by Gav Thorpe
The specifics themselves did not interest Corax as much as the fact that Arendi had spent some time working them out. He was impassioned, invigorated by the idea of commanding these new troops. Senior officers, those whose service dated back to the rebellion before the arrival of the Emperor, were few on the ground these days. Would any of the others really want to take command of what was, to all intents, an untested force? They might well be a yoke across the back of their commander.
‘You can have them,’ the primarch told Arendi. The legionary accepted this with a grave nod, but the hint of a smile danced at the corner of his lips.
‘We’ll have to get them some company colours,’ said Arendi. ‘What would you like, Corax?’
‘Leave them as they are,’ the primarch replied. ‘I like them as they are.’
‘All right then, we’ll be your Black Guard, my lord.’
‘I like that too,’ Corax said with a thoughtful nod. ‘You might no longer be my shadow, but you stay as close as one for now, and you do exactly as I command. My hand, your blades.’
‘Yes, my lord. As it always was.’
As he was leaving the hall, Corax’s keen hearing caught a conversation between Arendi and the new lieutenant, who was asking if he had given the right answer to the primarch.
‘The only answer worth giving,’ he heard the new commander of the Black Guard reply.
Hef followed Branne, trying hard not to knuckle along with his hands although his extended arms made it easier than staying upright. The commander had offered no explanation as to why Hef and the other Raptors had been called aboard the Avenger. The fleet had been informed that reinforcements had arrived from Deliverance; perhaps they were going to be added to the Raptors?
They passed one of the training halls and Hef saw several squads at bolter drill, moving back and forth in harmony with each other. It reminded the lieutenant of his training – cut short by the encroachment of the genetic mutation introduced into his system.
‘What was that, Navar?’ They stopped by the open door. Branne turned his head, his expression one of inquiry.
Hef realised he had let out a growl.
‘The new ones?’ Hef said to cover himself. It hadn’t been what he meant to say but the words formed differently to what he was thinking, as though there was interference between brain and mouth. He formed his next sentence with more care. ‘What is to become of the newcomers? Are the Raptors to be reinforced, sir?’
Branne shook his head.
‘No, they are now the Black Guard, apparently. Arendi has taken charge. That’s why you’ve all been recalled to the Avenger to fight for me directly. The Black Guard will be taking command of the support ships and escorts.’
‘No more Raptors,’ wheezed Hef.
‘Something of a dying breed,’ said Branne, not without sympathy. He thumped a comradely fist against Hef’s heavily modified plastron. ‘These Black Guard don’t have the heart of true Raptors, anyway. Irreplaceable, you are. Unique.’
Hef accepted this with a silent nod, but the words did not sit comfortably for him. Branne was a good commander. Diligent, disciplined and brave. But though he led the Raptors, he was not one of them. He did not know what was in their hearts, any more than Hef could know what it had been like to fight alongside the primarch to free Deliverance. More than a generation divided them; an entirely different galaxy separated their experiences even before one considered the physical changes.
‘Doomed,’ whispered Hef, before he could stop the words leaving his lips.
Branne looked at him sharply.
‘No! When Terra is free from the threat of Horus, Corax will speak with the Emperor himself. It was the Emperor’s knowledge that Corax used to bring life to the Raptors, and it is the Emperor’s knowledge that will cure you.’
The thought brightened Hef’s mood, even though losing command of the Fearless was a disappointment. Given the occasional lapses that had troubled Hef of late – not that he had mentioned them to anyone – perhaps it was for the best.
‘Time to tell the others of their new duties,’ said Branne. He moved off along the corridor.
Hef lingered for a few seconds more, watching the Black Guard go through their drills. Four years. Four years separated him from them, the gulf as wide as the century that separated Hef from Branne. Too swiftly the hope of the future became the mistakes of the past.
Then another thought occurred. Perhaps if they travelled to Terra he would actually come to meet the Emperor. Cheered by this possibility, Hef hurried after his commander.
Branne could see the Glory of Therion through the viewports of the shuttle. The Imperial Army transport, commissioned at the outbreak of the civil war, was larger than the Avenger. Its slab sides contained over three hundred holds, launch bays, barracks, medicae facilities and strategic command halls. Beyond stretched the rest of the Therion Cohort, dozens of ships carrying thousands of troops and war machines. Despite its bulk the Glory of Therion was purely a transport and bore less firepower than a strike cruiser – hence the line of battleships and grand cruisers that glittered a few thousand kilometres away.
‘It’s big,’ said Branne.
‘Yes,’ said Corax, lost in thought. ‘Big.’
The leader of the Raven Guard had been distracted since they had dropped into the Pallas System for the rendezvous. He could only guess at what occupied his primarch. The commander tried another tack to engage Corax.
‘Is this ceremony really necessary, my lord? Couldn’t we have just translated, signalled to the vice-Caesari and carried on?’
‘The ceremony is important, Branne. Therion and Deliverance have long-standing bonds that should be renewed on occasion.’
Branne decided that the straightforward approach would serve best.
‘What concerns you, my lord? You have spoken barely ten words since we met this morning.’
‘I have much to think about,’ said the primarch. ‘Perhaps I need to concentrate rather than engage in chatter with my warriors.’
Chastened, Branne held his silence for the rest of the journey.
A guard of honour fifty strong waited for the primarch and Branne. Arendi and a squad of his new Black Guard joined them from the main compartment as they set foot on the Therion vessel.
‘If you would follow me, Lord Corax,’ said an officer with a half-cape and sash, the clasp that connected them indicating the rank of a tribune.
Branne stepped forward and examined the officer closely.
‘Pelon? Marcus made you tribune?’
‘The vice-Caesari did, Commander Branne,’ said the officer. He lowered his voice. ‘I still prepare his meals and wash his laundry, all the same. No command status...’
A gentle cough from Corax reminded them of his presence and the Therion tribune bowed and waved a hand for Corax to follow before heading towards the flight bay doors.
‘A novelty to be the one granted audience for a change,’ remarked the primarch as they stepped into the corridor and turned after Pelon.
Just as Corax had not long before guided the Iron Father to council, now the tribune led the primarch to one of the mustering halls of the Glory of Therion. A thousand warriors and more awaited the contingent from the Raven Guard, a full quarter of them officers from the attendant regiments and vessels. They stood to attention and lifted their weapons in salute as Corax stepped into the immense chamber. To one side, standing atop a small stage, Marcus Valerius waited.
He was in his thirties, as far as such things could be guessed, handsome and aristocratic from the lineage of Old Earth. Clean-shaven, the vice-Caesari was heavily tanned, his eyes bright against the dark of his flesh, the gold of his cuff stark against exposed hands that were crossed with thin lines of pale scar tissue. He held a rod of office at his hip, and a laspistol and sabre hung on his belt.
Pelon peeled away t
o the ranked soldiers and the vice-Caesari dropped to one knee, head dipped, when Corax ascended the flight of steps with two strides. Standing again, Valerius lifted a fist to his chest plate. A deafening crash resounded across the hall as the Therions followed suit and raised their voices in a single wordless shout of praise.
‘Hail Corax,’ boomed Valerius. ‘Hail the saviour of Deliverance, Commander of the Raven Guard, honoured bylord of Therion!’
Corax took the salute of the Therions in silence, his expression grave. Valerius looked tiny compared to the primarch, overwhelmed by the physical presence of Corax even more than a legionary. It was like an infant looking up at an adult.
‘How many?’ the primarch asked.
‘Twenty-three thousand fighting men and women, my lord,’ Valerius replied. ‘Three armoured battalions, one artillery regiment, three air wings – one bomber and two mixed-purpose. Carried on fourteen transporters escorted by three deep void squadrons with full crew and orbital assets.’
‘That’s a lot of soldiers,’ said Branne. ‘Where have you been hiding them?’
Valerius smiled.
‘Good to see you, Commander Branne. The Therion Cohort has been receiving constant reinforcements for the past two years. Our motherworld is generous, and the loyal Mechanicum happen to supply the arms and vehicles we need in return for protection against their traitor priests.’
‘You are fortunate,’ said Corax.
‘Blessed, you might say,’ said the vice-Caesari. ‘We stand ready to serve the Emperor and defend the Throneworld with even greater vigour than Therion itself.’
‘We’re not going to Terra,’ said Branne with a shake of the head.
‘We’re not?’ Marcus Valerius regained his composure quickly. ‘Where...?’
‘Our next battlezone is under review,’ Corax told Marcus. He turned away and started back towards the doors. The Black Guard hurried after, taken by surprise by their leader’s sudden departure. The long ranks of Therions held aloft their arms again at the bark of their officers. Arendi darted a quick look at Branne and followed.
‘With twenty-three thousand Imperial soldiers in tow,’ Branne said, ‘I’ll bet you the Avenger against this shiny new ship he’s not planning a sneak attack.’
If not for the support of his power armour, Balsar Kurthuri would have been stooped as he made his way back to the Librarius chamber of the Avenger. Reaching the threshold of the sanctum hall he set his shoulders and took a deep breath. The other Librarians needed to see him full of vigour despite the arduous labours they had undertaken.
He touched a gauntleted finger to the lock of the door and sent a psychic signal. A minute buzz of power flickered along the crystal runelock and a moment later came the heavy thud of a bolt dropping. Kurthuri pushed at the door and it swung easily on its hinges, allowing him to step into the sanctum.
Hard-edged runic shapes lined the walls. They gently glowed with power that pulsed in time with the background rhythm of the Geller field that enveloped the warp-drifting battle-barge. To Kurthuri it was like stepping from a room filled with a babbling crowd into solitude and silence.
Two others of his select brotherhood waited for him. They sat on the benches at the centre of the hall, facing each other, heads bowed. Fara Tek was an old veteran of the uprising, his face lined with age despite his Space Marine physiology. They had long familiarity, beginning with the shared experience of the experiments by the Kiavahrans on those that had shown unusual talents. Both had spent time on the Red Level of the prison before Corax had rescued them with his rebellion.
The other was also a native of Deliverance, Syth Arriax, discovered by the Librarius not long before the treachery of Horus. Though less than thirty Terran years old, Syth looked twice that age, his grey eyes heavy with forced experience and hard-won wisdom.
Neither looked up as Kurthuri approached but he felt the touch of their awareness on his mind.
‘I was not expecting you, Fara,’ he said aloud. It was better to speak openly in this place – the warded walls kept psychic energy in as well as without and the hall acted like an echo chamber on telepathic communication. ‘When did you arrive from the Kosmoz?’
‘An hour ago, Balsar, my dear comrade.’ Fara did not move but a stroke of welcoming psychic power briefly touched Kurthuri’s thoughts. ‘I have something I need to share with you.’
‘You spoke to the primarch?’ said Syth.
‘I have been in council with him for the past three hours, yes.’ Kurthuri sat next to Syth. The younger Librarian looked at him finally. Balsar sighed. ‘He will not go to Beta-Garmon. He is adamant.’
‘But the signs... The calls are overwhelming!’ There was a pleading look in Syth’s eyes – an expression Kurthuri had never thought to see on a Space Marine. ‘If he could but hear... Every waking moment it is there. You told him? You told him of the voices crying out, of the endless war?’
‘I told him all of it,’ Kurthuri replied sharply. ‘As I promised I would. He will not go to Beta-Garmon.’
‘Perhaps he is right not to,’ Fara said quietly. He turned to face the Chief Librarian and reached out a hand, inviting Balsar to grasp it. ‘I captured this a few minutes before I left the Kosmoz. I thought it better if you accepted it directly.’
‘What is it?’ Kurthuri asked, his fingers still a few centimetres from gripping Fara’s hand. ‘A broadcast? An intercept?’
‘I am not sure. I do believe I was intended to receive it.’
Kurthuri laid his hand on the palm of the other Librarian and allowed their thoughts to merge. From among the subconscious froth rose a memory, like a landscape resolving into focus; it became larger and sharper until it encompassed Kurthuri. Fara set the recollection free and it drifted into Kurthuri’s mind, seeping into his thoughts like water into sand.
Fara’s memory became his memory.
Background noise. The swirl of the storm that had beset the galaxy for more than half a decade. Quieter now than the roar that had erupted from its creation. Lessened strength and long familiarity turned it to little more than static – annoying but no longer harmful. As one tunes the vox to a specific channel, so Kurthuri filtered out the sibilant rush.
In its place he recognised the phenomenon that had beset the warp for thousands of light years around Beta-Garmon. The immaterium was alive with broadcasts and messages and visions, as though the metaphorical vox set had been placed in a room with thirty others, a hundred others, all tuned at different frequencies. All were ciphered, little more than shrieks, babbles and distortion. Glimpses of visions snaked around the edges of Fara/Kurthuri’s awareness. Colour, movement. Nothing more distinct.
He felt as well as saw, heard and smelled. Anger. Fear. A lot of fear, the Terror. A dread of war so great, the ripple of bloodshed that could drown worlds. And blackest fate. A blanketing darkness, a possibility of the end of all things, the defeat Fara/Kurthuri despised and feared more than any other. The Astronomican silenced, stilled, gone forever.
The potential death of the Emperor rippled back through time, a looming shadow on their thoughts that had grown starker of late.
But it was not this that Fara/Kurthuri headed towards.
A piercing howl, a light of a bright flame. One and the same, they pierced the gloomy tumult.
A wolf at bay, surrounded by hounds and foul beasts.
And laughter. A cruel cackle, a booming guffaw, a heartless chuckle.
Through the dusk light slipped a lone silhouette, a wolf with ears drawn back, tail sagging, blood gushing from the wounds on its flanks.
But waiting in the darkness was something terrible, something vast and many-headed. Serpentine and doused in crimson gore, its eyes crackled with lightning.
‘Where?’ whispered Kurthuri as he took his hand away. He blinked, the face of his companion swinging in and out like a reflection of a settling pool.
>
‘I could not tell,’ said the other Librarian.
‘It has to be the Wolf King,’ said Kurthuri. ‘Where is Russ? What has happened?’
‘I tried to find it again,’ said Syth, ‘but even the echo has been swallowed by the maelstrom coming out of Beta-Garmon. I did find something else though. The trail of a wolfship nearby, one of the Rout’s strike cruisers, I think. It was calling for help. Not far, no more than ten light years. They might know where we could find Leman Russ.’
Kurthuri pushed himself up, invigorated by the news. He needed to see the primarch again.
The first spread of bombardment shells took the enemy ship just ahead of its engines, while raking fire from the Word Bearers batteries raked across the prow of the Providence. Void shields sparked and sputtered, engulfing the Raven Guard battle-barge stem to stern with wavering blossoms of purple and white.
‘Keep on them,’ Agapito told his crew. ‘Cripple their engines.’
The Word Bearers ship fired its manoeuvring thrusters hard, trying to brake its progress and turn to keep the Providence within the arc of its starboard gun decks. Targeting with its dorsal array, the Raven Guard ship had no such issue and continued to lay continual fire into the other vessel as it passed a few hundred kilometres beneath it. Rolling a quarter-turn about its axis, the Providence brought its own broadside to bear and unleashed a blistering cannonade of laser and plasma to accompany the bombardment shells.
Vented gases and bursts of energy bloomed from hull breaches around the stern of the enemy vessel. After another salvo the tubes of the engines fell dark.
‘Steering, keep us below that ship. Gunnery, laser weapons only. Cut them apart.’
‘Where are they going?’ asked the ship’s regular commander, Captain Khira, while his bridge staff complied with Agapito’s orders. He referred to the Space Wolves strike cruiser that still headed on a direct course for the fourth world in orbit around the star simply marked on the charts as SV-87-7.
