by Gav Thorpe
‘We cannot leave them alive,’ Corax said heavily.
‘No, lord, but...’ Branne waved a hand at the Raptors. ‘Why them?’
The primarch studied the groups of misshapen warriors gathering around their squad leaders. Nearby their clean-limbed brother-Raptors watched in silence, standing guard over files of enemy soldiers being led out of the compound.
‘This was your assigned battlezone, commander,’ said Corax. He kept his voice quiet and calm, but he was not immune to Branne’s misgivings. ‘I know it seems cruel but it has to be this way. No special treatment. That’s what we said.’
‘Monsters to kill monsters,’ whispered Branne. ‘Is this what we’ve become?’
Corax did not share his thoughts as he watched the first of the squads descending into the complex, bestial and deformed. He replayed Nathian’s final act of spite in his memory.
Perhaps, he thought, this was what we have always been.
The Value of Fear
The whirr of the atmospheric cycling unit masked what little sound was emitted by Sergeant Ashel’s armour. He padded along the overhead gantry and took up a watch-station above the rebels’ meeting point. Easing his bolter into position, he checked the shadows cast by the huge filtration cylinders. He could see nothing, which was good, because the rest of his squad was located there, metres from the traitors’ rendezvous.
The tread of feet, two dozen, alerted him to the approach of the targets. He gave his surroundings one last glance to check that he had accounted for every light source. He was swathed in blackness, the underhive environmental stacks a perfect hunting ground. Darkness abounded, and every hab-tract was littered with scores of entries and exits.
Four days of study had located the weak points in the enemy’s perimeter. Painstakingly, Ashel and his warriors had infiltrated the target area and identified the weapon emplacements, the rat-routes, the crawl spaces and the choke points the enemy used. All had been circumvented. Now the Raven Guard had word from a turncoat within the traitor ranks – word of a meeting between the chief operatives and their weapons supplier.
His prey were heavily armed. Each had a tattoo on his cheek of a serpent’s head. Gangsters, turned to rebels by the manipulation of the Alpha Legion. Lord Corax had been adamant that the uprising on Phelderus was quelled immediately, and personally led the task force that had arrived to do just that.
The grumbling of a small motor heralded the arrival of the gun-runner. He rode a thick-wheeled trike pulling an armoured trailer. The weapons had to be inside, stolen from a watch-commorancy two days earlier. Riding on the trailer was a monstrous bodyguard with jutting tusks who wielded a brutal hammer in one hand and a shotgun in the other.
The plan was simple but effective. Remove the rebels and their supply of weapons, and work inwards towards their base, eliminating resistance in a methodical and controlled manner. Ashel whispered the command-word that would start the attack.
‘Shadowstrike.’
He opened fire, putting a single gas-propelled bolt into the eye of the ogryn. It collapsed backwards, brain turned to pulp, but the detonation was somehow contained by its thick skull. The blur of rounds criss-crossed the space between the atmospheric heat exchangers and the coolant risers. The only other noises were the panicked shouts and pained cries of the rebels to the tempo of stalker bolts punching through flesh.
The survivors of the first salvo laid about their surroundings with rapid-firing slug throwers and lasrifles. The gun-runner pulled out a plasma pistol, stupidly large in his hands. Ashel noted that it was an Imperial army issue. There would be further investigation to locate the source.
Before the weapons dealer could open fire, Ashel put two bolts into the smuggler’s chest.
The rebel leader turned and fled, leaving the fighting and dying to his minions. Ashel followed along his high vantage point, endeavouring to keep the sights of his modified bolter squarely aimed at the seditionist’s back, waiting for the moment to fire.
He felt movement beside him just as he was about to pull the trigger, a moment before the man was out of sight. Something nudged his arm as his trigger finger curled. His bolt flew past the target’s head and exploded harmlessly against a pipe support.
Snarling, he turned to confront the warrior that had interfered with his kill. He wore armour of the darkest blue, almost the black of the Raven Guard, and just as stealthy. In midnight clad, he would always claim, this wayward son of the VIII Legion. Ashel was not surprised.
‘Nuon!’
‘I just saved you from making a critical error,’ said the Night Lord.
‘Secure the area! I will pursue.’
Ashel vaulted over the rail of the gantry and landed on the ferrocrete floor four metres below. His war-plate absorbed the impact and he broke into a run. The thud of feet behind him announced the presence of Kasati Nuon just at his shoulder.
‘I ordered you to secure the area,’ Ashel hissed.
‘Better that you do not waste several days’ hard work for the sake of pride.’
The insurrectionist dodged between two plasteel pillars and disappeared. Ashel could not squeeze through the gap and was forced to sling his bolter and climb a stanchion to continue the pursuit. Nuon was just two steps behind as the rebel zig-zagged across the space between two dormant turbines.
‘If he reaches his base,’ said Ashel, ‘he will alert the defenders to our presence.’
‘Precisely.’
Ashel wondered why Commander Soukhounou had chosen him to guide the Night Lord in the ways of the Raven Guard. Nuon’s acidic tone and superior attitude had not enamoured him to his fellow squad members.
‘Didn’t you listen to Lord Corax’s axioms?’
‘Very carefully.’
‘And which part of “be other than where the enemy believes you to be” was unclear?’
The rebel dived and rolled beneath a pipeline, dropping down into a brightly lit space below. Ashel and Nuon had to follow down a metal stairway and found themselves on the platform of an abandoned transit station. A hatch between the tracks fell shut as they emerged into the high-ceilinged chamber.
‘I understand the intent, but it is narrow-minded to think that stealth solves all problems. Sometimes it is better for the foe to know exactly his predicament. Do not underestimate the value of fear.’
‘I would prefer that we found our enemies unawares, all the same,’ Ashel replied. ‘It is much easier to kill them that way.’
‘It is even easier when they have surrendered.’
They reached the hatch. Nuon lifted the cover as Ashel stood ready with his bolter. No booby-trap or sudden fire greeted them.
‘See? He flees in terror. He is their leader, so his terror will spread. He has seen shadows annihilate his men. That is a far greater weapon than stealth. It will make them cautious, defensive. Predictable.’
‘And his handlers?’ The hatch was wide enough for them to drop down into the maintenance duct beneath the rails. There was a thin covering of water and the splash of their prey’s retreating footsteps could be heard to the left. Ashel set off, his battleplate’s autosenses flicking to low light mode, the merest glimmer of movement ahead. ‘Did you think to frighten the Alpha Legionnaires that coordinate his cause?’
The rebel disappeared again – a last flutter of movement heading upwards. Ashel did not wait for a reply.
‘Be thankful that the structure of the below-city prevents long range vox-casting. If we are swift we will silence him before he can warn those in his headquarters.’
‘You should give them time to worry. We will follow him back to his lair. He is scared, not thinking properly. He will run not to his men, but to the greatest power he knows, thinking it will protect him. He will take us to the Alpha Legionnaires.’
‘And then what? I ask again, do your ‘terror tactics’ break the conditioning
of Legiones Astartes training?’
Nuon chuckled. ‘It does not have to, Sergeant Ashel. Alpharius’s sons have already broken it for us. They have turned. They have reneged on oaths firmly sworn. They have placed themselves above duty, above sacrifice. They do not know it yet, perhaps, but they want to live. When our scampering friend reaches them, they will know that it is the Raven Guard that hunt them. For the first time in many years they will hesitate. Fear does not have to send them screaming – it simply needs to dull the wits for the moment it takes to make a mistake.’
They came to the exit used by the rebel leader. A grate was left half-across the opening at the top of a short ladder. The rungs were bent, but held under the weight of Ashel as he climbed.
‘Posturing for the sake of pride,’ he said. ‘You announce your presence because you simply can’t handle the thought that you might not be recognised as the ones that hold power. Corax has taught us differently, and you need to learn quickly. We are nothing, just shadows. We do not need credit or glory. We win. That is all.’
The ladder brought them to a larger terminus building at the end of the transit line. Echoing footsteps were easy to follow, ringing back down from a stairwell directly ahead. Ashel unslung his bolter, knowing that he was just a few dozen metres from his prey. The sergeant recalled something the Night Lord had said a little earlier.
‘You would kill those that have surrendered? Why? That would make the enemy fight harder, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not if they do not find out,’ replied Nuon. ‘I would not suggest parading the fact to the survivors. In fact, treat them well and have them say as much for a few days. Dread works best in contrast to hope. Torture a few others, have them scream their confessions of resistance across the vox. They will make a compelling argument. And when the enemy capitulate, slaughter them to avoid any risk of further disobedience.’
Ashel was not sure whether to be amazed or appalled by his companion’s cold-hearted assertion. Certainly the Raven Guard had perpetrated some ruthless campaigns in their time, but the philosophies of the Night Haunter seemed purposefully callous.
‘What makes you such an expert on oathbreakers?’
‘I know that I am not one,’ Nuon replied quietly. ‘But I slew many to be here. As I said, breaking one’s oaths is a sign of weakness. I will die a warrior, not a victim.’
They fell silent as the pursuit took them into a industrial zone near the edge of the sprawling, half-buried city. There was almost no light at all, the area as abandoned as the track that had brought the Space Marines to it. The roof had collapsed in places, breaking under the weight of accumulated hab-tracts above. Broken pipes spilled fresh water and waste in streams and pools around the cracked pillars of the hive’s foundations.
On thermal scan, the fleeing rebel could be seen skulking no more than a hundred and fifty metres away, using a heavily riveted cylindrical vat as cover. Ashel could hear the man’s heavy breathing as he dragged something from his waistband and held it to his mouth.
‘A vox,’ snarled Ashel. ‘I said as much would happen.’
The rebel’s whisper still carried to the boosted senses of the genhanced legionaries.
‘They killed all my men! I’m a dead man if you don’t let me in.’
The voice that replied was muffled, distorted on purpose. ‘You have failed us. You have led the enemy to our gate and expect sanctuary. Your fate is already sealed.’
‘You don’t underst–’
Ashel saw nothing, but one moment the rebel was hissing into the vox-unit, and the next he was gone. The sergeant hurried forwards, Nuon close on his heels. Moving to the hiding spot, they found a bright splash of fresh blood sprayed up the side of the vat.
‘What happened?’ demanded the former Night Lord. ‘Where did he go?’
Before Ashel could answer, the crack of bolters broke the stillness. He responded without thought, throwing himself aside as a fusillade of rounds slammed into the nook where he had been a moment before. He rolled, seeking the source of the salvo. Muzzle flare highlighted a pair of previously hidden firing ports cut into a seemingly solid buttress about forty metres from his position. More bolts detonated against a stanchion just beside his left shoulder.
‘How do we outflank them?’ asked Nuon, from across the gap by the bolt-riddled vat.
‘Your plan didn’t extend this far, eh?’
Ashel was considering the problem when suddenly the fusillade ceased.
The sergeant waited, listening intently, but heard nothing. No sounds of reloading, no armour servos or crackle of vox signal. He peered cautiously around the stanchion. No fire greeted him.
‘They’ve gone,’ declared Nuon, moving from cover, bolter at the ready. ‘Fled, no doubt.’
The two of them located an entryway cut into the wall behind the broad buttress, and within they found a maintenance duct easily wide enough for the two of them. Crates of supplies and equipment lined one wall.
Four armoured figured lay slumped next to the boxes, their armour carved open.
Out of the darkness a narrow, pale face appeared, spattered with crimson, framed by shoulder-length hair. Nuon brought up his gun, but Ashel knocked the bolter aside.
‘Hold your fire!’
The ghostly figure resolved into Corax, primarch of the Raven Guard. He held up a bloodied claw, and Nuon backed away.
‘Your distraction was useful,’ Corax said quietly.
As swiftly as he appeared, the primarch faded into the shadows without sign or sound. In moments, Ashel knew that he was gone. Nuon was looking around the interior of the concealed bunker, clearly shaken by the encounter. The Night Lord’s roaming gaze settled on Ashel.
‘Now that is truly terrifying.’
Raptor
Initial scans showed that the crippled ship was as lifeless as a corpse. It spun slowly along its long axis as it drifted out-system, reactor dead, environmental systems compromised. Major life signals negative.
Navar Hef turned awkwardly, the bulk of his misshapen body and elongated arms inconvenient in the close confines of his ship’s bridge. His armour was a fusion of old Mark II and Mark III plate, an artifice of the Raven Guard Techmarines to fit the lieutenant’s hugely muscled form and bent spine. They had even fashioned a helm that could fit him, taken from an incomplete set of Terminator armour. It made him claustrophobic and when not in battle he kept it hanging from his belt.
The Raven Guard lieutenant looked at the data coming back from the sensors of the Fearless. Gauntlets altered to accommodate his clawed hands tapped at the panel controls. Hef spoke with deliberate care, so that the bulky tongue and fangs with which he had been afflicted did not mar his words.
‘No battle damage?’
His second-in-command, Sergeant Neroka was clean-limbed, one of the early intakes of the Raptors before the curse of mutation had taken hold in the Raven Guard recruits. Amongst themselves, the Raptors called such an untainted warrior a ‘smooth’. The sergeant turned from the navigational and weapons controls, and shook his head in reply to Hef’s question.
‘No scarring on the hull. No obvious breaches, residual radiation or shell fragments.’
‘So, a boarding action,’ Hef murmured. ‘The attackers closed in without firing a shot, daring the guns of the defenders all the way. They would have to be much larger, better protected.’
The third occupant of the small command space spoke from the communications console.
‘There is a Legion identifier transmission. Decoding now.’
To those that did not know him, Devor was an apparition dragged from a nightmare. A ‘rough’ like Hef, he possessed no skin, his muscle and blood vessels exposed to the world. He said that it caused him no pain but for the ache brought on from the tusks that sprouted from either side of his jaw. In all other respects he wore the regular Mark VI armour that was almost exclusiv
e to the Raptors contingent.
He looked up from the screen. ‘It comes out as... the Sixth! The ship belongs to the Wolves of Fenris.’
‘What are Space Wolves doing out here?’ asked Neroka. ‘I don’t recognise the exact class but it’s a rapid deployment vessel. They were in a hurry to get somewhere.’
‘What were they doing?’ Hef agreed. ‘They clearly ran into more trouble than they could handle.’
‘Maybe this is what Lord Corax sent us to find,’ suggested Devor.
‘It could be. There have been dozens of sightings and random warp-echoes picked up by the Librarians since Lord Corax issued his muster order. He didn’t give any details – the order came through Commander Branne to investigate the system based on a dream-watch by Librarian Kurthuri. The commander was not very specific and he didn’t sound hopeful. We need to take a closer look.’
Neroka returned to his position to carry out the lieutenant’s will. ‘I would guess that the Space Wolves picked up Lord Corax’s message and followed it this far before getting caught out by someone else.’
‘Guessing is for gamblers,’ said Hef. ‘Call the company to arms, full battle protocols. Unlike the Space Wolves, we’ll not be taken unawares.’
Inside the docking gantry extended by the Fearless, the hiss of the las-cutter melting through the heavy bulkhead sounded particularly loud. Hef was not sure if it was his hearing, which continued to get sharper and sharper over time, or simply the enclosed space that linked his light cruiser to the empty Space Wolves vessel.
‘We could have been aboard by now if we had taken the Storm Eagle,’ whispered Nakaska, probably thinking that his commanding officer could not hear. It was true, it had taken some skillful manoeuvring from Neroka and considerable time to exactly match the target ship’s tumbling trajectory in order for the docking to take place.
‘Would you rather we boarded with the twenty warriors that can be carried in a Storm Eagle, or our entire complement of fifty?’ Hef growled. ‘I would rather take the extra time and have the firepower to hand.’
