Corax

by Gav Thorpe

  Unlike on that day when the civil war had begun for the Raven Guard, there was none to match Corax. No Lorgar or Night Haunter to stall his vengeance. Lightning strikes erupted from his claws as he landed, sweeping limbs and heads from the legionaries that swarmed towards him. His wings lashed out, their razor edges splitting traitorous bodies, eviscerating with each sweep of an ebon pinion.

  ‘On!’ roared Agapito, reloading his bolter. ‘Into them!’

  The Falcons, Talons, Black Guard and Raptor smooths surged into the enemy, racing over the bodies of dead Space Wolves and traitors.

  Already destabilised by the attacks on their commanders, a fresh and vengeful foe in their midst, such officers as remained amongst the Thousand Sons, Alpha Legion and World Eaters ordered a retreat. They had the advantage of numbers, of guns and tanks. There was no need to be drawn into a futile melee against a raging primarch.

  Agapito urged on his warriors, desperate to pursue. He knew that the enemy would rally and sweep all before them, given time.

  Corax had another perspective. The primarch ordered his Legion to hold, to secure the withdrawal of the last Space Wolves, and it was with a knot of anguish in his gut that Agapito complied and brought his company to a halt. Gunships continued to harry the retreating traitors, but soon they had moved into range of their anti-air guns and the Raven Guard aircraft were forced to break off.

  It was then that the orbital barrage commenced and fire rained from the heavens, driving the traitors even further back, splitting their armies, making them seek whatever shelter they could.

  The ship attack continued until midday, when Corax ordered the fleet to conserve what ammunition remained to support the final attack. Caked in dried blood, his claws still sheathed with flares of lightning, the primarch strode the ruin of the enemy army, seeking any Fenrisians that might still live, guiding the Apothecaries to the wounded.

  In time, he called his commanders to conference while the squads created a perimeter across the hillsides.

  ‘Russ is not here,’ the primarch said, perplexed.

  ‘Is he dead already?’ asked Branne. ‘Are we too late?’

  Corax said nothing to this, keeping his thoughts guarded. He turned and scoured the hills with dark eyes, then pointed to one of the distant mountain slopes.

  ‘There,’ he declared. ‘Two hearth-ships of Fenris guard a fortress. There we will find the Wolf King. Lift the shadowcast and hail our friends. I would let my brother know he does not fight alone.’

  ‘The enemy are not broken, my lord,’ said Agapito. ‘They’ll come again.’

  ‘Yes, they will,’ replied the primarch. ‘But we have a few hours. We will use them wisely.’

  ‘I am Bjorn,’ said the warrior that came forth to meet Corax. Squads of Space Wolves had assembled quickly across the battlefield, barring the route to the Fenrisian hearth-ships.

  ‘You are one of the Wolf Lords, Bjorn?’ asked Corax when the legionary motioned for the primarch to follow him towards the headquarters.

  ‘No, not a Wolf Lord,’ Bjorn’s expression darkened. ‘But the others... the Wolf Lords, think I have a wyrd upon me. My path has crossed the Wolf King’s too many times for it to be chance, so the Runepriests say.’

  ‘Wyrd? I do not recognise this term.’

  ‘A fate, you might call it. Or a curse. A geas, for good or ill, entwined with the path walked by the Lord of Winter and War. A talisman, they hope.’

  The Space Wolves formed a rough guard of honour around Corax and his commanders as they marched on the makeshift headquarters of the VI Legion. Columns of tanks and warriors were withdrawing, many thousands of Space Wolves converging from across the mountain and valley. The din of battle continued to reverberate along the slopes from further afield as more distant companies carried on the fight.

  ‘Where is your primarch?’ Corax asked, seeing no sign of his brother amongst the returning squads. ‘I would speak with Leman Russ.’

  Bjorn looked uneasy at this proposition and nodded towards the two gull-winged orbital landers.

  ‘You should come with me.’

  The Wolf Lords left, to hold conference on the defence of their last bastion on Yarant. Bjorn and other guards stood just outside the chamber, reluctantly allowing the master of the Raven Guard some privacy with his stricken brother.

  Corax glanced towards the door, assuring himself that he would not be overheard. Like his ability to pass unseen, he could mask his words from notice or recollection. Thinking about these... traits... made him even more uncomfortable.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ he whispered, still kneeling with the Wolf King cradled close to his chest. ‘We were a mistake, brother, I know that now. I see it for myself, in my own blundering. I see it in the eyes of the mistakes I created, just as surely as the Emperor sees it in ours. There is no sense of guilt, only good intentions gone bad.

  ‘But this was not meant to be. We were not meant to be. The universe is correcting itself. Expunging the infection. How could I have been blind to it for so long? Pride? Arrogance, perhaps? To think we were better, stronger, special. Horus is only following his true nature. Have we simply been denying ours?’

  Memories crowded into his thoughts, jostling for attention, each of them carrying a message so obvious in hindsight. He let out a long, rattling breath and laid his brother carefully back upon the makeshift bier. Then he stood, keeping his voice almost inaudible.

  ‘We have been touched by forces beyond the Emperor’s own design – you know this, brother, as well as I do. No good comes from that which in evil is born, no matter the purpose or cause. I look at Curze and see myself. Do you find Angron in your reflection? How thin is the veneer that keeps us loyal, keeps us civilised? But for chance, it seems, any of us might now have crossed that line. Does the line even exist, or do we simply draw it in front of us as suits our own vanity?’

  He recalled words spat at him from the lips of a dying sorcerer on the Atlas city-platform. Yes, a sorcerer. Not a psyker, not a thing of science and reason, but a wielder of the arcane, the supernatural. Such things existed even if the Emperor would deny them.

  ‘How could the Emperor create such demigods with science alone? Warriors that can withstand tank shells? Leaders whose every word must be obeyed? Creatures with powers far beyond any Thunder Warrior or legionary? Why do you think the Emperor decided not to simply recreate his children when they were lost? What unique gifts of darkness did he pass to you?’

  ‘I used to think there was righteous justice,’ he continued, his gaze moving from Russ to the warriors at the doorway. ‘That whatever I did, it served humanity. There is only one way left to aid mankind, and it does not include our survival, O King of Wolves. This is not our universe, and it never was. You cannot create legends and myths in a laboratory.’

  Other faces were in his memory, vying for attention, demanding that their messages be remembered. Nathian, the bolt-shell destroying his skull, a self-inflicted end to the turmoil. How had he known? How had Nathian seen what Corax had not?

  ‘You often spoke of the Fenrisian notion of a good death,’ said the Raven Guard. ‘If there is such a thing, I desire it. I should have taken it on Isstvan. Time and again fate presented me with opportunity, but I denied it. Against Curze and Lorgar. I could have ended their vileness. And Angron. How many has he butchered since I fled his axes?

  ‘Rational, sensible decisions, weighing advantage and cost, each time. But mistakes, all. The universe does not want us. It is unnatural that I survived.’ He sighed, thinking of Marcus Valerius and the red sash that he wore so proudly. ‘Visions. Visions sent by the Emperor? I think not. Something else guided those that rescued me. Another hand moved my warriors to intervene at Isstvan. Powers we do not willingly serve still bend us to their will through the manipulation of others. I was not meant to survive Isstvan, and all that has befallen us since is simply a correctio
n of that failing course. It is not coincidence that we are here, facing annihilation once more. This time I embrace my destiny. I will let the darkness be expunged.’

  He walked quietly to the door.

  ‘Bjorn, I would speak with your leaders.’

  Amlodhi Skarssen, named the Jarl of Fyf, bore a huge shield, two-thirds as tall as himself, circular in shape and bearing the blazon of the VI Legion in black upon a yellow field. The adamantium bore dents and cuts from savage blows that had been possessed of a strength that daunted even Corax. A Jarl of Torv, ‘Scarred’ Oki, stood with a spear of gold in his grasp. A third jarl, Sturgard Joriksson of the Rout’s Ninth Company, bore an ornate bastard sword that was as tall as he was.

  ‘You have thirty minutes,’ Corax told the assembled Wolf Lords. ‘The enemy will be upon us in half an hour. We have orbital supremacy for another sixty minutes, at least. That gives you enough time to evacuate the Wolf King and whatever warriors you have remaining. Our gunships are at your disposal as well as your own.’

  The Space Wolves looked at the primarch in disbelief.

  ‘Leave?’ laughed Amlodhi Skarssen. ‘You call into question our heritage and courage in the same breath, Ravenlord. Why would we leave, when our blades are still thirsty?’

  ‘To fight again,’ Corax said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I am giving you the chance to save yourselves. To stand on the walls of the Imperial Palace beside the Emperor himself. I will be issuing orders to my Legion. Most are going to depart. You should leave with them.’

  ‘The Allfather might be glad of the company, it’s true,’ said Ogvai. ‘But I don’t think we would be able to settle the weregeld.’

  A chill ran in Corax’s blood at those words.

  ‘The weregeld,’ explained Bjorn, speaking softly, his gaze moving constantly back to his comatose primarch, ‘is a debt in blood. An unbalancing of the scales that must be set right, ere we pass from this life.’

  ‘This is our war, Ravenlord,’ said Amlodhi. ‘This is the battle we started. These are the enemies we have made. We have no regrets. But you would deny us the right to settle the balance.’

  ‘You want to die?’ Corax looked at them all, with their war-scarred armour and defiant stares.

  ‘Do you... Ravenlord?’

  The whispered words from Leman Russ caused them all to turn in surprise. Corax felt his stomach fall away, becoming a dark abyss that he wished would swallow him. The Wolf King raised himself on one elbow and gazed at his brother. ‘Did you come here... to fight, or to die...?’

  ‘What happened to you, my brother?’ Corax asked. It was a few seconds before Russ replied, rising unsteadily to a sitting position.

  ‘Nothing that matters now.’

  He reached out, one hand to Amlodhi, the other to Oki. The Jarl of Fyf placed the Wolf King’s shield upon his arm. The other hesitated, and Sturgard stepped forward. ‘Would you not prefer your frostblade, my king?’

  ‘Not today,’ said Russ.

  ‘Are you well?’ asked Bjorn, his frown deep. ‘You hate that spear.’

  Russ chuckled, but then his face became sombre.

  ‘Do you know why? The night after the Emperor gifted me with that footlance, I had a dream. I dreamed of fire and pain, and a storm that would engulf me. I woke certain that I would die with that weapon in my hand. Was that foretelling also part of the Emperor’s gift? I don’t know, but it seemed to me that I should not ever bear the spear out of choice.’

  He gestured again for Oki to give him the weapon. The Wolf Lord hesitantly handed it over. Russ looked at Corax and tried to stand from the bier. His limbs trembled and he collapsed back, a terrible incarnation of the mind willing but the body weak.

  ‘A good death, then?’ said Corax.

  ‘If there is such a thing, brother.’

  ‘We’ll not know either way, will we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  They regarded each other in silence for a minute, neither giving away their true feelings. Corax hated the part of himself that still desired for the Wolf King to take charge, to say that they would leave and return to Terra.

  Russ grinned, toothily. ‘We each carry our past with us. Many have come to settle their arguments with me – I should not like to disappoint them.’

  He once again struggled to rise, his jarls pressing close. But the effort was too much and the Wolf King fell back, his eyes rolling closed, his breathing ragged.

  ‘He’ll give account before this is over,’ Corax assured the legionaries, but the words were an empty platitude.

  At a nod from Amlodhi, Bjorn stepped forward and took up the Wolf King’s spear. There was a moment of resistance. Russ growled. His eyes flicked back and forth beneath their lids but did not open.

  Then his fingers relaxed and Bjorn prised the weapon free. He moved to pass it to Oki but the jarl held up his hands and stepped away.

  ‘It is a wyrd-weapon. You can keep it, Bjorn the Fell-handed.’

  ‘The Wolftime is upon us,’ Bjorn muttered. He ran a gauntlet up the spear and along the golden blade, the clawed fingers of his other hand gripping the shaft tightly. ‘We’re all doomed.’

  In his shock, Agapito forgot all decorum. For a moment he cared nothing for rank or the Legion. In that instant he could do nothing but speak his mind to the man who had been a friend for many decades. ‘Leave without you? You have to be insane to think we would agree to that!’

  ‘If the Wolves can fight to the last, my lord, so can we,’ added Soukhounou with a little more tact. ‘There’s no reason we should be above such pointless gestures, too.’

  In the shadow of his Stormbird, itself dwarfed by the nearby ship, Corax prowled, as though still confined to a cell back on Deliverance. Around them, the Space Wolves made preparations for their final stand while squads of Raven Guard moved silently through the controlled anarchy of the mustering VI.

  The enemy were clearly visible on the other side of the valley. Sporadic shelling had begun testing out the resolve of the loyalists to defend their fortress, while armoured forces manoeuvred for the final thrust.

  ‘You will leave,’ he said quietly, turning his black gaze upon them. ‘I command it.’

  ‘Except for the Raptors,’ replied Arendi. ‘You want to keep the Raptors. Why is that, Branne? What is special about you?’

  The commander said nothing, his expression as dark as a storm cloud.

  ‘This is my decision,’ Corax told them. He looked straight at Arendi. ‘My will.’

  The commander of the newly formed Black Guard swallowed, fighting back a retort. He nodded to signal his acquiescence. ‘As you order, so I obey, my lord.’

  ‘You will take the rank of Legion Master, Gherith,’ Corax added, eliciting more surprise from his commanders.

  ‘That is your rank, my lord,’ Soukhounou protested quietly.

  ‘It existed before me, you know that best of all here present.’

  ‘I am honoured, but perhaps–’

  ‘It is my will!’ The primarch’s sharp retort and the flash of a claw startled them all. Corax glanced at the nearby Space Wolves and dropped his voice again. ‘Let us not pretend any further. The Raptors have no future. It is better this way. In battle, with honour, as Raven Guard legionaries.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Branne muttered. ‘Better this way. For everyone.’

  Agapito sighed and nodded his acknowledgement of their orders, and the others did so too. Corax looked at them in turn, his stare lingering, searching each for several seconds before he turned away and moved swiftly through the squads of the VI Legion.

  None of the commanders said anything as each absorbed the import of what their primarch had said.

  ‘I really thought we would rescue the Space Wolves,’ Soukhounou admitted. ‘I did not understand how deeply the darkness had settled in him.’

  ‘Yo
u must believe me, I didn’t want it this way,’ Branne told them. He avoided meeting Agapito’s gaze, his stare directed out across the gathering sons of Fenris. ‘I mean, for you all to be sent away.’

  ‘We all must die sometime,’ said Arendi, slapping Branne on the arm. ‘Be sure a tidy number of traitors go first.’

  ‘Aye. We will be sure.’

  Soukhounou shook his head. The Terran glanced between Branne and Agapito, and back again. Then he shrugged and walked away. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Brother.’ Agapito wanted Branne to look at him. ‘Brother.’

  ‘It fits, doesn’t it?’ the Raptors commander said, still watching the Wolves. ‘I plucked you all from Isstvan. Now you are the ones leaving me behind. You said I would never know what it was like waiting to die there. You’re right. How could I feel that?’

  ‘Branne...’ Agapito held out a hand, but his brother stepped away, avoiding it. He finally turned to look at Agapito.

  ‘I think about it. About that decision. So close... So close to thinking Valerius insane, to throwing him in the brig. What then? None of this! You would all be dead. I would be too. There haven’t been many of us, but we’ve made a difference, haven’t we? We’ve kept Horus and his filthy friends busy, right? But there was a moment–’

  Agapito seized hold of his brother’s breastplate and pulled him closer. ‘What happened, happened. This isn’t punishment. This isn’t levelling the balance. It’s just what happens. We’re warriors, and this is war.’

  They fell silent, hands laid upon each other’s pauldrons, eyes locked together. They had stood like that the night before the rebellion, knowing that it might be the last chance they had of fixing the image of each other in their thoughts. The memory was sharp for both of them still and, though they had both been changed in ways they had not imagined possible back then, for a minute they were naught but two brothers comforting each other on the eve of destiny.