by Gav Thorpe
‘Not quite,’ Corax said with a sigh. ‘We are not the force that existed before Isstvan. Less than four thousand of the old Legion remain.’
Arendi stared at the primarch, brow knotting, his expression pained. ‘I suppose it was too much to hope. We should have known. It was hard enough for us to escape. Why did we expect it would be any different for the rest of the Legion?’
‘How exactly did you leave Isstvan?’ Corax asked quietly, his dark gaze intent on the Space Marine.
‘Luck as much as judgement,’ confessed Arendi. ‘The traitors were so intent on killing they did not inspect the dead for some time. I survived until the night came and then slipped away. I knew it was too risky to broadcast on the usual Legion frequencies, but there were others who escaped, alone and in small groups. Not just Raven Guard but Iron Hands and Salamanders too. The renegades tried to hunt us down, and a few fell or gave up, but we kept on the move. Eventually we stumbled across the cargo lighters of a transport dropping supplies to one of the watchposts. We managed to take the lifter and then seized the ship in orbit.’
Arendi scratched at his brow, skin flaking away. Corax looked at the legionary properly and could see the fatigue in his eyes. Nutrient- and sleep-deprived, his skin was dry and mottled like a pale lizard, eyes bloodshot and dark-rimmed.
‘How long ago?’
Arendi shrugged.
‘Hard to say for sure. We were on Isstvan for six hundred and thirty days, give or take a few. After that, the rapid warp jumps made chronology difficult to fix. We’ve been bouncing from system to system just looking for allies or enemies, trying to do what we could to hurt the traitors.’
‘Six hundred and thirty days?’ It was Corax’s turn to be shocked, but as his surprise subsided a small measure of pride swelled up within him. ‘A remarkable achievement. What of the others, the Salamanders and Iron Hands?’
Arendi looked away suddenly and clasped his hands together, fingers knotting and fidgeting.
‘Captured, or dead, most likely.’
Corax looked at Arendi for some time, trying to reach several conclusions. He was almost certain that this was the veteran of Lycaeus that had ascended the ranks of the Raven Guard to become one of the primarch’s most trusted commanders. Everything about Arendi was authentic, from the way he talked to his scent and mannerisms. The story seemed not only plausible but unfortunate, and there was genuine hurt in the Space Marine’s eyes; hurt Corax had seen a thousand times over in the gazes of those that had departed Isstvan with him, thinking on the brothers that had been left behind.
‘It was my decision not to return to Isstvan,’ the primarch said quietly.
It was the first time that he had made such a confession out loud, though similar thoughts had been voiced by others; not out of accusation but lament.
He met the legionary’s anguished look. ‘I knew there would be other survivors, but there was a greater threat. Stopping Horus was more important.’
Arendi’s gaze hardened and his jaw tightened, but the Space Marine nodded.
‘Of course, my lord. I understand. It probably wasn’t the easiest decision.’
‘It was,’ Corax said firmly. ‘One of the simplest I have ever taken. I have never thought of any warrior as expendable – and I still do not – but I have never regretted or doubted my decision. The scales were tipped so far that there was no other choice.’
Taking in a deep breath, Arendi straightened and stood to attention.
‘And what of the prisoners at Carandiru?’
‘Do you think we should rescue them?’ Corax asked, stepping towards the door.
‘Aye, my lord, I do.’
Corax directed an inquisitive look at the legionary, so Arendi offered explanation.
‘You taught us that war is not won simply by force of arms. Some foes must be utterly annihilated, but many can be defeated in their minds long before they are broken militarily.’
‘And what bearing does that have on this mission?’
‘The converse, my lord. Even if a mission is not obviously of military benefit, it has value. If we are willing to let millions suffer torment and degradation for who can say how many years, I am not all that sure we deserve to win this war.’
It was a remarkable statement, made all the more stunning for the bluntness of its delivery. Corax had not heard the like from his warriors, and for a moment he considered admonishing Arendi for such seditious talk.
The primarch stopped himself, thinking about the traumas that Arendi must have undergone. It was no excuse for poor behaviour, but it gave the former commander an almost unique perspective. If anyone knew about the value of hope, sometimes blind hope, then it would be those men and women like Arendi who had striven in the face of hopelessness and utter defeat.
Corax laid a hand on the legionary’s shoulder, bending low to be eye to eye with him.
‘There is much to be done, so I do not promise that we will liberate Carandiru. I will, however, take heed of what you have said and bring all thought to bear on the matter.’
Arendi nodded in thanks and Corax moved away. As he reached the door, he glanced back.
‘I want to believe you, Gherith.’
‘I know,’ said the Space Marine. ‘That is why you can’t.’
‘A day, maybe less, and you will be reunited with the rest of the Legion. We are not so numerous that we need another commander, but your insight into the traitors’ workings will be much valued.’
Arendi said nothing and Corax felt his eyes on him as he left. Soukhounou was outside, obviously agitated and out of patience.
‘Is it him?’ asked the commander. ‘Can he be trusted?’
Corax did not reply immediately. It was not a simple question to answer. He thought about everything that had happened in the last few years – the treachery of Horus and others of his brothers, the Alpha Legion and their machinations, the schism of the Mechanicum – and he knew that though his instinct told him that the man in the chamber was Gherith Arendi, and that he was still loyal to the Raven Guard, such instinct and judgement could not be considered infallible.
‘Not yet,’ he said eventually, gesturing for Soukhounou to accompany him back up the corridor to the monitoring chamber. ‘But I feel he will prove true.’
‘Looks likely that we’ll know soon enough,’ said Soukhounou, as they entered the monitoring station and found Brother-Librarian Kurthuri waiting for them.
The psyker greeted the primarch with a nod and a salute, shoulders hanging heavily, his eyes weary. He had seen much employment in the past few days, probing into the minds of each new group of arrivals.
‘How goes it?’ asked Soukhounou while Corax bent to the vid-screen and watched Arendi.
‘The others are who they say they are, and they believe that the warrior who led them off Isstvan is Gherith Arendi.’ The Librarian glanced at the monitor, brow creasing. ‘There is something they are holding back, though – a secret they are reticent to share.’
‘Could you delve deeper and find it out?’ asked Corax, not looking up.
‘No, my lord, not without some preparation and even then with some risk to the subject and myself. I am not as gifted as some among the Librarius were – breaking the subconscious of a legionary requires a great deal of my willpower.’
‘Very well,’ said Corax, thinking on what Arendi had told him of the prison world. ‘I think I already know this secret. If you are able, I would appreciate it if you could test the identity of Arendi right away. I know that you must be exhausted but he is the last for now.’
‘Of course, my lord.’ Kurthuri drew in a deep breath and wiped a hand across his waxen face. With a nod to Soukhounou he left the room.
Corax adjusted the view-screen display, turning on the audio feed. They heard Kurthuri approaching and then the clank of the lock and the quiet creak of the open
ing door.
‘I know you,’ said Arendi, eyes narrowed as he stood up and looked at Kurthuri. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am here to make sure you are what you say you are, brother,’ Kurthuri said gently. ‘This should not take long and will not hurt if you do not offer resistance.’
‘You were in the Librarius! If you think you’re going to sink your teeth into my mind, you’re badly mistaken.’
Corax pressed a stud on the monitor controls, activating the speaker inside the other room.
‘Arendi, this is Lord Corax. Brother-Librarian Kurthuri is there following my orders. You will comply with every instruction he gives you.’
‘A psyker?’ Arendi looked appalled. More than that, he looked fearful. ‘I would rather not, my lord. Do you know what these psykers are capable of?’
‘They can tell me the truth,’ Corax said sharply. ‘I have had enough of your objections. If you refuse to submit to examination I will have you locked in the deepest cell on the planet.’
‘They… They hunted us with these witch-bastards, my lord! They taunted us with visions of what they had done, at the massacre, to the prisoners they took, tried to bait us out of hiding. We had to think of nothing, emptying our minds to stop them picking up the slightest echo. They turned us into mindless prey, my lord! They enjoyed it!’
Corax grimaced, but he could not relent.
‘We have a rule now, Gherith. All of those that come in must undergo psychic examination. One rule for all.’
Arendi hung his head, hands twitching. When he raised his eyes he stared at Kurthuri with surprising intensity.
‘All right, do it!’
‘Relax, brother.’ Kurthuri gestured for Arendi to sit down. The Librarian followed him to the bench and sat next to him. ‘This will be easier if there is physical contact,’ he said, his voice quiet and calm. He reached out a hand. ‘Do you mind?’
Arendi shook his head after a moment and they clasped each other’s arms, wrist to wrist. Kurthuri closed his eyes but Arendi’s were wide open, staring at the psyker.
There were no pyrotechnics, no moans or drama. Corax watched the display without wavering, even as Arendi started to tremble. He could see the legionary’s eyes beginning to glisten, on the brink of tears.
Eventually, Kurthuri opened his eyes and released him, but it was several seconds before Arendi was able to relinquish his grasp, leaving red marks in the flesh of the Librarian where his fingers had dug in.
‘Happy now?’ Arendi demanded, standing up.
Kurthuri said nothing as he left, the clang of the door signalling his exit. Corax turned his eye towards the door of the monitoring station until the Librarian entered. A raised eyebrow was all the question the primarch needed to ask.
‘He is Gherith Arendi,’ said Kurthuri. ‘His memories, his sense of self, they cannot be replicated or faked.’
Corax exhaled, realising he had been holding his breath since the Librarian had begun his test.
‘Good news, my lord,’ said Soukhounou. He looked at Kurthuri. ‘You seem unhappy about something.’
The Librarian shook his head and cast a meaningful glance at Corax and then to the commander.
‘Give us a moment,’ said the primarch, nodding towards the door. ‘Please.’
Soukhounou left them without comment.
‘He is hiding something,’ Kurthuri quietly confided when the door was closed. ‘A secret, deep where I can’t see it.’
‘Like the others?’
‘Possibly. Each is individual – there is nothing I can do to ascertain the nature of what they wish to keep from me.’
‘But are they loyal?’
‘I cannot give you a guarantee, but none of them are disloyal.’
‘What does that mean?’ Corax demanded, frowning. ‘If they are not disloyal then they must be loyal, yes?’
‘I’m sorry, but they are all harbouring a secret, my lord. A shared secret, I would guess, considering that all of them arrived together. While that remains, I cannot be one hundred per cent certain of their motives. But, for what it is worth, I detect no animosity towards us, and when I probe with images of the traitors it provokes a profound hate-response.’
‘I understand,’ said Corax. He saw that Kurthuri was almost dead on his feet. ‘Go and sleep – four full hours. If anyone disturbs you then they will answer to me.’
‘Thank you, Lord Corax.’
‘Send Soukhounou back to me when you leave.’
Kurthuri saluted and departed. A few seconds later, the commander returned.
‘So do we trust him?’ he asked.
Corax looked at the vid-screen again and knew that the decision was his alone.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Division, distrust and doubt – the three greatest plagues Horus has unleashed upon the galaxy. We could destroy the enemy overnight to the last man and still die from these wounds ten thousand years later.’
‘How can we heal the whole galaxy?’ asked Soukounou. ‘We have not yet even won the war.’
‘Perhaps the two things are one and the same,’ Corax said, almost lost in the thought. He revived his focus and looked sharply at the leader of the Falcons. ‘Find me the ranking members of the arriving groups and have them attend council in the morning. If Arendi has been passed as fit in the meantime, have him come as well.’
‘You have a plan?’ Soukhounou grinned at the thought and his enthusiasm touched Corax, who smiled back.
‘It is time to stem some of the bleeding caused by Horus.’ The primarch’s smile faded and his eyes narrowed. ‘And time to inflict some wounds of our own.’
Five
Scarato
[DV -80 days]
The leaders of the Legion remnants assembled by Corax were a mix of line officers and sergeants for the most part, the odd lieutenant amongst them – warriors of higher rank tended to have been closer to their primarchs at the outset of the civil war. Seated around a long table brought into the grand hall for the assembly, they looked at the primarch with a mixture of hope, wariness and awe.
He did not stand up, preferring not to overwhelm the delegates with his physical presence. For the same reason, he had not donned his armour but was dressed in a simple bodysuit of light grey beneath a long charcoal-coloured coat. Like the throne upon which he sat, the clothes had been made for him as a token of favour of Naima by Scaratoan craftsmen and women.
It had been a long time, over two years Terran-standard, since he had worn much else other than his armour. He had wondered what it would be like, fearing that perhaps he would feel underdressed, but in fact it allowed him to think more like a civil leader than a general.
‘Rank is irrelevant,’ Corax began. ‘The hierarchies of old, the titles of centurion and warsmith, adjutatorius and lieutenant-armourer are meaningless. For all of you, structure is a thing of memory, and tables of organisation a topic of nostalgia. The Raven Guard know this as well as you, though you are sundered from your primarchs and the upper echelons of the Legions whose liveries you bear.’
Corax gestured towards his commanders, sitting to his right.
‘This is the entirety of my command staff. Captains of the Falcons, Talons, Hawks and Raptors. My Legion numbers a few thousand warriors. A handful of companies by the old determining of strength. Many of you lead squads, and some less than that. For years now you have fought simply to survive. Some of you have tried to reach Terra or sought to reunite with your Legions but for most of us that is not an option.’ He looked pointedly at Warsmith Annovuldi of the Iron Warriors, and then to Kasati Nuon of the Night Lords and the few others representing warriors whose primarchs had sided with Horus. ‘And there are those of you that know you can never return to your Legions even when we are victorious. You have, I think, suffered the greatest betrayal of all, and I have nothing but admiration for your courage,
loyalty and determination despite the direst circumstances into which you have been plunged.’
Corax looked at his hands, laid on the polished wood of the table, pale against the dark grain. It helped to steady his thoughts. In many ways the gathering was very different from those early councils on Lycaeus, which had been held in abandoned sub-ducts and conducted in whispers. But though the environment had changed the aim was the same and he thought back to the first days of the resistance. His first task had been morale; to convince others that it was not only possible for them to overthrow their captors but to persuade them it was inevitable. He faced that same task with these broken forces. They had proven willing to fight, but he had to give them a vision of what they were fighting for, and he had to instil in them the belief that not only could they win but that their victory was assured. To do so, he drew on every fibre of his primarch being to speak with absolute authority.
‘From today a new phase of war begins. Our numbers are few compared to the might of those that oppose us, but we have weapons with a power Horus could only dream of wielding. We serve the Emperor, not ourselves, and that will give us a strength that outmatches anything the craven traitors possess. That strength will bring us allies, by the thousands, the millions, the billions. Mankind does not desire a tyrant to rule over them and – despite the efforts of the Word Bearers who proselytise his elevation as a new Emperor – the Arch-Traitor cannot hide his true nature. His followers are beasts and degenerates, pillaging and enslaving those weaker than themselves.’
Corax looked at Branne, Agapito and Arendi.
‘What is weakness?’
‘An illusion,’ said Branne, who smiled in recollection, using the primarch’s words spoken during the early days of the Lycaeus uprising. ‘It is a label oppressors use as a whip to belittle their victims. Only those that believe the lies, who refuse to see their own strengths, are truly weak.
‘And what is strength?’
‘True strength comes from knowing one’s own value is dependent upon the value of others,’ said Arendi. It had been only a short time since he and the other survivors of the primarch’s guard had arrived, but already he showed signs of returning health. His face was filling out, eyes brighter, skin smoother. ‘It is recognising the bond between us all and acting together for the cause of all.’
