Contents

Cover

Deliverance Lost - Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

One

Memories of greatness
Brothers reunited
Branne’s new command

The last time he had been in the Isstvan system, his departure had been very different. Eight hundred company banners had snapped and flapped in the strong wind, displaying the company insignias of the Legion in gold, silver and white upon black backgrounds. Wings and claws of various designs fluttered amongst icons of swords and shields. The purple and dark green heather had been trampled flat beneath armoured boots, large patches of blue lichen scuffed away by countless footsteps to reveal dark earth and pale rock beneath.

Drawn up in unmoving rank and file, the legionaries of the Raven Guard filled the floor of the Redarth Valley, their Stormbirds, Thunderhawks and other drop-craft commanding the heights around them, silhouetted against an early evening sky of dark blues and purples. Trails of ragged, violet cloud stretched from horizon to horizon as if dragged across the skies by the fingers of some godly hand. The air above the army was criss-crossed with vapour trails from patrolling aircraft, and pinpricks of light moving across the heavens showed the presence of the ships in low orbit, like slow-moving shooting stars carefully observing the proceedings below.

At the head of the valley, to the north, waited the Raven Guard’s allies. In red and gold, the Therion Cohort stood beside their tanks and transports, arrayed in swathes of twilight and shadow cast by the immense Titan war machines of the Legio Victorum and the Legio Adamantus.

In front of the massed Legion waited a body of five hundred men. Most were garbed in plated carapace armour of shining black, their hoods drawn back to reveal heads of close-cropped hair, faces tattooed with swirling patterns. The soldiers’ targeter lenses gleamed red in the dusk light, gun-halberds drawn up to the salute. At their front stood the elite guard, armoured in enamelled silver, surrounding a handful of civilian dignitaries in ornate robes and coats trimmed with gold braid and heavy epaulettes.

At a signal from one of the elderly men, the soldiers and leaders as one dropped to a knee and bowed their heads to the giant figure pacing slowly out of the ranks of the Raven Guard. The man approaching the Isstvanian delegation was more than a man: he was a primarch. Lord Corax, commander of the Raven Guard, towered above his superhuman warriors, his armour as dark as the night, chased with filigreed designs of towers and ravens and intricate scrollwork. His head was bare, showing pale flesh and straight black hair that hung to the exposed collar of his ornate breastplate. A flight pack fashioned with black wings stretched from the primarch’s back, metallic feathers whistling shrilly in the breeze as he advanced. Dark eyes regarded the delegation with solemn pride.

With hands sheathed in clawed gauntlets, Corax gestured for the Isstvanians to rise.

‘You kneel as a defeated foe. Now stand as men of the Imperium,’ the primarch declared. His voice carried easily over the wind that tousled his hair across his thin face. ‘We have waged war against each other, but the Imperial Truth has prevailed and you have sworn to accept its teachings. In complying with the Emperor’s wishes you have proven yourselves men of wisdom and civilisation, fitting partners to the many other worlds you now join as part of the Imperium of Man. Not conquered, not subjugated, but free men, who have shown courage and pride in defending their values but who have seen the light of the Imperial Truth and now welcome the benefits it will bring.’

Corax turned to his Legion and his voice increased in volume, echoing to the furthest ends of the valley with little effort.

‘We have fought hard and we have fought bravely, and another world is brought from the darkness of superstition and division into the light of the Emperor’s clarity and unity,’ he told his warriors. ‘It is with honour to the fallen and respect to all who stand here that I can declare the Isstvan system brought to compliance!’

A deafening roar of approval sounded from the vocalisers of eighty thousand armoured warriors, joined by cheers drifting down from hundreds of thousands of Therion throats; a clamour which was drowned out by the celebratory blare of the Titans’ war sirens.

Almost fifteen years later, Corax had returned with his brother primarchs to bring the rebel Horus to account, but at the dropsite his former allies had shown their true colours. Turning on the Iron Hands, Salamanders and Corax’s Raven Guard, the traitors had all but destroyed those loyal to the Emperor as they had dropped on the world.

Corax had survived the treacherous ambush, though only just. With the remnants of his Legion, the primarch had attacked and retreated, pursued across the wild hills and mountains of the world by half a dozen Legions. Now the Raven Guard had been forced to stand at the last, driven into the open to face the wrath of their pursuers.

The Raven Guard’s first war at Isstvan had been a great victory. Their latest was a humbling defeat. It was a very different noise that provided the background symphony concluding Corax’s latest campaign in the Isstvan system.

The first missiles from the World Eaters’ Whirlwinds were streaking through the sky towards the Raven Guard. Corax’s legionaries refused to take shelter, proud to stand their ground against this enemy after many days of hit-and-run attacks and desperate retreat. The explosions tore through the squads, slaying dozens. Corax stood amidst it all as if in the eye of a hurricane. His officers looked to him and drew strength from his bold defiance of the World Eaters.

Caught upon the windswept mountainside his Legion remained resolute. Behind the peak stretched great salt plains that had forced them into this last, defiant stand. Ahead of them massed the might of the World Eaters, the rage-driven Legion of Angron, who strode at their head roaring for the blood of his brother primarch. A sea of blue spattered with the red of gore swept up from the valley intent on the destruction of the Raven Guard. Maddened by neural implants and driven into a battle-frenzy by inhuman cocktails of stimulants, the berserk warriors of the World Eaters pounded up the sloping mountainside while their tanks and guns provided covering fire; every warrior bellowed his eagerness to fulfil the blood oaths he had sworn to his primarch.

As explosions rocked the slopes, missiles from the Whirlwinds hammering into legionaries and rock in fountains of fire, Corax glanced up to see more vapour trails crossing the open skies, but something was wrong with their direction.

They came from behind the Raven Guard.

Corax saw broad-winged aircraft plunging down from the scattering of cloud, missile pods rippling with fire. A swathe of detonations cut through the World Eaters, ripping through their advance companies. Incendiary bombs blossomed in the heart of the approaching army, scattering white-hot promethium over the steep slopes. Corax looked on with incredulity as blistering pulses of plasma descended from orbit, cutting great gouges into Angron’s Legion.

The roar of jets became deafening as drop-ships descended on pillars of fire: black drop-ships emblazoned with the sigil of the Raven Guard. The legionaries scattered to give the landing craft space to make planetfall. As soon as their thick hydraulic legs touched the ground, ramps whined down and boarding gateways opened.

At first the Raven Guard were in stunned disbelief. A few shouted warnings, believing the drop-ships to be enemy craft painted to deceive. The comm crackled in Corax’s ear. He did not recognise the voice.

‘Lord Corax!’

‘Receiving your transmission,’ he replied cautiously, gaze fixed on the World Eaters as they recovered from the shock of the surprise attack and made ready to advance again.

‘This is Praefector Valerius of the Imperial Army, serving under Commander Branne, my lord.’ The man’s voice was stretched, thin with tension, the words snapped out like a drowning man snatching breaths. ‘We have a short window of evacuation, board as soon as you are able.’

Corax struggled to comprehend what the man was saying. He fixed on a detail – Commander Branne. The Raven Guard captain had been left in charge of the Legion’s home#world of Deliverance, and Corax had no answer to why Branne was now here at Isstvan. Adjusting quickly to the development, Corax realised that the Raven Guard who had been left as garrison were here, ready to evacuate the survivors of the massacre.

Corax signalled to Agapito, one of his commanders. ‘Marshal the embarkation. Get everybody onboard and break for orbit.’

The commander nodded and turned, growling orders over the vox-net to organise the Raven Guard’s retreat. With practised speed, the Raven Guard dispersed, the drop-ships launching in clouds of smoke and dust as soon as they were full, heading for the ship or ships that had despatched them. Corax watched them streaking back into the skies as shells and missiles fell once again on the Raven Guard’s position. An explosion just to his left rocked him with its shockwave.

Ignoring the blast, Corax glared down the slope at the approaching World Eaters and their leader. The Raven Guard primarch had resigned himself to death here at the hands of his insane brother. It would be a fitting end to fall to Angron’s blades, and there was always a slim – very slim – chance that Corax might instead cut down the World Eater and rid the galaxy of his perfidious existence.

A moment later, Commander Aloni was at his side. Like the rest of the Raven Guard, his armour was battered and cracked, a mishmash of plates and parts scavenged from fallen enemies. He had lost his helmet at some point and not found a replacement. The commander’s tanned, wrinkled face betrayed a mix of astonishment and concern.

‘Last transport, lord!’

Tearing his gaze away from Angron, Corax saw a Stormbird with its assault bay open, just a few metres away. Taking a deep breath, the Raven Guard primarch reminded himself of the teachings he had drilled into his warriors; teachings he had lived by for the whole of his life.

Attack, fall back, attack again.

This was more than a tactical withdrawal. This was surrender. It ate at Corax’s gut to depart Isstvan in such shame. Corax glanced again at the drop-ship and back at the World Eaters. They were only a couple of hundred metres away. More than seventy-five thousand of his Legion had been killed by the traitors, many of them by the berserk legionaries rushing towards him. It was a dishonour to the fallen to abandon them, but it was pointless pride to believe that he could right the wrongs done here by himself.

Attack, fall back, attack again.

Biting back his anger, Corax followed Aloni up the ramp, his boots ringing on the metal. As the ramp began to close, he looked out across the World Eaters army, baying like frustrated hounds as their prey slipped from their grasp.

‘We survived, lord.’ Aloni’s tone conveyed his utter disbelief at the truth of this. ‘Ninety-eight days!’

Corax felt no urge to celebrate. He looked at Aloni and the other legionaries sitting down on the long benches inside the transport compartment.

‘I came to Isstvan with eighty thousand warriors,’ the primarch reminded them. ‘I leave with less than three thousand.’

His words hushed the jubilant mood and a sombre silence replaced it, the only sound that of the drop-ship’s roar. Corax stood beside a viewing port, the deck rumbling beneath his feet, and looked at the hills of Urgall dropping away, picturing the thousands of fallen followers that he was leaving behind.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Agapito.

‘We do what we have always done.’ Corax’s voice grew in strength as he spoke, his words as much a reassurance to himself as his warriors. ‘We fall back, rebuild our strength and attack again. This is not the last the traitors will know of the Raven Guard. This is defeat but it is not the end. We will return.’

The cloud obscured his view, blanking it with whiteness, and he thought no more about the dead.

Corax could not bear the bleak expressions of his warriors and left to find himself a brief moment of sanctuary in the linking corridor that sloped gently up towards the cockpit. He was alone and had time to consider what had happened.

Twice in the last one hundred days he had stared death in the face and twice he had survived. He had not just been in battle; such hazard was the life of any legionary or primarch. He had been poised moments from death in a way he had never experienced before.

Stooping to prevent his head from banging the passageway ceiling, Corax turned his back to the wall and leaned back, legs braced against the opposite side of the corridor. He took off his helmet and gazed numbly at the battered grille of its faceplate before dropping the helm to the floor from weary fingers. He saw the dents and cracks in his armour, its ornate engravings pitted with bolter-round impacts, the delicate designs smeared into ruin by las-blasts and missile explosions. Beneath the plasteel and ceramite, his wounds ached. He could smell his own blood, clotted across a dozen grievous injuries.

The primarch’s keen ears could pick up the background chatter of the communications net receiver in his discarded helmet, his subconscious mind absorbing the flow of information even as his conscious thoughts drifted elsewhere. The danger was not yet over. He knew he should contact Branne and establish the facts of the situation, but could not bring himself to do so just yet. From the vox traffic, he surmised that there was a World Eaters battle-barge nearby. Listening for a few more seconds, as the vox-unit continued to relay the Traitors’ position and course, Corax discovered that the World Eaters ship had earlier been on an attack heading but was now slowly withdrawing from the Raven Guard flotilla. The primarch dismissed the threat as minimal as recent events crowded his thoughts.

Danger had been his companion since his first memories, and war had been his calling. Not once had he ever felt afraid to die, and even against the toughest enemies of the Emperor he had approached every confrontation with a certainty of survival and victory. Ninety-eight days had washed away his confidence. Nearly a hundred days of staying one step ahead of his pursuers. Nearly a hundred days of being hunted by his fellow primarchs. Ninety-eight days of constant movement, of attack and retreat, of counter-assault and withdrawal.

He shuddered as he remembered the start of that testing time, when the traitors had revealed their intent and Corax had come so close to death at the hands of Konrad Curze, his brother who took such delight from being called the Night Haunter. Corax knew himself to be numbered amongst the best fighters in the service of the Emperor, and he had never considered Curze his equal. Curze was ill-disciplined, capable of sporadic genius but equally prone to moments of emotional blindness, moments a warrior like Corax could exploit with deadly effect. Yet there had been something about the Night Haunter that had unnerved the Raven Guard’s primarch, an aura that had reached into Corax’s spirit and found weakness. The hatred of Curze had shocked him, adding to the devastation he had felt at the treachery of Horus and many of his fellow primarchs; yet it was no excuse for fleeing from Curze.

Fear. He had felt a moment of fear when confronted by his demented brother, and in the peace of the passageway he understood what it was that had caused him a moment of dread, looking into the dead eyes of the Night Haunter.

They were moulded of the same stuff, Corax and Curze, creatures born and raised in shadow and fear.

Curze had lived in the night-shrouded streets and alleys of Nostramo Quintus; Corax’s infancy had been amongst the tunnels and dungeons of the prison-moon of Lycaeus. Curze and Corax alike had seen worlds enslaved to the will of evil men, where the weak and destitute had toiled until death for the power and pleasure of others.

In that moment, subjected to the full brunt of the Night Haunter’s scorn, Corax had realised how close he might have been to becoming the creature that was trying to kill him. Their lives were the toss of a coin apart. Corax had been taken in by men learned in politics and the human heart, and they had shown him compassion and support; Curze had received no such upbringing and had become a figure of vengeance and terror.

To look at Curze had forced Corax to see himself as he might have been, shorn of the civilising influence of others and the code and principles his mentors had instilled in him. In that moment it had not been fear of Curze that had unmanned Corax but a dread of himself and, to his shame, he had fled rather than destroy the object of his dread.

Alone in that vestibule on the roaring, shaking drop-ship, Corax despised himself for his moment of cowardice. He should have stayed and fought, should have slain the Night Haunter and killed pathetic Lorgar of the Word Bearers straight after, denying the rebels two of their commanders, even though it might have cost him his life. Perhaps that was why he had been so resigned to die at the hands of Angron, to sacrifice himself to the World Eater to absolve the shame of his earlier weakness.

The door from the cockpit hissed open and Corax instantly straightened as best he could, resuming the poise of the Raven Guard primarch, Master of Deliverance and Lord of the Legiones Astartes. The co-pilot was startled by Corax’s presence just outside the door, his young face a mask of surprise.

Corax smiled to ease the youth’s shock.

‘What is it?’ asked the primarch.

‘Sorry, lord, you were not answering your vox. We have Commander Branne on the main link.’

‘Very well,’ said Corax, nodding encouragement. ‘I will speak with him shortly.’

As the co-pilot slipped back into the cockpit, Corax looked past him, through the main canopy. Ahead, the battle-barge of Commander Branne grew larger, a dark shape blotting out a swathe of stars. The Avenger, which Corax had last seen in orbit of Deliverance, was now here at Isstvan, against all expectation, a sight that lifted his spirits. Bombardment cannon turrets jutted from dorsal ridge of the ship, pointed at the world below. The weapons batteries were showing, deck upon deck of massed missile launchers and cannons bared like the fangs of a hound. The drop-ship yawed gradually, bringing the painted symbol of the Raven Guard on the battle-barge’s beaked prow into view as the pilot steered towards the gleaming light of the landing bays.

Beyond were sparks of light brighter than the stars: the plasma engines of more vessels. The pinpricks of drop-ship and shuttle jets converged on the black-liveried ships as the evacuation came to its conclusion. Already the flotilla was turning away from the planet, ready to speed out into the void with the rescued legionaries.

Corax smiled again, this time with relief. He did not understand how it was that Branne came to be here, but he was grateful for the fact. Deadly absolution at the hands of Angron would have been a righteous end, but with everything considered, Corax was glad he had survived to fight again.

Branne stood in the docking bay watching the drop-ships landing. The first ones to touch down were already disembarking their passengers. With weary steps, the survivors of the Raven Guard filed down the ramps onto the deck.

They were a terrible sight. Most showed signs of injury. Their armour was a patchwork of colours: here the silver of an Iron Warriors shoulder pad, there the red breastplate of a Word Bearer, cracked and broken, bloodied and stained. Every face Branne looked upon was etched with fatigue. Glassy-eyed, the last survivors of the dropsite massacre trudged across the loading bay, welcomed by smiles and cheers from Branne’s warriors.

Serfs came forwards with food and drink on plain metal trays, which the dull-eyed legionaries gulped and wolfed down without ceremony, replenishing superhuman bodies tested to the limit by their long guerrilla war. Shoulder pads were stripped off, weapons taken away for repair, while Apothecaries, Techmarines and their assistants tended to the most immediate issues of injury and maintenance.

Though the events that had led up to the return of the survivors were unique, the doctrine of the Legion remained the same. A battle, whether won, lost or simply survived, was history and the next battle would come soon enough. A warrior unprepared to fight again was no warrior at all. Though exhausted, their guns spent, their armour battered, their spirits stretched to breaking, the Raven Guard were in a warzone and so they took up fresh bolters and magazines of ammunition, and allowed the Techmarines and Apothecaries to render such help as was needed to allow them to fight again if the need arose.

Half-machine, half-human servitors clunked and hissed through the growing throng, bearing crates of ammunition, boxes of grenades and spare parts for Legiones Astartes power armour. Other servitors, hulking things with cranes for arms and tracks for legs, rumbled to the drop-ships, replenishing bombs and missiles from racks on trailers hitched to their metal spines.

The last of the shuttles touched down. Branne approached it as the docking ramp lowered. The first legionary out was a bizarre sight, his armour a mess of colours and bare ceramite. Only his shoulder pad, bearing the Legion’s badge, remained from his original suit. He took off his helmet and tossed it to the floor.

‘Agapito!’ Branne laughed. He slapped a hand to his true brother’s chest. ‘I knew you would be alive. Too stubborn to let something like this kill you.’

Branne looked closely at his brother, amazed by his outlandish appearance. A new scar ran from his right cheek to his throat, but beyond that it was the same face Branne had known for his whole life. Agapito returned the smile wearily. His deep brown eyes regarded Branne warmly. He reached a hand behind Branne’s head and pulled him closer. The two touched foreheads in a sign of respect and comradeship.

‘I see you have not managed to stay out of trouble, Branne.’

The commander stepped back from Agapito to see Corax descending the ramp. The primarch towered over his legionaries, his black armour showing as much wear and tear as that of those under his command.

‘I was monitoring your transmissions,’ said Corax. ‘Why did the enemy abort their attack?’

‘I have no idea, Lord Corax,’ said Branne. ‘Perhaps they thought better of taking on three vessels at once.’

‘Where are they now?’ asked the primarch.

‘They’ve withdrawn to a hundred thousand kilometres,’ Branne replied. ‘They don’t look as if they’ll try to attack again.’

‘Odd,’ said Corax. ‘Signal your other ships to make course for Deliverance.’

‘Yes, Lord Corax,’ Branne said, holding his fist to his chest. ‘And where are we to head?’

‘Terra,’ replied the primarch. ‘I must have an audience with the Emperor.’

Branne and Agapito shared a glance with each other but said nothing as Corax strode out of the docking bay. Branne looked again at his brother and saw a strange look in Agapito’s eyes. They roved around the deck, taking in every detail, settling nowhere.

‘Relax, brother,’ said Branne, slapping his hand to Agapito’s arm. ‘No enemies here. You’re safe.’

Agapito turned a distant look on Branne and nodded uncertainly. His confusion and discomfort passed and Agapito smiled, gripping Branne’s arm in return.

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Agapito. ‘I thought I would never see the inside of a Raven Guard ship again.’

A warning siren sounded three times, its piercing blare cutting through Branne’s thoughts.

‘Strategium to Commander Branne,’ a voice announced over the general address system. ‘Proximity warning. Enemy ships have altered course towards our position. Intercept estimated at five hours.’

‘Stand by to engage reflex shields,’ he replied over his vox-bead. He darted a look at Agapito, forcing an encouraging smile. ‘Well, maybe not safe just yet.’

The Avenger broke with the other two ships of the flotilla, all three vessels leaving orbit on different headings to confuse and disperse their energy trails. The other two ships, Triumph and Raven’s Valour, would head out-system before translating to the warp and their journey back to the Legion homeworld of Deliverance. Corax commanded the Avenger to make for Isstvan IV, both to confuse pursuit and with a hope of linking up with a small fleet of Therion ships Branne had despatched to that world several days earlier to misdirect the Traitor blockade of Isstvan.

The hope that the Imperial Army ships had survived was faint; the Therions had last been the target of a World Eaters armada and several other vessels. With the Raven Guard Legion and fleet on the brink of extinction, every ship and soldier was a vital asset, and after weighing up the rewards and risks, Corax judged it worth a few days to see if he could bolster his forces a little more with the Therions.

Branne had also argued persuasively that the Raven Guard had an obligation to their allies to at least attempt to link up. As much as the Therions might be a military asset, the message that those loyal to the Emperor would not be abandoned was equally important given the calamitous events that Isstvan had witnessed. Corax had made it clear to his commanders that the Avenger was now too valuable to risk without good cause, and that the search would be short. If there was any risk of discovery, the battle-barge would immediately cease the hunt and head out-system for warp transit.

As soon as the Raven Guard’s ships were far enough from the planet below to be safe from ground-based fire, they engaged their reflex shields. An innovation from the planet of Kiavahr, orbited by the home-moon of the Raven Guard, the reflex shield was a modified version of the void shields that protected most Imperial warships and installations.

A void shield worked by using the power of the warp itself to displace incoming projectiles and high-energy attacks. The reflex shield changed the modulation of the warpcores that powered the void shields, calibrating them to a much higher tolerance and turning them inwards, so that matter and energy generated by the ship was redirected instead; all forms of radiation emitted by the Raven Guard’s ships could be displaced, rendering them undetectable to scanning equipment.

The advantages of the reflex shield technology fitted well with Corax’s ethos of war, allowing Raven Guard ships to approach their targets unseen, striking swiftly and decisively before withdrawing. The low energy requirement meant that such stealth could be maintained almost indefinitely. There was, however, a serious downside to their use. By employing its void shield generators for the reflex shields, a Raven Guard vessel had no defence against physical attack and it took time to power the generators from one state to the other, leaving a ship vulnerable for several minutes with neither its cloaking field nor its energy defence fully operational, hence the swift exit from orbit.

To the augurs and scanning arrays of the Traitor bases and ships throughout the Isstvan system, the three Raven Guard ships seemed to melt away into the stars. To the naked eye they would have appeared to shimmer for a while, as the reflex shields engaged and shifted away the light reflecting from the ships’ surfaces, until eventually all such energy was being dampened and the vessels were rendered invisible.

One other problem with the reflex shield, one that Corax had unsuccessfully laboured to overcome for many years, was the low energy threshold for which it could compensate. Reactors could only be run at half power without generating too much energy to be displaced, in turn reducing top speed and blinkering the ship’s sensor capabilities. So it was that slowly, half-blind, the Avenger slipped away from Isstvan V, tracing an arc around the world until it came to its chosen heading.

The ship did not make directly for Isstvan IV, it being a doctrine of the Legion to always approach a target by an indirect route, but instead took a circuitous, zigzagging path, using a timing and distance formula devised by Corax to maximise the damping effect of the reflex shields, enough to throw off any pursuer or sensor that might somehow detect them. Corax did not believe in taking chances when it came to moving freely and unseen.

It would be several days before the Avenger would bring Isstvan IV within range of its reduced sensor screen, and Corax took the time to review the organisation of the remnants of his Legion.

Including Branne’s companies, he had a little fewer than four thousand legionaries of varying ranks and specialisations. The majority he had formed into the ‘Talons’ – tactical companies under Agapito’s command. The survivors of the various assault platoons, along with several Dreadnought-incarcerated veterans, had been banded together into the ‘Falcons’, led by Aloni Tev. Lastly, the handful of bike squads, land speeders and aircraft crews still remaining were put together under the command of Captain Solaro An, and were given the designation ‘Hawks’.

Two days out from Isstvan V, Corax called a council of his four commanders and explained the reorganisation and reassignments that would be made once the Legion was gathered again at Deliverance.

The five of them met in Branne’s chambers, given over to the use of the primarch since his arrival on the ship. The main room was plainly decorated, the plasteel walls painted a muted blue, broken only by an armour and weapons rack on which the commander’s artisan-crafted wargear would normally hang; it was empty at the moment as every legionary in the force was permanently geared for battle, so that they even slept in their armour with a bolter in their hands.

The floor was carved with a relief of the Raven’s Guard’s device – a heraldic bird with wings and claws outstretched, surrounded by a coiled chain. Upon the symbol was a table of burnished bronze-like metal, inscribed also with the insignia of the Legion, circular in shape and with vox-thieves and display stations for a dozen attendees. The screens were dull slabs of lifeless grey at the moment, their keypads and emitters dormant while silent running protocols were in effect; every watt of energy saved might prove the difference between escape and detection.

Corax stood facing the double doors that led back to the strategium, leaning forwards with his fists resting on the table. Agapito and Aloni sat to his right, Branne and Solaro to his left. As brothers, Branne and Agapito were alike, with square jaws, heavy brows and flat cheeks. Both were from the slave-prison of Deliverance and even the augmentations and manipulations that had turned them into legionaries had not completely eradicated the somewhat sallow and pitted cast to their skin. Agapito was marked out by his fresh scar, but it was the anxious flicker that occasionally crept into his gaze that bore greater testament to the harsh experience he had suffered during the dropsite massacre.

Solaro was the youngest and had been only a child when Corax had freed Deliverance from the tyrannical grip of the Kiavahran overlords. He was pale, like the primarch, with a sharp nose and thin lips, and had an air of constant movement about him. Even as he listened to his primarch, his gauntleted fingers fidgeted on the edge of the table, tapping and scratching.

Aloni was the eldest of the four, and of entirely different complexion. Born amongst the Asiatica dustfields on Terra, his skin was darker than the others, and there was a narrowness and slant to his eyes not found in children of Lycaeus. His head was shaved bald, with many gilded service studs riveted into his scalp.

‘And what is to be my purpose, Lord Corax?’ asked Branne when he realised that he had not been assigned a command.

‘You will be my Commander of Recruits,’ Corax informed him.

‘Recruits?’ Branne did not hide his disappointment. ‘But for a quirk of chance, I would have been with you on Isstvan and Aloni or Agapito would have drawn the lot to stay with the garrison at Deliverance. I would prefer a combat command, my lord.’

‘And you have it,’ replied the primarch, leaning closer to place a hand on Branne’s shoulder guard. ‘Horus and his traitorous allies will not allow us the luxury of keeping our recruits long from the fighting.’

‘With respect, lord, I am not of a disposition to be leading Scout squads,’ said Branne.

It pained him to argue with his primarch, and he feared that perhaps pride fuelled his words, but even in the couple of days since the rescue, Branne had noticed a difference growing between those who had been on Isstvan V and those who had not. The Legion once had been bound by common experience, now it seemed that the massacre and escape was a stronger bond than the Legion, one not shared by Branne and his warriors. He wanted to prove himself worthy amongst his peers, and the thought of being left on Deliverance again to marshal recruits soured his mood.

‘Perhaps I could be the captain of your guard,’ Branne continued. ‘Since Arendi was killed at the dropsite you have yet to name a successor.’

There were chuckles from the other commanders, sharing some joke that Branne did not understand. It irked him to feel so detached from his comrades.

‘I dispensed with the pretence of an honour guard,’ said Corax, not unkindly. The primarch straightened and fixed Branne with his dark, penetrating stare and the commander expected a rebuke for his stubbornness. Instead, Corax smiled slightly.

‘It is to you that I am bestowing the greatest honour, Branne,’ said the primarch. ‘As a reward for coming to our rescue, I am placing you in charge of rebuilding the Legion. There is no more important task I could give to you. In your hands will be the future of the Raven Guard.’

Branne thought about this for a moment, his confidence restored a little by Corax’s words. He looked at the others and saw them nodding in agreement with the primarch, sincerity in their expressions.

‘I accept the honour, lord, of course,’ said Branne, bowing his head. ‘But, still…’ he muttered to himself. ‘Running around with the Scouts?’

‘There will not be any more Scouts,’ said Corax, his acute hearing catching Branne’s slight whisper. ‘The existing Scout squads will become part of Solaro’s recon forces. Any of them that are close to full initiation will be given their black carapaces and taken into the Talons. Your recruits will have to learn to fight as full warriors from the outset; we do not have years to train them cautiously.’

This brightened Branne’s mood further and he felt some contentment at his allotted role. The discussion moved on to other topics, including the need to replenish the Legion’s stock of weapons and ammunition as well as its warriors. A full audit of all armour, armaments, vehicles and ships would need to be undertaken to evaluate the extent to which the Raven Guard’s claws had been dulled.

‘What of the rest of the fleet?’ asked Solaro. He looked at Branne. ‘Any sign that any of our ships escaped?’

‘Unlikely,’ said Branne. ‘A few might have been able to get away, but I would not hold out any hope. We detected no transmissions, though any Raven Guard vessel would have been running silent by the time we arrived.’

‘The Shadow of the Emperor was certainly destroyed,’ said Corax, referring to his flagship, ‘along with the escort flotilla. I received their stand-to and distress broadcasts when the Traitors opened fire. It was cut off within minutes, too soon for the reflex shields to have been raised, and against such numbers that would have been the only defence.’

Silence followed, a tension brought about by mention of the treacherous act committed by Horus and the Legions that had sided with him. Branne saw Agapito unconsciously hunch his shoulders, a distant look in his eyes. Solaro’s gauntlets formed fists on the table while Aloni bowed his head in contemplation, eyes closed.

‘The fallen will be avenged.’

Corax’s words were a whisper, but spoken with such vehemence that Branne did not doubt his primarch for a moment.

The chime of the door broke the pregnant atmosphere within the chamber. Corax operated the control and the double doors slid open to reveal a human member of the crew dressed in a white tunic and black leggings, a digital slate in his hand. Even the Avenger’s internal vox frequencies had been suspended to conserve energy usage, so that a number of the fittest serfs and crew were employed as runners to convey orders and messages around the battle-barge.

‘Forgive the intrusion, lord, masters, but Controller Ephrenia sends word that we are within nominal scanning range of Isstvan IV,’ the messenger reported.

‘Very good,’ said Corax. ‘Tell Ephrenia to divert twenty per cent reactor capacity from engines to the surveyor arrays. I will join her shortly.’

The serf bowed and left the commanders with their primarch.

‘Someone should inform Marcus,’ said Branne.

‘Marcus?’ asked Corax.

‘Praefector Valerius,’ explained Branne, ‘the ranking officer of the Therions. It was his ships and men I sent to Isstvan IV.’

Branne did not mention that it was also Valerius’s strange dreams that had eventually prompted him to come to Isstvan in the first place, overruling his primarch’s orders to garrison Deliverance. The whole matter had been unsettling for Branne, and it was something he wished to discuss with his lord in private. An occasion had not yet arisen to do so.

‘As you say,’ said Corax, gesturing for the commanders to precede him to the door. ‘Inform the praefector that we can spare seven hours to perform a sweep for his ships, no more. He is welcome to join me on the strategium during the operation.’

Branne nodded and went, leaving the chamber before the others. Three youths, two boys and a girl, stood to one side in the corridor beyond, dressed in simple tunics and hose. Branne gestured for one of them to step forwards.

‘Take a message to Praefector Valerius, ask him…’ Branne stopped himself. ‘Never mind, I will see him myself. Stand down.’

The commander turned aft and strode away quickly as the others came out of the chamber. He would have to tell Lord Corax about the dreams soon, but it would be better if Valerius did not say anything just yet. When they were away from Isstvan and the situation was calmer, the two of them could broach the thorny subject.

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This book is dedicated to the fanatics at Nineteenth Legion.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2012.
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
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Cover artwork by Neil Roberts.
Internal illustrations by John Blanche and Rachel Pierce.
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