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Corax – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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One

He had not felt this way for a long time. Not in the decades since he had fought alongside the primarch to rid his home of its technocratic enslavers had Agapito been possessed of such vigour. It burned through him, giving him strength beyond his transhuman physique, every swing of his power sword energised by the purity of his cause.

Righteousness.

It was a hatred that boiled inside the Raven Guard commander, sending him without hesitation into the slaves of the accursed Word Bearers. Following Corax on the Emperor’s Great Crusade had given Agapito purpose and determination, but the near-rage that propelled him into battle now was of an order far above duty and dedication.

It was fate that had delivered the hated foe into the hands of the Raven Guard. A chance encounter on the edge of the Cassik system – the Word Bearers caught with warp engine trouble and unable to flee. Agapito would not let the opportunity pass lightly.

This was providence, though from what higher power Agapito did not know, nor care. The slayers of his brothers would in turn be slain. The betrayal of Isstvan would be avenged, one traitor at a time if necessary. The memories of thousands of Raven Guard culled like vermin by the guns of the Word Bearers were like daggers in the commander’s chest, their piercing a goad to drive him onwards.

He spied a traitor legionary amongst the crew that had spilled forth along the corridors to defend their strike cruiser against the boarding of the Raven Guard. The sight of the Word Bearer brought back a flood of recollection: cannons and las-fire scything across the Urgall Depression, leaving scores of dead sons of Deliverance with each salvo; the vox-net swamped by the cries of the dying and the shock of treachery; warriors he had fought alongside for many years ripped from the world of the living by cold-blooded murderers.

The half-human servitors and misshapen henchmen of the traitor legionary were no obstacle, easily thrown aside by Agapito’s charge. In the confines of the strike cruiser the Raven Guard could not be matched. Agapito wreaked bloody ruin with sword and fist, slashing and punching his way into the press of mutated foes without a moment’s regard for the blades and mauls clattering from his armour.

Towering over the mass of freakish slaves, Agapito could see the Word Bearer as the traitor exhorted his minions to hurl themselves against the Raven Guard warriors. Dozens of slaves fell, their bodies rent with gruesome wounds, as Agapito and his legionaries thrust along the passage.

Breaking free from the throng, the commander paused, eyes fixed on his target as the red-armoured legionary waited a few metres away. The Word Bearer raised his chainsword to the grille of his helm, a mocking salute and a challenge to mortal combat.

Agapito was not here to duel, to exchange strike and parry in an effort to determine the worthy. He was here to avenge, to punish, to kill.

A blast from his plasma pistol seared through the armoured breast of the Word Bearer as he lowered his blade, turning ceramite and flesh to greasy slag. The Word Bearer toppled face-first to the deck as Agapito dashed onwards, carving into the sub-human creatures that served the Legion of Lorgar.

A few more seconds, a flurry of blows and shots, and Agapito was left standing over a mound of dead foes. A squad of his Talons – all survivors of Isstvan too – gathered around their leader.

‘Quadrant clear, commander,’ reported Sergeant Ashel. The legionary’s armour was coated with blood, the black paint glistening with fresh gore. He looked down at the remains of the enemy. The corpses were of men and women twisted and mutated, with eyes and skin like snakes, and sharp teeth filling wide mouths. ‘Vile filth.’

‘Not so vile as those that lead them,’ snarled Agapito.

He listened to the vox-net for a few seconds, picking out the interleaved reports and messages from other forces spreading out through the enemy strike cruiser. Squads Chovani and Kalain were encountering stiffer resistance than the others: more Word Bearers.

‘We head to starboard,’ the commander told his companions. ‘Follow me.’

‘The reactor chamber is aft, commander,’ Ashel replied, staying where he was as Agapito took a step. ‘The primarch’s orders are–’

‘The enemy are to starboard,’ Agapito snapped. ‘As are the escape shuttles. Do you wish them to elude their punishment? Have you forgotten Isstvan so quickly?’

Ashel glanced back at his squad for a moment, and shook his head.

‘For Isstvan,’ the sergeant said, lifting his bolter.

‘For Isstvan,’ Agapito replied.

Disgust welled up inside Corax as he pulled the blades of his lightning claw from the body of the crewman. The liquid that sprayed across the corridor was not human blood but a foul greenish fluid, fed through the slave from a brass cylinder riveted to his back. Many others, similarly altered, lay dead around him. At first Corax had thought the creatures mindless servitors, but the fear and desperation in their eyes had betrayed a spark of life not seen in the half-human creations of the Mechanicum. They were men and women with fully human faculties, modified and experimented upon by their Word Bearers masters.

The primarch’s disgust was not for the pitiful figures that flung themselves into his path, but for the traitors that had created them. The followers of Lorgar had become wicked, inhuman things – a twisted parody of the honourable legionaries they had once been.

In the red light of the passageway his lightning claws gleamed. Crafted by his own hand on Deliverance after the victory at the Perfect Fortress, the weapons made him feel complete again. The Raven’s Talons, his warriors called them – as much a symbol to the Legion of their determination to fight on despite their losses as they were weapons. Corax had forgone his flight pack in the close confines of the boarding action, but he felt as comfortable in the arched halls and winding corridors as he did the open skies.

He had been taught to fight in a place like this: a maze of ferrocrete and metal where every corner hid a potential foe. In the prison where he had been raised, endless passageways had become his hunting ground. He had never forgotten the lessons.

He did not head directly for the strategium but chose a less obvious path that would circumvent the strongest defences. The strike cruiser was like so many others in layout, with a central corridor running for most of the length of the ship; but Corax instead made his way along the gun decks, already ravaged by the broadsides of the Avenger as the battle-barge had closed for the boarding. In places the hull had been cracked wide, leaving the batteries open to the freezing void. The primarch, with a memorised schematic of the Avenger’s last pre-attack scan in mind, found routes around the breached sections, moving up and down through the decks to keep the defenders uncertain of the Raven Guard’s route.

With him came a company from the Avenger, but for the moment the legionaries were little more than onlookers as the primarch carved his way towards the starship’s strategium. It seemed the Word Bearers had thought it wiser to unleash their horde of mutated creations rather than face the ire of the primarch themselves.

They were not wrong.

Advancing swiftly, Corax encountered several dozen more slaves in the next gallery, armed with nothing more than wrenches, hammers and lengths of chain. Some had cybernetics grafted to them, others carried the artificial ichor-tanks he had already seen. All of them had pale skin slicked with the sweat of exertion and dread, their eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. They did not shout any war cry as they ran at the primarch, and there was resignation, perhaps even relief, in their eyes as his lightning claws slashed left and right, hewing them down by the handful.

None of the crew-creatures survived long enough to strike Corax as he waded into their midst, his energy-sheathed fists turning metal to splinters and flesh to spatters. Glancing through the windows of the gallery he saw the Avenger holding course alongside the boarded ship, and beyond that the gleam of plasma engines from the Triumph and Aeruginosis, while further away still waited the rest of the Raven Guard flotilla.

Had they arrived two or three days later the Word Bearers might have continued on their way, to wreak whatever malevolence they intended. Good fortune for the Raven Guard had brought the enemy out of the warp just a few thousand kilometres from where the Legion had been mustering. Even before the bombardment by the Raven Guard, the traitor ship had shown signs of prolonged combat, damaged warp engines amongst its more obvious battle scars. Whatever had forced the strike cruiser to travel in such a state had to be important.

So it was that Corax sought to capture the vessel and learn its secrets, rather than destroy it out of hand.

Resistance grew stronger as the Raven Guard neared their objective. Securing the chambers and halls surrounding the strategium, the primarch and his warriors created a cordon clear of enemies. The rooms were strangely devoid of decoration. On the few occasions that Corax had spent time on Word Bearers ships before the Warmaster had turned, he had marvelled at the carvings and banners, icons and murals dedicated to the celebration of the Emperor and his deeds. What must have once been the officers’ quarters were now empty shells, devoid of furnishing and embellishment, as though everything that once had lauded the Emperor had been expunged.

The strategium portals – two sets of huge double doors sealed by immense lockbolts – proved to be only a minor obstacle. Corax’s lightning claws cut through one of the doors with a few blows, sending the reinforced plasteel tumbling into the darkened command chamber.

Corax was taken aback for a moment by the quiet. He had expected a hail of fire to greet his entry, and his charge onto the mezzanine overlooking the main floor of the bridge faltered as he met no resistance.

Glancing around the chamber, the primarch was confronted by clusters of interred servitors meshed with glowing consoles, their half-dead faces and withered limbs nearly white in the glow of the static that filled the main screen. Lights winked on and off in the gloom, the red and amber of failing systems, while exposed wiring buzzed and flickered. The chamber was filled with a faint smell of decay coming from the servitors; of flesh slowly going rank, mixed with oil and rust.

‘Where are the Word Bearers?’ asked Commander Soukhounou. As he had stormed into the strategium behind Corax, he too had come to a halt, confused by the absence of foes.

‘Not here,’ was the only answer Corax could give.

His gaze was drawn to a shape swaddled in bloodied robes, pierced by many pipes and cables, at the heart of the strategium. The figure’s corpse-like thinness showed her human skeleton despite the profusion of implanted machinery. All that could be seen of her face was a slack mouth showing a few broken, yellowed teeth, the rest of her head encased in a many-faceted helm of ceramite into which passed dozens of coiled filaments.

Corax descended the steps to the main hall, his footsteps resounding across the quiet murmuring of the servitors and the buzz of poorly shielded circuits. To Corax’s amazement, the woman stirred. She raised her head as though looking at him, a small black gem fixed to the brow of the enclosing helm.

‘Release me,’ she whispered. Blood-flecked saliva drooled from between cracked lips, a dark tongue lolling across raw gums. ‘I can serve no more.’

‘We are not your captors,’ Corax told the woman as he stopped beside her. Now, closer, he saw the glint of silver thread in the tatters of her clothes. The patterns were broken, but taken together the remnants revealed the woman to be a Navigator. ‘I am Corax, of the Raven Guard.’

‘Corax…’ She breathed the name and her lips twisted into a hideous smile. ‘Grant me my death. You are the Lord of Deliverance and I need delivering from this torment.’

The primarch moved one of his energy-sheathed claws towards the Navigator, but he hesitated before granting her wish. It tore at his conscience, but a harder part of him – the part that had sent atomic charges into the cities of Kiavahr to kill thousands of innocents, and allowed him to pacify worlds resisting compliance – stayed his hand.

‘Soon, I promise you, but first I have need of answers,’ he told her. The Navigator slumped, causing the pipes and wires to rattle fiercely like the twitching of a grotesque puppet’s strings.

Before Corax could begin his questioning he diverted his attention to the vox-net, distracted by an exchange between Branne and Agapito on the command channel.

‘We can’t break through here,’ Branne was saying. ‘You were supposed to flank the forces defending the reactor, brother.’

‘I will be with you shortly,’ Agapito replied, breathing heavily. ‘One of the bastards fled, the coward. We’ll have him cornered soon.’

From long acquaintance Corax could sense Branne holding his temper in check, with some effort.

‘Reactor readings are reaching critical,’ the commander eventually responded. ‘The reactor will reach meltdown if we do not seize control of it. We can deal with the Word Bearers once the ship is secure.’

‘Agapito, what is causing your delay?’ the primarch demanded, irritated by the commander’s tardiness in completing his mission.

‘I…’ Agapito’s voice trailed away. When he spoke again a moment later, there was contrition in his voice. ‘Apologies, Lord Corax. We will make all haste to the reactor chamber.’

‘As you should have already, commander. We will speak of this later.’

‘Yes, Lord Corax. Forgive my distraction.’

‘If we are still alive in ten minutes, I will consider it,’ Corax replied. He knelt down next to the imprisoned Navigator and spoke gently. ‘I am sorry, but I must attend to another matter first. Be strong.’

He stood up and turned to Soukhounou.

‘See what you can do to slow the reactor overload from here,’ the primarch said, pointing to the engineering station where a rheumy-eyed servitor murmured a monologue of status reports. ‘I want this ship taken intact.’

Warning lights glared red along the corridors surrounding the plasma-core chamber. The accompanying sirens had been cut off abruptly from the strategium, but the ruddy gloom was a reminder to Commander Branne that the ship was far from secured.

‘Cavall, Nerror, Hok,’ Branne called out to three nearby sergeants. ‘Flank right, one deck up.’

Their squads peeled away to a stairwell as Branne led the rest of the company forwards. The waves of grotesque ship slaves had ceased for the moment, no doubt pulled back to form a last defence around the overloading reactor. Branne did not know whether that was a final act of spite from the Word Bearers, or to prevent the Raven Guard discovering the crew’s purpose in the sector. He did know that Lord Corax had issued no warning of an evacuation, and within the next one hundred and twenty seconds it would be too late for the boarding parties to escape the doomed ship.

Branne’s Raptors were fighting well and he felt a moment of pride as he watched them sweeping along the engineering deck, efficient and deadly. They had been fully blooded at the Perfect Fortress, and in later engagements against the forces of the Death Guard at Monettan, and in the seizing of several traitor Imperial Army warships that had been intercepted during an attack at Tholingeist. With each battle they gained valuable experience.

Now they had been transformed from instinctively superior fighters to disciplined, effective warriors. Even those that had been twisted by the later gene-seed mutations had surpassed their bodily difficulties, fighting as equals amongst their clean-limbed brothers. Branne had become so familiar with his charges that he barely noticed the deformities that marred them. They were all simply his Raptors, though he knew that there were others in the Legion who did not wholly trust them.

The feeling of pride passed, to be replaced by an ever-present sense of profound responsibility. The Raptors, both the perfectly formed and those that had suffered the body-altering mutations, were a new generation of Raven Guard: the future of the Legion, Lord Corax had called them. The primarch certainly had no qualms about utilising the Raptors’ abilities, enhanced by their improved Mark VI armour systems. As Corax had promised, the Raptors were treated as any other fighting force from Deliverance, given ample opportunity to prove themselves worthy as legionaries.

A huge detonation ahead shattered Branne’s contemplation. For a split second he thought the plasma wards had been breached, his Raptor squads silhouetted against the sheet of white fire erupting along walls and floor, creating a stark vignette.

The instant passed as the fire washed over Branne for several seconds. Temperature warning alerts rang in his ear but his suit’s systems were more than a match for the flames, dumping coolant from the armour’s power plant into the secondary systems. Paint blistered and bubbled and thick sweat ran from Branne’s pores, but no lasting damage was done. The conflagration passed in moments, leaving the commander to assess the damage.

‘What was that?’ he demanded, striding forwards. Ahead of him the Raptors closer to the blast had not fared so well. The broken remains of a handful of his warriors lay at the top of the stairwell where the explosion had originated.

The surviving Raptors picked themselves up and regained their senses.

‘Improvised charge, commander,’ reported Sergeant Chayvan. ‘A shell from a close-defence turret, I think.’

‘Self-terminating strike,’ added Streckel, one of Chayvan’s warriors. ‘It was being carried by one of the slaves. Insane bastard.’

‘What have they got to lose?’ replied Branne as he reached the stairs. The steps had been turned to dripping slag a dozen metres below him, the walls spattered with droplets of molten plasteel. ‘Stay vigilant. There will be more of them. I want them taken out before they can self-detonate.’

Affirmatives rang across the vox-net as Branne looked up the shaft. The flight of stairs to the upper deck had been incinerated, stranding the commander and his companions below the entryway to the main plasma-conduit chambers. He glanced at the chronometer.

Eighty seconds left. Still there had been no word from Lord Corax.

The Raptors fanned out through the corridors, auspex scanners sweeping for a stair or conveyor. There was no effort wasted on mourning the fallen; everyone knew that they would share the same fate if they could not stop the reactor overload.

There was a calm, measured fatalism about the Raptors that Branne found reassuring. Perhaps it was something about the nature of their founding, or maybe his own outlook that had shaped their demeanour. Whatever the cause, he considered the members of his company to be amongst the most sober of the XIX Legion – youthful exuberance had quickly given way to deep gravitas in the light of galactic civil war and the very likely possibility that the Raptors might be the last generation of Raven Guard to become legionaries.

Branne knew that his company would always be a step aside from the rest of the Raven Guard, despite the primarch’s words and the platitudes of the other senior officers. They were different not just physically, but in temperament also. It was nothing new. There had always been subtle divisions amongst the warriors of the Legion. There were the Terrans, who had fought alongside the Emperor himself, their legacy traced back to the start of the Great Crusade. Yet despite their proud heritage, the Terrans had never shared the same intimate bond with Lord Corax enjoyed by those who had fought for the salvation of Deliverance. The ex-prisoners, Branne amongst the many thousands who had taken part in the uprising, had taken Corax as one of their own, first as protectors and then as followers. The Terrans treated Corax with awe and respect as their gene-father, but their entire history with him was as the Emperor’s warrior-servants, never as equals.

Now the Raptors were added to the mix. They all shared two common experiences: they had been inducted into the Legion after the treachery of Horus had been revealed, and they had not suffered through the massacre at the dropsite and subsequent running battles. It was this that set them apart from both Deliverance-born and Terran. They were not warriors of the Great Crusade; they had a darker but no less vital purpose. The Raptors were trained not for the pacification of non-compliant worlds nor the eradication of alien foes, but for the simple task of destroying other Space Marines.

The Isstvan survivors were still haunted by their experience, either by anger or guilt, bearing a burden of loss that Branne could never share. Perhaps this was why Corax had chosen Branne to lead the newest recruits, sensing he would share an affinity with this untainted generation that he could never wholly regain with the massacre survivors. It would be typical of Corax’s wisdom and his keen insight into the minds of his warriors.

‘Enemy contacts, several hundred,’ reported Sergeant Klaverin from one of the lead squads. ‘More than a dozen Word Bearers leading the defence, commander.’

‘Acknowledged. Eliminate all resistance. Access to the plasma chamber is highest priority.’

Agapito hacked down another foe, the gleaming blade of his power sword slicing through flesh that was mottled a pale blue, the crewman’s strangely canine face splitting from brow to chin. The commander turned his next blow against a slave-mutant with bulging eyes and a forked tongue, driving the blade into the hideous creature’s chest.

‘One hundred metres more!’ he barked, swinging his sword to urge on the Raven Guard around him.

There had been only a handful of Word Bearers between Agapito and the reactor chamber, but that did not make progress any easier. Perhaps wishing to end their miserable lives, the deformed crew had flooded into the aft sections of the ship, using themselves as a barrier to prevent the Raven Guard accessing the reactor chamber. It was no spiteful scheme of the slaves to take the boarding parties with them, but a calculated sacrifice by the Word Bearers. The critical state of the plasma reactor could only be possible if they had started to push it into overdrive the moment that they had been discovered.

Across the vox-net Agapito heard the reports of other squads advancing to link up with Branne and his Raptors, attempting to force a coherent line through the mass of defenders so that a concerted effort could be made on the conduit chambers and engine rooms.

There had been no thought of retreat, and no intimation that they should abandon the ship. Intelligence was key to the war being waged by the Raven Guard; knowledge of where the enemy were weakest and where they were strong was essential to the strategy of Corax. The ship was too valuable to lose and Agapito fought like a berserker from the XII Legion to atone for his earlier distraction.

Eventually the Raven Guard ploughed through the press of defenders, the corridor thick with dismembered bodies behind them as they reached the passageway leading to the main reactor vault. Agapito detailed two squads to stand rearguard and led the rest, some seventy warriors, directly for the reactor control room.

An emergency blast door barred their path at the end of the corridor, but three well-placed melta bombs from the Talons blew a hole through it large enough for the armoured legionaries to pass into the heart of the engine decks.

Sergeant Chovani was the first through, just ahead of Agapito.

‘Hold fire!’ the sergeant barked, lifting his bolter out of the firing position.

Ahead of them was a Raptor squad – not fine-limbed warriors in their battleplate, but the twisted unfortunates that had survived the later gene-seed implantations by the primarch. Some were wrapped in robes, too bulky even to wear power armour. Others could still wear their suits, albeit with extensive modification.

Agapito could not help but compare the late-generation Raptors with the slave-mutants he had been slaying. Scaled skin, inhuman eyes, clawed hands, clumps of wiry hair and nodules of bone and cartilage disfigured the Raven Guard warriors. Their sergeant had a hunched look; he was still able to wear armour, but elongated ears and a ridge of bone across his brow could not be encompassed by a helm. All the skin that Agapito could see, whether furred or smooth, lizard-like or broken with warty growths, was almost white in colour. They all had jet black hair and the comparison to the bleached flesh and black eyes of Lord Corax was unavoidable.

For all their physical similarities with the ship slaves, the Raptors could not have been more different in poise and attitude. They were guarding a stairwell, attentive and alert, holding themselves up with as much bearing as their warped frames allowed. All of the physical abuses heaped upon them could not mask the pride and strength of their legionary training, but their appearance still unsettled Agapito, especially in comparison to the monstrosities created by the Word Bearers. Thinking on that did not entirely make the existence of the deformed Raptors easy to accept.

‘Commander Agapito,’ the sergeant said, bowing his head in a deferential greeting. His lips were thin and revealed dark gums and tongue as he spoke, but his voice was calm and quiet, with a youthful pitch. ‘Commander Branne is securing the reactor chamber as we speak.

‘You are?’ asked Agapito.

‘Sergeant Hef, commander. Navar Hef.’

‘Link up with my Talons, Navar,’ said Agapito, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the remnants of the door. ‘I think the enemy are broken, but there may be enough of them left to try some kind of counter-attack.’

‘Techmarines are securing the plasma wards right now, commander,’ said Hef. ‘Commander Branne said to pass word for you to meet him in the main chamber.’

I’m sure he did, thought Agapito, but out loud said, ‘Very well, sergeant. Carry on.’

Agapito turned his attention to the trio of sergeants who had joined him, awaiting their orders.

‘Lock the whole area down and link up with any other Raptors,’ he told them. ‘Nothing passes the line.’

The commander was already turning away, thoughts moving back to Branne as the sergeants voiced affirmatives and returned to their squads. The route to the main reactor took Agapito up one deck, passing two more Raptor squads guarding the stairwells, and along a short corridor. The area was well within the perimeter and he sheathed his sword and holstered his pistol as he neared the reactor chamber.

Branne met him at the doorway, stepping into the passage as Agapito strode towards the chamber, no doubt informed of his fellow commander’s approach. Branne said nothing at first, but stepped past to address the squad of Raven Guard at the end of the corridor.

‘This area is secure, move down three decks,’ Branne ordered. There were a few glances at the two commanders – it was clear that they were not being moved on for strategic reasons – but the legionaries departed without comment. The ring of their boots on the metal steps grew fainter.

‘Brother, I am s–’

Branne grabbed the lip of his brother’s breastplate in a fist and thrust Agapito against the wall.

‘Sorry is not good enough!’ Though Agapito could see nothing of his brother’s expression inside his helm, Branne’s posture and voice conveyed his rage as purposefully as any snarl or frown. ‘Our orders were simple. What happened to you?’

‘I was killing Word Bearers, brother,’ Agapito replied, trying to keep calm against Branne’s rage. ‘That’s what we do now. We kill traitors.’

Agapito moved to step out of Branne’s grasp but his brother shoved him back against the wall once more, cracking the rough plaster with the impact.

‘One minute,’ rasped Branne. ‘One more minute and we would all be dead.’

‘Do you value your life so highly?’ asked Agapito, lashing out with his words, stung by the arrogance of Branne to appoint himself as judge. ‘Perhaps you should have fought harder.’

Branne raised a gauntleted fist, arm trembling, but he did not strike the blow.

‘Corax is on this ship, brother. Did you not think of him while you were pursuing your personal revenge against the Word Bearers?’

This time Agapito did not make any attempt to control his anger. He smashed Branne’s arm aside and pushed him away, almost sending him to the deck.

‘Personal revenge? Seventy thousand of our brothers died on Isstvan Five. Do you think it is only me that desires to avenge them? And what of the other Legions? The Salamanders and the Iron Hands? Ferrus Manus was slain, probably Lord Vulkan too. Lord Corax? I watched those bastards Lorgar and Curze try to kill him while you were on the other side of the galaxy, so do not tell me that I put the primarch in danger.’

Branne stepped away, shaking his head.

‘You disobeyed orders. A direct command from the primarch. Is that what has become of you?’ The anger in his voice had become sorrow. ‘You cannot change what happened on Isstvan. Our dead brothers would not thank you for jeopardising a mission for their memory.’

‘What would you know?’ snapped Agapito. He tapped the side of his helmet with a finger. ‘You don’t have the same memories as me. You were not there, brother.’

‘A fate that you never fail to mention when given the chance,’ Branne said with a sigh. He pointed to the grey sigil that could barely be seen against the black of Agapito’s left pauldron. ‘The campaign honour for Isstvan that your Talons wear is a mark of respect for the fallen, not a badge of shame. Many died there. You did not. Be thankful. You have nothing to atone for.’

‘I am not trying to atone,’ said Agapito. He could not find the words to express the mixture of feelings that swirled inside him when he thought about the Dropsite Massacre. He gave up and turned away from his brother. ‘I do not blame you for your absence, brother, but you will never understand.’

The ravaged face of the Navigator turned towards Corax as he laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

‘Constanix,’ she whispered. ‘That is the system you seek. Now, please, release me from this bondage.’

Delving into his encyclopaedic memory, Corax recalled that Constanix II was a forge world less than fifty light years from their current position. Its allegiance in the civil war that had engulfed the Imperium was unknown, but the fact that the Word Bearers had been there, or were heading there at all, did not bode well.

‘What purpose do the traitors have there?’ he asked softly.

‘I do not know. Twice we have travelled to the system, since we escaped from Calth and dared the Ruinstorm.’

‘Ruinstorm?’ Corax had not heard the term before.

‘The tumult of the warp,’ wheezed the Navigator. ‘It is an artifice of Lorgar’s followers. They did this to me, infected me with… Turned my mind into a vessel for one of their inhuman allies to guide–’

‘Lord Corax, the ship is secured,’ announced Soukhounou. The commander had removed his helm, and a sheen of sweat across his dark skin glistened in the amber lights of the reactor displays. He ran a hand through short, curled black hair, his relief evident. His smile twisted the pale scars etched into his face; tribal tattoos that marked him out as a former praise-singer of the Sahelian League on Terra. ‘Plasma containment stabilised. Commanders Branne and Agapito are coming to the strategium to report.’

Corax nodded but did not reply, his attention returning to the broken Navigator.

‘This thing they placed inside you – is it still there?’

‘It fled.’ The Navigator shuddered and gasped, the cables and pipes piercing her flesh rattling and swaying as her whole body twitched at the thought. Still blinded by her mask, she nevertheless looked up at Corax, jaw clenched. ‘I know what you will ask of me.’

‘It is not necessary,’ said Corax. He moved his hand so that the tip of one of his claws was millimetres from her throat, just below the chin. ‘Our own Navigators can take us to Constanix.’

‘The powers entreated by the Word Bearers keep watch on the system. They will block you. They know the Kamiel, this ship, and I can take you through their wards.’ She drew in a long, ragged breath. ‘I will endure for a while longer to see the works of my tormentors ended. The malice their abuse of me has brought forth is thwarted by your efforts. The Emperor would expect nothing less.’

‘I will have my Apothecaries tend to you, as best they can.’

‘The wounds of my body are the least severe injuries I have suffered. Your Apothecaries can do nothing for the agonies heaped upon my soul. Only death will cleanse the taint.’ The Navigator straightened further, giving a glimpse of the poise and elegance she must have once possessed before the cruel attentions of the traitors had debased her. ‘I am Sagitha Alons Neortallin, and I will serve the lord of the Raven Guard as my last act.’

Corax withdrew his lightning claw and stood up. Stepping back, he bowed his head in acknowledgement of Sagitha’s sacrifice.

‘By such spirit and courage as yours will Horus be defeated. You will be honoured.’

The tramp of boots on the deck above caught Corax’s attention and he turned to see Branne and Agapito at the rail of the balcony. He gestured to Soukhounou to accompany him as he made his way up the steps. The Raven Guard who stood sentry by the strategium’s portal needed no instruction to depart, silently moving away to leave their commanders free to talk.

‘The Word Bearers have some link to the forge world of Constanix Two,’ Corax told the others. ‘For the moment we can only guess what fresh nightmares they concoct there.’

‘A dilemma,’ said Soukhounou. He looked at Branne and Agapito, whose silence betrayed fresh tension between them. ‘The fleet is ready to attack the traitors on Euesa, but it will not be a swift campaign. Whatever the Word Bearers plan for Constanix may come to fruition while we wage war on Fulgrim’s disciples.’

‘Commander Aloni and the Therions will be expecting us to reinforce their assault on Euesa – we cannot leave them unsupported,’ countered Branne. ‘All manner of trouble could await us at this forge world and substantially delay our arrival.’

‘The obvious victory is on Euesa,’ said Corax, ‘for if we can rid that world of the traitors’ influence the whole Vandreggan Reach will likely remain loyal to the Emperor. But I do not like the Word Bearers’ machinations. Constanix is strategically insignificant, a minor forge world in the scheme of the Imperium. Had the world been more prominent their purpose would be clearer, but the seizing of Constanix will do little to aid Horus’s war effort. I do not like mysteries.’

‘Any mission that sees more traitors dead is a worthwhile mission,’ said Agapito. ‘Lord Corax, we do not need all of our forces at Euesa. Let me lead some of my Talons to Constanix and the Word Bearers’ plans will be halted for certain.’

‘Our Legion is small enough,’ Branne argued, shaking his head. ‘Dividing our forces now would weaken us further.’

‘So it’s your plan to allow the Word Bearers free rein to wreak more destruction?’ snapped Agapito. He mastered his anger and turned to Corax, his tone almost pleading. ‘Lord, the traitors must be faced down at every turn, and the damage inflicted to the Emperor’s cause by the Word Bearers could be considerable if left unchecked. They spread hatred of Terra as surely as they once proclaimed their loyalty. Constanix will not be the last world they try to corrupt if we allow them to escape.’

‘I have no intention of ignoring the Word Bearers,’ replied the primarch.

‘But the attack on Euesa–’

Corax’s raised hand silenced Branne’s protest. ‘Soukhounou, what is your appraisal?’

‘Forgive me, Lord Corax, but I am sure you have already made a decision,’ Soukhounou said with a shrug. ‘I do not think my counsel will sway you to another course.’

‘You do not have an opinion?’

‘I believe it is still your intent that we should bring punishment to the rebels wherever they are encountered, lord. We should attack the foe both at Euesa and at Constanix. Or at the least, the Word Bearers’ activities should be investigated and assessed.’

‘Although Agapito may have a different motivation for wishing to pursue the Word Bearers, I approve of his strategy,’ said the primarch. He turned away from his commanders and looked across the strategium. They came up beside him, remaining silent for his orders. ‘The enemy at Euesa are well scouted and well known. Branne, Soukhounou, you are more than capable of leading the campaign with Aloni. I have every confidence that you will earn another victory for the Legion.’

‘You will not be coming with us?’ Branne was taken aback by the pronouncement.

‘My presence will be more useful with Agapito at Constanix. We shall take three hundred warriors only. Judging by the remnants of the Word Bearers that were left on this ship, we should not expect a large contingent of them to be waiting for us.’

‘And if Constanix has fallen to our enemies?’ said Soukhounou. ‘It may be a minor forge world but they will still have many thousands of Mechanicum soldiers and war machines.’

‘If opposition proves insurmountable, we shall do what we always do.’

‘Attack, withdraw and attack again,’ chorused the commanders after a moment’s pause.

‘Just so,’ Corax told them with a smile. He paused, retrieving what he knew of the forge world from the depths of his mind. ‘I shall take this vessel, recrewed from our own ships, to ensure our arrival goes unseen. Agapito, detail two hundred legionaries to accompany us. Soukhounou, I will need one hundred more of your auxiliary vehicle crews, armed as assault troops. Constanix is dominated by acidic oceans, with few sizeable land masses. There are eight major atmospheric cities kept aloft by anti-grav technologies, so we will need to think aerially. I need warriors trained with flight and jump packs, plus a full complement of Thunderhawks, Shadowhawks, Stormbirds, Fire Raptor gunships and whatever smaller assault craft the fleet can spare and will fit into the launch bays. And a team from the armoury. The Kamiel’s warp engines and other major systems need to be repaired quickly if our strike is to be timely. If we can defeat the Word Bearers with this force, all will be well. If not… Well, the Legion will have its next target.’

The commanders nodded and agreed. With a gesture, Corax despatched them to their duties but called out as they reached the main doors.

‘And Agapito, it is at least seven days’ journey to Constanix. You and I will have plenty of time to discuss your actions today.’

The Talons’ commander seemed to sag inside his armour.

‘Yes, Lord Corax,’ Agapito replied.

Two

The Shadowhawk slid silently down through the night, its black hull almost invisible against the thick clouds that blotted out the light of moons and stars. Thermal dampening vanes jutted from its cunningly faceted, oily black canopy, the drop-craft looking like a huge, broad-winged spiny beetle. Just a few dozen metres below, foam flecked the acidic seas of Constanix II, lit by the bioluminescence of indigenous bacteria. In the distance, several kilometres from the Shadowhawk’s glide path, the navigation lights of multi-hull trawlers glinted and strobed, their red and green flashes almost lost in the deluge of rain that pattered from the drop-ship’s hull. Bright wakes churned behind the ships as they ploughed back and forth, their reinforced scoop keels dredging thousands of tonnes of rich organic material for the Mechanicum’s processors and bio-laboratories.

Two kilometres ahead, floating half a kilometre above the ocean, the barge-city of Atlas drifted through the downpour, smoke and steam from its furnace-houses and foundries leaving a ruddy trail in its wake. A red glare from scores of manufactories and smelteries illuminated the heart of the seventeen-kilometre-wide edifice. Cranes and booms with amber lamps arrayed along their length sprawled from the wharfs that ringed Atlas, their orange glows little more than pinpricks in the darkness.

Between the light of the docks and the fiery aura of the city’s centre lay a gloom of smog and lightlessness. It was towards this that the Shadowhawk glided, with only the breeze whispering from its wingtips to betray its presence. The pilot guided the craft into a steep climb that turned into a swift dive, bypassing the bright quaysides and seeking the shelter of the shrouded city streets.

The quiet hum of anti-grav motors rose as the stealth lander pitched towards an area of waste ground strewn with slag heaps and the acid-scarred skeletons of ancient machines. The smog swirled heavily as it landed, the Shadowhawk nestling neatly between a great pile of discarded engine parts and a slope of rubble-littered spoil.

Swathed by darkness, the ramp at the rear of the drop-ship eased open. There was no light from within and the black-clad figures that emerged made barely a sound. Morphic treads on their boots muted their footfalls as ten Raven Guard legionaries fanned out into a perimeter around their craft. Ducking through the opening, Corax followed, his armour the colour of raven feathers, the white skin of his face obscured behind a layer of black camouflage. In his youth he had hidden his flesh with the soot of Lycaeus’s furnaces; these days a more sophisticated compound he had developed with the Mechanicum of Kiavahr served even better.

He spoke a few words, the syllables barely heard. Even had some casual observer been close enough to hear, they would have made no sense of what had been said. The primarch’s voice was a combination of wind-whispers and delicate sighs, almost indistinguishable from the keening of the breeze across the wasteland; the stalk-argot of the Legion, with which basic commands could be issued in total secrecy.

Falling into pairs, the Raven Guard spread out further while Corax made his way towards the closest buildings. The wasteland, perhaps ten hectares broad, was surrounded on three sides by high tenements. Though taller and reinforced with plasteel columns, the buildings bore a resemblance to the work habitats of Kiavahr; but the razorwire-topped fences and barred windows reminded him more of the prison complexes on Lycaeus, and the memory stirred distaste in the primarch. Feeble yellow light glowed from a handful of slit-like windows on the upper storeys, but the Raven Guard had chosen the darkest part of night to make their insertion – between midnight and dawn, when the work teams would be sound asleep in their exhaustion – and he could hear no sounds of activity.

The fourth edge of the waste ground petered out into a ferrocrete yard adjoining the empty shell of a sprawling factory. The site appeared to have been stripped of anything useful but for the walls of the buildings themselves. It was easy to conclude that Constanix II had been isolated, unable to ship in the raw materials needed for its manufactories due to the Ruinstorm and the other effects of the civil war spreading across the galaxy. The Mechanicum rulers had taken to cannibalising their own, though to what end Corax did not yet know. He was determined to find out.

Issuing an order to his warriors to guard the landing zone, and to use non-lethal force against any intruders, if possible, the primarch set off alone towards the empty factory. Beyond the grey slab walls he could see the central temple of the Mechanicum priesthood soaring up from the heart of the city, a three-hundred-metre-high ziggurat structure. Secondary turrets and bastions broke its outline and curving accessways and lifting engines further crowded its stepped levels. At the summit burned a white flame surrounded by smaller fires, massive chimneys looking like ceremonial braziers from this distance.

Clear of the wasteland, Corax headed directly through the abandoned manufactorum. The wind keened through empty windows and across half-collapsed mezzanines. The darkness was no obstacle to the primarch and he navigated across desolate spaces that had once been assembly chambers. Even the doors to the overseers’ offices had been taken, creating a vast, cavernous interior. Cracked ferrocrete separated the various work sheds, here and there covered with patches of lichen and stunted plants.

Corax realised that the rain that had fallen on the Shadowhawk since breaching the cloud layer did not blanket the city as it did the seas. Looking up at the low clouds, he could see just the faintest blur of a weather-shield protecting Atlas from the elements. It was likely not the only energy defence possessed by the barge city. Even so, the air was thick with humidity, the acrid taste bringing to mind the chemical-tainted air of an ice refinery.

The complex extended for about a kilometre – a distance quickly covered by the primarch’s long strides. Coming out of the other side of the buildings, he discovered a broad roadway that marked the inner perimeter of the factory site, potholes and wide welts in the surface showing that the poor maintenance extended beyond the manufactorum. There were no street lamps, but dim light trickled from the windows of the surrounding tenements, which rose up on either side like the walls of a ravine.

The quiet was unlike any forge world he had ever seen. Normally the Mechanicum ran their production lines day and night, shift after shift of tech-priests and labourers toiling for the glory of their Machine-God. Atlas was almost silent, starved of the ore and other materials it needed, the only sound the background electrical buzz of generators feeding the worker habs.

The primarch was here to gather intelligence, but he was at a loss for a moment regarding where to find the information he desired. The stealthy entry of the Shadowhawk had precluded any form of close-range scan that might have been picked up by the local sensor grid, so his first priority was to establish the general layout and strategic disposition of the city. Equally important was the need to find out whether the ruling elite of the Mechanicum were aligned to the Word Bearers, or if the forge world had simply suffered attack from the Kamiel.

The first would be a simple matter of navigating the city from one side to the other. Corax’s superior mind could catalogue every-thing he saw in minute detail, taking account of side routes, elevations, firing positions, choke points and everything else he needed to know. The second was a far more difficult proposition and would require either careful first-hand observation or interaction with some of the locals. For both, time was limited. He did not know when the morning labour shift would begin, but it would be within a few hours.

Corax took a pace out onto the roadway and then stopped. Someone was watching him.

He scanned the soaring blocks around him and spied a silhouette at one of the lighted windows. It was a woman, but her back was turned. She was holding a fussing child, patting him gently on the back as he gazed down wide-eyed at the giant warrior.

I am not here, Corax thought, drawing on the inner power he had to cloud his presence from the perception of others. Just as it had once worked on prison guards and traitors, his innate ability shifted him from the conscious thoughts of the child, who shook his head in confusion and then laid his cheek upon his mother’s shoulder, content.

Though powerful, his ability was not without limit. It would be better to seek a less observed route into the city. Still cloaked by his aura of misdirection, Corax activated his flight pack. Metal-feathered wings extended with a soft whirr. He took two steps and leapt into the air, the flight pack lifting him up into the smog that shrouded the rooftops of the tenements.

Alighting on the flat summit of the closest, Corax broke into a run, eyes scanning left and right to take in the layout of the city as he sprinted along the wall at the roof’s edge. Another bound took him across the road, gliding silently through the darkness like a bat.

From building to building he roamed, criss-crossing the tightly packed worker blocks as he made his way towards the heart of Atlas. Amongst the run-down slums he noticed a patch of light smeared in the fumes that blanketed the city. On artificial wings, he steered his way towards the illumination, dropping down between the hab-blocks to settle on a metal walkway overlooking the scene.

Below was a low, squat Mechanicum temple, much smaller than the main ziggurat. In shape it was a truncated pyramid, three storeys high, with yellow light spilling from arched windows that cast shadows of the skull-cog sigil of the Machine-God into the haze. Girder-like iron columns ran up the walls, becoming a vaulted scaffolding above the summit of the temple. Here brass and silver icons hung from heavy chains, glinting in the glow of forge-fire cast up from skylights in the roof, half-hidden in the polluted swirl from a dozen short chimney stacks.

The murmuring of voices, muted by thick walls, came to the primarch’s ears and from his vantage point he watched cowled figures moving past the windows on the upper storey. He left his perch and skimmed through the smog, aiming for the arched metalwork above one of the grand windows. Grasping hold of the pitted metal, he furled his wings and leaned closer.

The storey was a single chamber; at its heart a furnace burned, its shutter doors wide open to spill heat and light across the gathered tech-priests. Corax counted five standing in a group to his right, while shovel-handed servitors plodded back and forth from a fuel chute to the left, feeding the sacred fires of the Omnissiah with pale fuel cubes.

Corax looked for means of entry and exit, analysing the tactical situation. The engine and cage of a conveyor stood not far from the window and a spiral staircase on the far side of the chamber led up to the temple roof and down to the lower levels. The five tech-priests were close to each other, a single target group, and with the conveyor carriage already on this floor only the furnace-servitors offered any potential additional threat – and they looked like monotasks, incapable of performing any other action.

The ruddy walls of the temple room were adorned with inlaid precious metals wrought into alchemical sigils and formulae, sprawling equations displayed as holy texts. Centred on the furnace, the tiled floor was inlaid with an obsidian-like stone in the shape of a large gear, diamonds fashioned as skulls set into the black material on each of the twelve lugs.

Much of the room was filled with a clutter of ancient brass instruments on stands and altar-tables. Astrolabes and quadrants were set out on velvet cloths, alongside torquetums and complex orreries. Ornately etched theodolites stood in front of shelves full of alembics and spectrographs, barometers and microscopes, magnetographs and oscilloscopes, las-callipers and nanocouplers. Some were clearly replicas of far more ancient technologies, others appeared to be in functioning order. There seemed to be no pattern to the collection; a random conglomeration of artefacts of no use to the tech-priests’ work but kept in this museum out of reverence as artifices of the Machine-God.

The hoods of the Mechanicum priests swathed their faces in shadow, but the glassaic was not so thick that it barred their words from reaching the primarch. Their low voices set the window’s surface vibrating just enough for his keen ears to pick up every word, now that he was close.

‘This latest call for our resources cannot be ignored,’ one of the tech-priests said. A claw-handed cybernetic arm protruded from his left sleeve, gleaming in the furnace-light. ‘Vangellin made it clear that if we did not liquidate the Third District then he would remove us and see us condemned to servitude.’

‘Would he really turn the skitarii against his own?’ asked another. Corax identified the owner: a tall, barrel-chested individual with sapphire-like lenses shining in the shadow of his cowl.

‘More than skitarii… if the rumours from Iapetus… are to be believed,’ said a third. His breathing was laboured, the front of his robe open around a whirring, pumping machine set into his torso. Each time he spoke, pistons in the artificial lung clattered. ‘The words may come… from Vangellin, but we know… the command originates with… Archmagos Delvere. He has the support of… the Cognoscenti… and so we must obey.’

‘Delvere speaks the words of another.’ This fourth voice was artificial; clipped and metallic. ‘The Word Bearer Nathrakin shares equal blame. He is not to be trusted.’

‘Trust is irrelevant,’ said the second tech-priest. ‘Force wins all arguments.’

‘The Cognoscenti have not decreed such,’ said the fifth member of the group. He was short, no more than a metre and a half tall, his back cruelly bent and the hunch further exaggerated by a sprawl of pipes curving from his spine to canisters around his waist. ‘The skitarii are loyal but they will not follow blindly to act against their masters.’

‘It is folly to contemplate armed resistance,’ said the first tech-priest. ‘What have we to lose by compliance? The Word Bearers bring assurances from Mars. Delvere follows the will of the Fabricator General.’

‘Such assurances… can be easily… falsified. The Word Bearers seek… to defy the Omnissiah. Their creations are… abhorrent. We cannot support this in good… conscience.’

‘It is not like you, Firax, to be so dismissive of learning,’ said the first voice. ‘Lord Nathrakin has opened our research to areas we thought impossible. Are these new creations any more abhorrent than what we do for Geller fields and warp drives?’

‘Azor Nathrakin is a liar,’ said the metallic voice. ‘Pure knowledge resides not in the alternate but in the reality we inhabit. He has corrupted Archmagos Delvere’s thinking.’

‘I will not be part of this rebellion,’ said the first tech-priest, turning away.

‘Lacrymenthis… do not be hasty,’ Firax called out as the recalcitrant tech-priest headed towards the conveyor cage.

‘A rebellion against rebels,’ said the stunted one. ‘Surely a contradiction. A paradox.’

The primarch caught the look in the eyes of the dissident priest as he opened the doors of the cage. He saw conviction and defiance in that gaze and knew in an instant that he meant to betray his companions. He had seen that look in the eyes of other traitors.

He acted instantly, crashing through the window into the temple, showering broken glassaic and leading into the room. Before the tech-priests reacted he was next to the departing adept. The primarch thrust out a hand, tempering his strength so that the blow merely knocked the semi-mechanical man to the ground rather than pulverising his body.

‘Make no alarm!’ Corax barked at the others, the authority in his voice quelling their instinct to shout out. He continued before the shock of his appearance wore off. ‘I am Corax of the Raven Guard, primarch of the Emperor. We seek a similar end to the Word Bearers’ presence here.’

The servitors continued their monotonous plodding as primarch and tech-priests stared at each other, motionless. In that moment Corax calculated his next attack should the Mechanicum priests oppose him; half a dozen strides and four strikes from his lightning claws would see them all headless in two seconds.

‘The liberator… of Kiavahr,’ wheezed Firax, holding up a gnarled hand in a gesture of peace. ‘On Constanix… no less.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked the priest with sapphire eyes, motioning towards Lacrymenthis’s supine form.

‘Not yet,’ Corax replied, straightening. ‘He knows more than he has told you.’

‘Inquiry,’ said the artificially voiced tech-priest. ‘What brings the Lord of Deliverance to our planet?’

‘My entrance will bring remark from others,’ said Corax, ignoring the question as he glanced back at the shattered window and then to the conveyor. ‘Is this place safe?’

‘There are no… others,’ said the wheezing tech-priest. ‘Just the five here… and mindless servitors. I am Firax, Magos… Biologis of the Third… District. Our demesne has… fallen in favour of late and… our adepts departed.’

‘Loriark,’ said the tech-priest with the metal voice. ‘Cybernetica. Magos Senioris of this temple.’

‘I am the Magos Logistica, Salva Kanar,’ the hunchback told the primarch, pulling back his hood to reveal a misshapen, wart-marked face. He pointed at the fallen tech-priest. ‘That one is Lacrymenthis, our Cogitatoris Regular. I always thought him a lackey of Delvere, never liked him.’

Corax turned his attention to the sapphire-lensed adept, who appeared to be fixated on the unconscious tech-priest. The adept noticed the silence and looked up at Corax. Shutters blinked rapidly over his blue eyepieces in surprise.

‘Bassili, Primus Cogenitor of the Biologis,’ he said abruptly. He looked back at the downed tech-priest, shaking his head in astonishment, his voice an awed whisper. ‘Lacrymenthis was augmented well, yet you felled him as easily as an infant.’

‘I am a primarch,’ Corax answered simply. ‘He is just a man. Do you command any forces of note?’

‘Some skitarii commanders may still answer to me,’ said Loriark.

‘More may heed… the word of a… primarch,’ added Firax. ‘You are the essence… of the Omnissiah given form. Perhaps… even Delvere will… heed your words when our… protestations fall on uncaring… ears.’

‘If your archmagos shares counsel with the Word Bearers, I have no words for him,’ said Corax, lifting up a lightning claw. ‘Only deeds.’

‘Then what need have you of our warriors, when the Legion of the Raven Guard awaits your command?’ asked Loriark.

The question surprised Corax, causing him a moment’s pause. He saw expectation in the faces of the tech-priests – those whose faces were capable of movement. Loriark’s was simply a steel mask, with a respirator grille and eye holes behind which blackened orbs regarded the primarch without emotion.

‘I have enough legionaries with me for the task,’ said Corax. ‘The remainder of my Legion prosecutes the war against Horus on other worlds.’

‘And how do you propose to bring Delvere to account?’ asked Loriark, his words implacable, and though the monotone irritated Corax the truth of the question vexed him more. ‘Your fleet will annihilate Iapetus from orbit?’

‘No,’ Corax replied vehemently. That he had no fleet was irrelevant. ‘I will not condemn thousands of innocents to death so swiftly. Our fight is with the archmagos and the Word Bearers, not the people of Constanix. Such brutality is the weapon of our enemies – not the Raven Guard.’

‘You showed no such mercy to the men and women of Kiavahr,’ said the hunch-backed Kanar.

‘A necessary evil, to prevent even more casualties,’ Corax replied quietly, shaking his head. ‘The threat of greater destruction ended the war. I do not think that Delvere and this Word Bearer commander will be swayed by such measures.’

‘Perhaps you will fly to Iapetus tonight and storm the grand temple yourself?’ suggested Loriark. His artificial voice made it impossible to judge if he was being sarcastic.

‘I might consider the possibility,’ the primarch replied. ‘Perhaps it would be better to gain control of Atlas first, all things being equal. With the power of a barge-city to command we can confront Delvere on a more even footing.’

Silence followed as the primarch and his potential allies regarded each other. Corax wondered if he could trust these men – half-men. From his experience with the Mechanicum who had come to Kiavahr, he knew that their motives and agenda were different from those of pure flesh and blood. As a group they seemed to be aligned against the archmagos, but individually Corax had no measure of them or their trustworthiness.

Now that he had revealed himself, only two courses presented themselves: make alliance with the priests of this district, or kill them now. Niro Therman, one of Corax’s foster mothers on Lycaeus, had lectured the young primarch at length regarding the sanctity of life. Corax was loath to kill out of hand, but far more was at stake than the lives of five tech-priests.

Kanar seemed to have reached the same conclusion, his augmented brain thinking almost as quickly as the primarch’s.

‘We can only offer our assurances of common cause,’ said the magos, his face twisting into a puckered grimace. ‘Other than our lives there is no bond we can give you for our good conduct.’

‘We have nothing to lose,’ grated Loriark. ‘Lacrymenthis was correct in one regard: we obey the archmagos or we will be deemed enemy and destroyed. We are not alone. The cities of Pallas and Crius have moved to the southern currents, away from Iapetus, and their magokritarchs have withdrawn from the council of the Cognoscenti. We must presume the other cities are in accord with the archmagos.’

‘How many other cities?’

‘Five, including the capital. For the moment, Delvere counts Atlas amongst his friends. Magokritarch Vangellin is of the Templum Aetherica, as is the archmagos. Even now, Atlas travels the capital current towards Iapetus.’

Corax absorbed this information, comparing what he heard to what he knew of other Mechanicum societies. No two forge world authorities were ever quite the same, and the specific nature of Constanix II’s independent cities had given rise to a confederate arrangement that could be exploited. The archmagos clearly held the centre of power, but only by the accord of the Cognoscenti, who it seemed were the paramount authorities on each of the barge-cities. Unless the Word Bearers’ influence had extended far into the structure of the Mechanicum – unlikely, given that they had been present for only a short while and the tech-priests were traditionally conservative towards any outside interference – it would be possible to regain the world with the removal of Delvere and the Word Bearers.

‘Vangellin, your magokritarch, do you think he could be persuaded to align against the archmagos?’ Corax asked.

The tech-priests looked at each other, their expressions doubtful.

‘Given sufficient leverage… he may be turned against Delvere,’ wheezed Firax.

‘And the rest of the Cognoscenti, how united will they be in purpose?’ asked the primarch. ‘Would one be a natural successor to the Archmagos, loyal to our cause?’

‘Such matters are complicated,’ answered Loriark. ‘It is not for flesh to decide, but only to divine the will of the Machine-God.’

Of course it is, thought Corax, mystified that such brilliant minds amongst the Mechanicum still clung to primitive techno-theologies – the tech-guilds of Kiavahr, for all their sins, had never pretended to serve a supernatural power. That the Emperor had been forced to treat with such a superstitious cult was proof of Mars’s importance to the Imperium, though; an importance that Corax was being forced to acknowledge at that precise moment.

‘Influence is applied through a mixture of promise and threat,’ he said aloud, quoting another of his prison mentors. ‘What promises does Delvere offer that we can counter?’

‘Only one of us can perhaps answer that question,’ replied Kanar, gesturing towards the unconscious Lacrymenthis.

‘Can you wake him?’ asked Corax.

‘Easily enough,’ said Kanar. The deformed magos crossed the chamber and stooped over his fallen colleague. He reached a hand into the man’s hood, fingers passing behind the neck. Lacrymenthis spasmed once, hard enough to lift his whole body from the floor. He continued to shudder slightly, fingers and feet twitching for several moments. His metallic claw scratched across the tiles, leaving three ragged marks.

‘Cerebral re-boot,’ Kanar said by way of explanation. ‘I installed it myself.’

Lacrymenthis opened bloodshot eyes, vacant for a few seconds as they stared at the ceiling. Life returned as he sat up, actuators whirring somewhere inside his body. Corax moved into an attack stance, one hand drawn back, as the tech-priest’s gaze met the primarch’s.

‘Make sure he makes no transmission,’ Corax told the others, his deathly stare fixed on Lacrymenthis.

‘His signal to the temple circuit interface has been disconnected,’ Loriark said. ‘No alarm will be raised.’

‘Flesh is irrelevant,’ said Lacrymenthis, focusing on Corax. ‘Threat of physical torture is inconsequential. My pain receptors have been reduced to minimum input.’

‘Neural core dump renders coercion unnecessary,’ said Kanar. ‘Core function downstrip will reveal memory receptacle interfaces. Your cooperation, however gained, is surplus.’

‘Memory-core access will haemorrhage organic life processes,’ Lacrymenthis protested, flexing his metal hand. ‘Catastrophic personality failure would be irreversible. My loyalty to the wishes of the archmagos and magokritarch should not render me subject to total subjectivity termination. I sought to act to the benefit of Third District.’

‘And in doing so… acted against the… determined order… of compliance set by… your direct magos superior,’ said Firax. He waved a hand towards Corax. ‘The prospects of… the Third District’s continued… prominence and prosperity… have been altered.’

‘I am capable of altering my perception of the situation also,’ claimed Lacrymenthis. ‘It seems detrimental to the cause of the temple to defy the will of the superior force, but the presence of the primarch adjusts the parameters considerably.’

‘Misfortune for you,’ said Kanar. ‘Should logic dictate that the best interest of Third District be served by your promotion to Magos Superior, you would not hesitate to cross-connect purpose with that of Delvere once more. To change loyalty is proof that further alterations of allegiance may be forthcoming.’

‘I would rather he was not killed, if it could be avoided,’ Corax said, understanding a little of Lacrymenthis’s complaint. When the tech-priest had made his decision to break from his fellows, there had been sense in complying with the archmagos’s demands rather than being replaced by someone else who would simply enact Delvere’s wishes anyway. Corax did not wish to punish ignorance too severely.

The primarch was no stranger to moral compromise. During the uprisings in Lycaeus he had needed every able man and woman for his freedom fighters and not all of the prisoners on the moon had been political internees. Some had been justly convicted murderers, rapists, thieves and wretches of the worst order. The overthrow, of the corrupt regime had meant compromising the punishment – and justice for the victims – of these miscreants, but such was the necessity. In turn, once the techno-cults had been overthrown those that survived had been granted pardon for their deeds during the war, as Corax had been forced to promise them.

To the agents of the Mechanicum, the struggle between the forces of Horus and the Emperor might appear to be a morally ambivalent situation. Horus had done well to win the Fabricator General of Mars to his cause before his betrayal became known, and now it could not be guaranteed whether any individual forge world was a potential ally or enemy of the Raven Guard.

‘Total personality assimilation with the temple will ensure there is no misdirection or falsification,’ announced Loriark. He waved for Kanar and Bassili to seize Lacrymenthis. ‘Precision is ultimate.’

Lacrymenthis made no protest, shoulders sagging inside his heavy robe, resigned to his fate.

‘His datacore will relinquish its secrets over the next few hours, primarch,’ said Kanar. ‘If we hasten the process it could lead to data corruption.’

‘You doubt the strength of our dedication to an alliance, but how are we to know what you intend for the future of our world?’ said Loriark, turning his attention back to Corax. ‘Before we sacrifice one of our own, can you assure us that we will not suffer the same fate as Kiavahr?’

The discussion had reached an impasse, with both sides locked together by mutual need yet unable to prove the commitment required to further their plans. Corax did not like to use his Emperor-given gifts to cow others to his will – such measures were rarely lasting – but he pulled himself up to his full height, head nearly scraping the ceiling of the temple, and allowed the grandeur of his primarch essence to show. Pale flesh burned through blackened camouflage, revealing a ghost-white face, Corax’s eyes becoming orbs of utter darkness. He held up his claws: a mental command sent blue fronds of energy crackling along their length.

‘Should I wish it, I could kill you all now and depart. From here I would leave with my foes none the wiser, to return with my Legion to raze this planet and eradicate any threat it presents. No world is beyond the jurisdiction of the Emperor and his agents. Seven Legions were sent to destroy me at Isstvan, yet I survived. Do not think for a moment that this world possesses the power to destroy me. Any that move against the Nineteenth, as sure as iron rusts and flesh fails, I will see them slain by my own hand. Your need is greater than mine – do not scorn the opportunity of my presence.’

The effect on the tech-priests was immediate. Stunned by the magnificence and ferocity of the creature before them, they backed away, heads bowed to the authority of the primarch.

Corax allowed his presence to fade, reeling back the majesty of his nature behind walls of discipline and humility. The facade he had built during those years hiding amongst the prisoners of Lycaeus felt like a return to normality rather than a caging of his might. It had always been his preference to inspire his followers with deeds and words rather than force subservience through coercion. His eyes dimmed as he looked at the cowering magi.

‘Such is the threat,’ he said quietly. He held out a hand, offering reassurance and friendship. ‘The promise is to free Constanix from the coming tyranny of Delvere and the Word Bearers. Make no mistake, an alliance with their kind will doom your planet to slavery or destruction. Make your choice well.’

Click here to buy Corax.

This book is for all the Sons of Deliverance still fighting from the shadows.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2016
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover artwork by Neil Roberts.
Internal illustrations by Dominik Oedinger and Neil Roberts.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-249-3

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