping Raven Guard and the new enemy in their midst, the tech-priests’ warriors were cut down by the dozen. Multi-turreted walkers and transports exploded, and rockets sent bursts of shrapnel through the ranks of infantry.
As suddenly as they had attacked, the Shadowmasters ceased.
Burning wreckage and bodies littered the street. The fires were spreading, chasing away the darkness, and the enemy were gathering their numbers. It was time to enact the First Axiom of Stealth: Be other than where the enemy believes you to be.
Falling back, Chamell and his companions sought out the shadows, slipping away into their dark embrace once more.
Ravenlord
~ Dramatis Personae ~
Vengeance Forces
Corvus Corax, Primarch of the XIX Legion ‘Raven Guard’
Gherith Arendi, Former commander of the Shadow Wardens
Soukhounou, Commander of the Hawks
Aloni Tev, Commander of the Falcons
Agapito Nev, Commander of the Talons
Branne Nev, Commander of the Raptors
Navar Hef, Lieutenant, Raptors
Devor, Raptor
Neroka, Raptor
Shaak, Lieutenant, Falcons
Balsar Kurthuri, Restored Librarian
Chamell, Shade-sergeant, Mor Deythan
Senderwat, Mor Deythan
Fasur, Mor Deythan
Korin, Mor Deythan
Strang, Mor Deythan
Arcatus Vindix Centurio, Legio Custodes
Annovuldi, Warsmith, IV Legion ‘Iron Warriors’
Noriz, Captain, VII Legion ‘Imperial Fists’
Kasati Nuon, VIII Legion ‘Night Lords’
Kasdar, X Legion ‘Iron Hands’
Damastor Kyil, X Legion ‘Iron Hands’
Nasturi Ephrenia, Strategium controller of the battle-barge Avenger
Naima Starothrendar, Baroness of Scarato
On Carandiru
Nathian, Planetary commandant
Napenna, Techmarine, XIX Legion ‘Raven Guard’
Iaento, IX Legion ‘Blood Angels’
Fajallo, Carandiru cell leader
Prologue
Carandiru
[Day of Vengeance – DV]
‘You think one legionary can take back a world?’
A burst of bolter fire accompanied the question from the Emperor’s Children warrior, ripping through the plas-board wall that separated the main floor of the auditorium from the holo-projection chamber.
Soukhounou kept perfectly still, crouched behind the bulk of the projector itself.
‘You chose the wrong allegiance,’ the traitor continued.
The Raven Guard commander listened to the tread of boots ascending bare stone steps between the rows of chairs. He tensed as they came closer. Servos wheezed as the renegade stopped just outside the door. Another burst of fire shredded a row of metal cabinets just to Soukhounou’s right. He edged to the left, moving around the projector plinth.
‘You cannot turn back the tide.’
Soukhounou was not listening to the words. As the traitor finished speaking, the Raven Guard heard the distinctive click of a magazine being ejected.
He was up and out of his hiding place in an instant, sprinting towards the wall. His pistol spat a hail of bolts, adding to the fist-sized holes already breaking the plas-board. Hitting the separating wall at full speed, he crashed through, slamming into the side of the purple-clad traitor legionary.
The Raven Guard’s impetus sent them both toppling, spinning and crashing back down the steps of the auditorium. Reaching the main floor both warriors rolled to their feet, still locked together. Soukhounou had the advantage, the fibre bundles in his armour churning with power as he drove the renegade backwards, sending both of them crashing out through high glass doors onto a broad balcony. The two Space Marines thudded against the balustrade, looking down at the square. A black banner emblazoned with the Eye of Horus hung below.
The plaza seethed with people – ordinary men and women surging across the cobbles, seemingly oblivious to the bolter and heavy weapons fire from the citadel garrison. Sporadic las-fire flashed up from the crowd but it was their numbers that were their greatest weapon. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, thronged the streets, converging on the traitor enclave. Beyond, darkness was spreading across the city, block after block engulfed in creeping shadow.
‘Not just one legionary,’ snarled Soukhounou. He freed his left hand, fist glowing as a powered blade slid from the back of his gauntlet. ‘A symbol. A message.’
He slammed the punch-dagger up into the throat of the traitor. The crowd below roared as Soukhounou tossed the corpse of the Emperor’s Children legionary over the balcony. He lifted his hand in salute. The liberation of Carandiru had begun.
Seven more
legionaries blocked Corax’s path. Five were clad in warplate painted in the livery of the Emperor’s Children; another sported deep red armour marked by the sigils of the Word Bearers; the last wore the colours of the Sons of Horus. Corax wondered what slight or crime the legionaries had committed to have been allocated such onerous duty. No warrior of the Legiones Astartes would volunteer to garrison a prison world when there was glory in battle to be won elsewhere. They did not look injured or otherwise infirm, which might have explained the need for a non-battlefield role.
It was a mystery the primarch was prepared to live with. His anger was up and he was in no mood for taking prisoners.
Three of the Emperor’s Children opened fire with their bolters, sparking rounds from Corax’s armour as he advanced into the vestibule outside the central strategium. The other two had pistols and chainswords at the ready but made no move to meet the primarch. The legionary from the Sons of Horus drew paired diamond-edged blades, but he also stayed back. The Word Bearer, helmetless, grinned fangs as he raised a plasma gun.
Corax jumped as the legionary opened fire, the blast of plasma screaming beneath the primarch as he twisted on black wings. Jump pack flaring, he covered the intervening distance in a moment, the fingers of his left hand outstretched. His gauntleted fist punched through the traitor’s chest as Corax landed, ripping through ceramite and carving open fused bone. A bolt-round snapped from the side of his helmet, and more detonated across his back and shoulder; he turned to the others, and with a flick of the wrist he threw the dead Word Bearer into one of the Emperor’s Children, knocking the Space Marine to the ground.
