Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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THE HORUS HERESY

Gav Thorpe

DELIVERANCE LOST

Ghosts of Terra

original release by tehbeard

edited by fractalnoise

v1.0 (2012.01)

The Horus Heresy

It is a time of legend.

The galaxy is in flames. The Emperor’s glorious vision for humanity is in ruins. His favoured son, Horus, has turned from his father’s light and embraced Chaos.

His armies, the mighty and redoubtable Space Marines, are locked in a brutal civil war. Once, these ultimate warriors fought side by side as brothers, protecting the galaxy and bringing mankind back into the Emperor’s light. Now they are divided.

Some remain loyal to the Emperor, whilst others have sided with the Warmaster. Pre-eminent amongst them, the leaders of their thousands-strong Legions are the primarchs. Magnificent, superhuman beings, they are the crowning achievement of the Emperor’s genetic science. Thrust into battle against one another, victory is uncertain for either side.

Worlds are burning. At Isstvan V, Horus dealt a vicious blow and three loyal Legions were all but destroyed. War was begun, a conflict that will engulf all mankind in fire. Treachery and betrayal have usurped honour and nobility. Assassins lurk in every shadow. Armies are gathering. All must choose a side or die.

Horus musters his armada, Terra itself the object of his wrath. Seated upon the Golden Throne, the Emperor waits for his wayward son to return. But his true enemy is Chaos, a primordial force that seeks to enslave mankind to its capricious whims.

The screams of the innocent, the pleas of the righteous resound to the cruel laughter of Dark Gods. Suffering and damnation await all should the Emperor fail and the war be lost.

The age of knowledge and enlightenment has ended. The Age of Darkness has begun.

CONTENTS

THE OUTCAST DEAD

The Horus Heresy

CONTENTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

PART TWO

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

PART THREE

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE EMPEROR, Master of Mankind

Primarchs

CORVUS CORAX, Primarch of the Raven Guard Legion

ROGAL DORN, Primarch of the Imperial Fists Legion

ALPHARIUS/OMEGON, Twin primarchs of the Alpha Legion

HORUS, Warmaster, Primarch of the Sons of Horus

The Raven Guard Legion

BRANNE NEV, Commander of the Raptors

AGAPITO NEV, Commander of the Talons

SOLARO AN, Commander of the Hawks

ALONI TEV, Commander of the Falcons

LANCRATO NESTIL, Sergeant of the Talons

HADRAIG DOR, Sergeant of the Talons

KEREMI ORT, Battle-brother of the Talons

BALSAR KURTHURI, Battle-brother of the Talons

LUKAR FERENI, Battle-brother of the Talons

MARKO DIZ, Battle-brother of the Talons

STRADON BINALT, Techmarine

VINCENTE SIXX, Chief Apothecary

NAVAR HEF, Novitiate

The Traitor Legions

‘ALPHARIUS,’ The Alpha Legionnaires

EZEKYLE ABADDON, First Captain of the Sons of Horus

EREBUS, First Chaplain of the Word Bearers

FABIUS, Apothecary of the Emperor’s Children

HASTEN LUTHRIS ARMANITAN, Captain of the Emperor’s Children

Imperial Personae

MALCADOR THE SIGILLITE, First Lord of Terra.

MARCUS VALERIUS, Praefector of the Imperial Army, commander of the Therion Cohort

NEXIN ORLANDRIAZ, Mechanicum genetor

PELON, Manservant to Marcus Valerius

ARCATUS VINDIX CENTURIO, Warrior of the Legio Custodes

Non-Imperial Personae

ATHITHIRTIR, An antedil, Envoy of the Cabal

‘Did the Emperor ever have to contemplate such a thing? Was there a moment when he looked upon his work and wondered who or what had given him the right to pursue it? Did he ever doubt the righteousness of his cause or the methods circumstance forced him to employ? Are such doubts just weakness, possessed only by lesser creatures than the Master of Mankind?

‘I look upon my works and I know despair and hope in equal measure. I realise now that I have done a terrible thing, yet I cannot bring myself to ask forgiveness. Even with all that has happened I do not believe that I acted other than with the best of intentions and the noblest of goals. They were the darkest times that we have ever known, and if it seems in hindsight that I acted through selfishness I can only say that we were beset by a foe the likes of which we had not only never faced, but had never contemplated facing.

‘All we had created, all that we had striven for long years to bring about, teetered on the precipice of annihilation. It was not just that the glories of the past stood to be destroyed, but that the whole future of the galaxy was hanging in the balance. None who did not live through those times can stand in judgement of those of us who did.

‘Even now I cannot understand the motives of those who were to become my enemies by misfortune or intent, and I have even less sympathy. Yet for all that, I know that it was not mere foible or whim that caused this strife. Men of power, men of ambition and means, have goals loftier than others, and justify themselves by morals above those of normal, mortal folk.

‘Though I remained true to the greater purpose of my existence, I do not pretend that I did not suffer the same vanity of righteousness that undoubtedly fuelled the actions of others who will also be assessed by future generations. Even when we were at our peak we performed acts that would be considered at best questionable in times of more civilised contemplation. The lesson is not in what happened, but why it happened. In darkness, in desperation, we did something that could only be justified by cruel necessity.

‘Do not judge me.

‘I am above your judgement, even as I am unworthy of your forgiveness.’

– Recovered record fragment, author unknown, c.M31

PART ONE

ECHOES OF ISSTVAN

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 homeworld 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 AVENGERBROKE 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, Triumphand 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 Avengerto 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.